A Knight's Persuasion
Date: 2010-05-02 06:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Historical Romance; Romance; Medieval; Historical; Historical Fiction; Amazon; Medieval Romance; Fiction
Description: When Edouard de Lanceau, son of Moydenshire's great Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau, finds an unconscious, wounded woman lying in a river, he's shocked to recognize Lady Juliana de Greyne, to whom he was once almost betrothed. The previous year, his bet with a friend to win her kiss went awry, and the commitment to her never proceeded. When Juliana's sister deceived him into betrothing her instead, Edouard became honor-bound to wed her. Yet he still desires Juliana. Taking her in his arms, he vows to discover who would want her dead—and why. While riding to an important meeting on behalf of his ill f

KNIGHTS OF PASSION

CATHERINE KEAN

ANNA MARKLAND

ELIZABETH ROSE

LAUREL O’DONNELL

BARBARA DEVLIN

SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER

AMY JARECKI

COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Knight’s Persuasion Copyright © 2012 Catherine Kean

Passion in the Blood Copyright © 2012 Anna Markland

Aidan Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth Rose

The Lady and the Falconer Copyright © 2011 Laurel O’Donnell

Arucard Copyright © 2015 Barbara C. Noyes

The Taming of Mairi MacKenzie Copyright © 2015 Sue-Ellen Welfonder

A Highland Knight to Remember Copyright © 2015 Amy Jarecki

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Catherine Kean, Anna Markland, Elizabeth Rose, Laurel O’Donnell, Barbara Devlin, Sue-Ellen Welfonder, and Amy Jarecki

The Brethren of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.

Cover art by Dar Albert

Table of Contents

Knights of Passion

Copyright

A Knight's Persuasion

Titles by Catherine Kean

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

About Catherine Kean

Passion in the Blood

Titles by Anna Markland

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Epilogue

About Anna Markland

Aidan

Titles by Elizabeth Rose

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

From Elizabeth Rose

About Elizabeth Rose

The Lady and the Falconer

Titles by Laurel O'Donnell

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Epilogue

About Laurel O'Donnell

Arucard

Titles by Barbara Devlin

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

About Barbara Devlin

The Taming of Mairi Mackenzie

Titles by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

The Banshee of the Glen of Winds

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

About Sue-Ellen Welfonder

A Highland Knight to Remember

Titles by Amy Jarecki

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

About Amy Jarecki

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CATHERINE KEAN

TITLES BY

CATHERINE KEAN

A Knight to Remember (novella)

A Knight’s Desire (A Kindle World of de Wolfe Pack Novel)

Bound by His Kiss (novella)

Dance of Desire

My Lady’s Treasure

One Knight Under the Mistletoe (novella)

KNIGHT’S SERIES NOVELS

A Knight’s Vengeance (Knight’s Series Book 1)

A Knight’s Reward (Knight’s Series Book 2)

A Knight’s Temptation (Knight’s Series Book 3)

A Knight’s Persuasion (Knight’s Series Book 4)

A Knight’s Seduction (Knight’s Series Book 5)

The Knight’s Series: Books 1-4

BOXED SETS

Charmed by an Emerald (includes A Knight to Remember)

Knights and Ladies (includes A Knight’s Reward)

Medieval Knights and Damsels (includes A Knight’s Temptation)

Medieval Rogues (includes A Knight’s Vengeance, My Lady’s Treasure, and Bound by His Kiss)

Mists, Moors and Medieval Romance (includes Dance of Desire)

Romantic Favorites (includes A Knight’s Reward)

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER ONE

Sherstowe Keep, Moydenshire, England

Spring, 1213

“There she is, at the bottom of the stairs.”

Nineteen-year-old Edouard de Lanceau glanced in the direction his good friend Kaine Northwood had pointed, toward the wooden staircase descending from the castle’s upper level, the area where Lord de Greyne and his family resided. Edouard tried to ignore the lurch of his pulse. Soon he’d see for the first time the young lady his father, Geoffrey de Lanceau, lord of all of Moydenshire, thought might be a good match for Edouard.

“As you know, Lord de Greyne is one of my most loyal knights,” Edouard’s sire had said in a private meeting before this morning’s horseback ride to Sherstowe. “He shares my concerns about King John’s rule. He, too, resents the instability his wars with France and his ruthless taxes have brought to England.”

His father had seemed so grave, Edouard had laughed. “You look as if you have discovered that nasty past lover of yours—Veronique, I believe she is named?—is one of King John’s advisors.”

Edouard had hoped for a grudging smile. Instead, his sire had looked even more grim. “Do not jest about her. If befriending the king would further her ambitions, especially her goal to destroy me, she would find a way to get that alliance.”

Edouard had barely resisted a groan. “I was jesting.”

“I am not.” Anguish had touched his sire’s gaze. “Until the day I die, I will watch for her and that bastard son she claimed years ago is mine. The unsettled circumstances in England provide the perfect opportunity for her to return and try to wreak her vengeance. ’Tis yet another reason why I want this alliance.”

Veronique hadn’t been sighted in these lands for years. She sure as hellfire wasn’t going to be a reason for Edouard to marry Juliana de Greyne.

“Listen, Son. King John continues to persecute noblemen he believes are no longer loyal to him, whether his information is true or not. I know of lords whose castles have been seized by the crown or destroyed. One day, he may challenge my right to Moydenshire. We need to secure strong allies now, for the day that happens.”

“Father—”

Raising a hand, his sire added, “A union by marriage between our household and the de Greyne’s would ensure their many relatives will fight for us, as we will for them.”

Anger had sucked the breath from Edouard. “You expect me to marry a woman I have never met before in order to protect Moydenshire? You are a rich and powerful lord. You have many allies and command large armies.”

“True.” A grudging smile tilted his father’s mouth. “No bond of loyalty runs deeper, though, than that of families. You are well of an age to wed.”

Fury had threatened to choke Edouard. “You cannot ask this of me! I do not want to marry.”

“All I ask for now, Son, is that you keep in mind what I have told you and meet the lady.”

Forcing thoughts of that conversation aside, Edouard strained to see past the noblemen gathered closest to the stairs. He fought the awful pressure in his throat. He’d rather lick mud from a stone than become betrothed to this woman he considered a stranger.

Kaine’s elbow jammed into Edouard’s side. “Did you see her?”

“Nay.” Edouard resisted a smug grin. Could he possibly go the entire day without meeting Juliana? With the crush of noblemen, women, children, and servants at the feast, it might be possible. If only he could escape outside, but the stairwell into the hall was clogged with arriving guests.

Shoving overlong hair from his eyes, Kaine frowned. “Wait a moment. When the noblemen move, you will see her.”

Rolling his eyes, Edouard glanced at the nearby tables. Servants were pushing aside vases brimming over with brightly colored wildflowers to set down earthenware jugs filled with wine or ale. One of the maids was rather fetching; a luscious roundness to her bottom and bosom.

Which reminded him, once again, how he didn’t want to be married. Life offered too many exciting, pleasurable adventures for him to be shackled by the responsibilities of a wife. Just because other noblemen’s sons his age were burdened with betrothal didn’t mean he had to be, too.

The king hadn’t remotely threatened Moydenshire, thus there was no urgency for Edouard to wed.

He’d told his father that during their discussions. His sire, of all indignities, had shaken his graying head of brown hair. “’Tis my honor-bound duty, as lord of Moydenshire, to consider all that might come to pass. I will not fail to protect these lands and the lives of the good folk living under my rule. Or to protect you, Son.” Before Edouard could say a word, his sire had smiled. “You would feel differently about marriage if you met the right lady.”

“A woman like Mother, you mean?” Nigh everyone in Moydenshire knew of Geoffrey de Lanceau and Lady Elizabeth’s love, in part from chansons telling of the pivotal battle at Wode years ago that his sire, driven by vengeance for past misdeeds, had fought and won. He’d survived a mortal crossbow wound from the fight because of his lady love’s devoted care.

Yet Edouard knew enough married lords who were so miserable they took courtesans to their beds, to know his parents’ loving relationship was exceptional. Moreover, their relationship had no bearing on the matter of Edouard’s betrothal—and that, too, he’d told his sire.

Still smiling, his father had spread his hands wide. “Come with me to Sherstowe to meet Juliana. One afternoon. Surely ’tis not too much to ask of you?”

And so, here he was, wearing his finest wool mantle, tunic, and hose, wishing to be anywhere but this noisy hall garlanded with enough wildflowers to color a meadow.

“Now your Juliana is walking to the left of the dais.”

“She’s not my—”

Kaine whistled. “Beautiful.”

Edouard muttered an oath. His friend had a wicked sense of humor. She might well resemble the whiskered fish they caught in the lake.

With an impatient huff, Kaine jabbed Edouard again. “Look. She is wearing a dark green gown. That girl behind her is her younger sister.”

Sighing reluctantly, Edouard looked. He caught a glimpse of a woman through the gap in the throng heading to the dais to pay their respects to their host, Lord de Greyne. Her dark brown hair, swept up around her pretty, oval face, was cleverly tied with a green ribbon in a style that accentuated her fair skin and fine-boned features. He stared, entranced for one awed breath, before a nobleman walked in front of her and she was again lost to Edouard’s view.

She was lovely, aye, but . . . His pulse did a peculiar kick against his ribs, as though the emotional chains binding him to this visit and his looming responsibility tightened by a link.

How he hated the sense of entrapment. More than ever, he wanted to retreat outside.

“Come on,” Kaine said.

Before Edouard could protest, his friend shoved him forward, almost knocking him into an elderly lady shuffling toward one of the tables.

“My apologies.” Edouard bowed to the frowning woman before striding past. He glared at Kaine, strutting a few paces ahead. “Do not do that again. If you were not my friend, I would wallop you.”

Kaine grinned. “I did not realize that old crone would be in the way.” He winked. “I know you want to meet your lady.”

Edouard’s jaw tightened. “In truth, I would rather—”

“Kiss her, aye. You shall have more chance of that after the meal. Mayhap during the dancing.”

“I do not want to kiss her. Would you listen to me? I—”

The pretty maidservant rushed into the space between Edouard and a table. Catching her gaze, he winked in the brazen way he’d been taught by the stable hand at Branton Keep, who’d given him several blunt lessons on seducing women.

The girl blushed and smiled before she resumed her duties.

“Hurry!” Kaine called, darting back to grab Edouard’s sleeve.

Enough.

Edouard turned on Kaine and propelled him back against the stone wall, close to a tapestry depicting a Norman battle. As Kaine’s back hit the stone, his flailing arm knocked a garland of wildflowers draping from an iron sconce beside the tapestry. Edouard caught the earthy tang of daisies. He fought a sneeze.

When he clenched his fist into the front of Kaine’s tunic, Kaine laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “All right. We will meet her when you wish.”

“Good.” Edouard’s grip tightened. “You will stop your talk about kissing.”

Mischief glinted in Kaine’s eyes. “Why? Are you afraid to kiss Lady Juliana?”

“Of course not.”

Hearty chuckles rippled from a nearby crowd. Although he knew the laughter wasn’t directed at him, Edouard scowled.

“I think you are afraid.” Kaine glanced past Edouard as though to find Juliana and catch her attention. “I dare you to kiss her.”

Edouard ground his teeth. Why was Kaine so persistent?

“On the lips.”

“Wait just a . . .” As Edouard glowered at his grinning friend, a sudden sense of understanding crept over him. Kaine was getting Edouard back for their bet several weeks ago, which Edouard won; Kaine had to relinquish his favorite dagger as well as a nighttime stroll with the busty, blond kitchen maid they both lusted after.

“If you leave today without kissing Juliana,”—Kaine’s grin turned sly—“you owe me that nice leather knife belt the village tanner made for you. You will also return my dagger.”

Edouard snorted. “I do not have to heed you.”

“True. The dare, though, has already been offered. If you refuse to accept . . .” Kaine shrugged. “Our friends will enjoy hearing how you were too much of a coward for a kiss. And from your almost betrothed.”

Anger brought a hot flush crawling up Edouard’s neck. The blatant challenge, combined with his sire’s reasons for Edouard to attend this feast, seemed to weigh down upon him like a monstrous boulder. How Edouard yearned to haul Kaine down to a quiet part of the bailey and wrestle him into the dirt until they were both panting, exhausted, and ready to settle a truce over a pint of ale.

But that wouldn’t resolve the matter of the dare.

A kiss? Fine. He’d kissed many young women; he counted himself fairly skilled at such. But he’d have to be sure there were no witnesses, apart from Kaine. If Edouard was caught kissing Juliana, others could interpret that as his promise to marry her.

One quick brush of his lips, bestowed upon Juliana in private, and he’d have met Kaine’s challenge. He’d also get to keep the knife belt, which the tanner had made exactly as Edouard desired.

Kaine’s gaze bored into Edouard. “Well?”

Edouard managed a reckless grin. “I accept your dare. If I win, I get sole rights to that maid for the next month.”

Kaine’s mouth gaped.

“What is wrong, my friend? Are you a coward?”

A bawdy chuckle broke from Kaine. “Very well. I agree to your terms.”

“Good.” Edouard loosened his hand from Kaine’s tunic. “Now—”

“Get ready for that kiss, Edouard.” Kaine pushed away from the wall while running his hands over his tunic. “Lady Juliana is headed our way.”

***

Weaving through the throng, Juliana suppressed a sigh. If only her sixteen-year-old sister Nara, gliding close behind, would stop chattering like an anxious bird; she’d twittered on and on for days about Geoffrey and Edouard de Lanceau’s visit. Most exhausting.

While Nara had fussed, preened, swooned, succumbed to fits of tears, and drunk calming infusions whilst lying abed and mopping her face with cool cloths, Juliana had worked with the cook and servants to coordinate the hall decorations, seven course meal, and entertainment. She’d planned every detail to culminate in a celebration worthy of a visit from Moydenshire’s famous lord.

How Juliana wished that she could have arranged the festivities with her mother, who loved to be part of such events, but Mother was very ill from her last stillbirth. Responsibility for the feast had fallen entirely to Juliana. She hadn’t objected; ’twas important for Mama to focus on resting and regaining her strength, so she’d be well again.

Juliana looked for her father among the guests. She hoped he was pleased with the arrangements. Later, she must find Mayda, her dearest friend, who’d recently become betrothed and who’d be attending with her sire—

A sharp tug almost tore Juliana’s sleeve. “Are you listening to me? I said the de Lanceaus arrived a short while ago.”

God’s teeth, Nara. “You have told me that three times now,” Juliana said over her shoulder, and then smiled at a noblewoman she recognized from a feast last winter.

“The two of them are in this hall somewhere. I have enormous goose bumps all over my arms. The lumps are as big as gooseberries!” Nara tittered. “Oh, how exciting.”

For you, mayhap, chirpy nuisance of a sister. For me—?

“I cannot wait to meet Edouard de Lanceau. He may soon be one of our relations.” Nara sighed with enough theatrics to draw the curious gazes of the nearby noblewomen. “Oh, Juliana! How incredible, that he is considering you, of all women, to be his wife.”

“Mmm.” Juliana wiped her brow, throbbing from the noise in the hall, and desperately wished for a respite. Some of the cook’s soothing mint tea would be wondrous right now. Glancing through a gap in the crowd, she looked over the trestle tables—what she could see of them, anyway—arranged to accommodate the guests for the meal. All the preparations seemed to be to plan. The wine and ale were flowing, the meal’s first course would be served soon, and then—

Another pull on her sleeve. “Do you remember what Father said about Edouard de Lanceau? What color is his hair? What about his eyes? Is he handsome? Is he tall, or—?”

Juliana spun around. Wide-eyed, Nara halted. Her embroidered yellow gown, designed to accentuate her small waist and slender figure, floated to stillness about her ankles.

“Nara, will you stop? Please?”

Nara’s gaze slid to a point behind Juliana. “But . . .”

A daisy petal drifted from the wildflowers in the nearby sconce and Juliana flicked it away. “At this moment, I do not wish to be reminded of Edouard de Lanceau.”

Nara’s mouth dropped open. Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Juliana.”

“Neither do I wish to be reminded of my possible betrothal. I do not care that he is here. I do not want to get married, to him or anyone else. As far as I am concerned, he can—”

“Good day to you, fair ladies.”

Dread skittered down Juliana’s spine. Snapping her mouth shut, she turned to see two young men standing less than three paces away. The shorter one with sparkling eyes and light brown hair dropped into a chivalrous bow. The other, slightly taller and broader of shoulder, smiled before he also bent at the waist while sweeping aside his black mantle.

The way the man moved . . . Her breath fluttered in her ribcage, for she’d never before seen such controlled elegance. Controlled in the manner of a clever warrior who knew his weapons, including those of sexual seduction; the kind of man Mama had warned her to beware. Elegant in a way that bespoke noble breeding and years of cultured tutoring. The combination made her faintly giddy, for ’twas appealing in a most dangerous, exciting way.

How shocked Mama would be, if she knew Juliana’s thoughts.

Juliana tried to look away, but couldn’t. Light from the wall torches flickered on his silky, shoulder-length brown hair. As he slowly rose from his bow, sweat dampened the soles of her feet, suddenly leaden in her best leather shoes. Oh, God. Oh good God. Surely he was not—

“Kaine Northwood,” the shorter man said before gesturing to his companion. “May I introduce my friend, Edouard de Lanceau?”

Nara squealed and clapped her hands to her cheeks.

Heat swept across Juliana’s face. Fighting the odd trembling deep within her, she dropped into an elegant curtsey fit for the highest courts, just as she’d been taught from girlhood.

She sensed the men’s stares upon her, traveling over her in lazy assessment. Were they deciding if she was worthy of a great lord’s son? Especially after overhearing her words to Nara?

Oh, Mother of God, they were probably ogling her cleavage, displayed to shocking advantage by the low-cut gown her father and Nara had insisted she wear. The fitted bodice made her breasts look enormous. Face burning, she pressed a hand to her bosom and rose as swiftly as etiquette allowed.

“Lord de Lanceau,” Nara said with breathless delight. “Lord Northwood. What a pleasure to meet both of you.”

When Juliana straightened, her gaze came level with Edouard’s tanned throat. Even that bit of him looked enticing. Torchlight caught the embroidery along the neckline of his blue tunic. Magnificent work. But of course, ’twould be; his sire owned the largest and most profitable cloth empire in England. Some said Geoffrey de Lanceau was richer even than King John.

The weight of Edouard’s stare forced her to look up. Their gazes met. His eyes were a bright, piercing blue and shadowed by thick lashes. The glint in his eyes . . . A jolt of unfamiliar sensation ran through her, and that wicked sense of danger stirred again. Her lungs suddenly felt impossibly tight, and she could scarcely draw a breath. She prayed she wasn’t going to gasp like a landed trout.

As though attuned to her discomfort, his smile broadened, accenting his strong cheekbones. He looked even more the handsome rogue who only compromised when he knew ’twas to his benefit to do so. The careless tilt of his wide, full lips—a beautiful mouth—suggested he didn’t have to compromise very often, because he knew just how to coax a woman to do exactly as he wanted—

Juliana blinked. God above, she must get control of her thoughts.

“Oh, Lord de Lanceau.” Nara shoved past Juliana in a rustle of silk. “We are very honored to meet you. When Father told us you would be visiting our humble keep, Juliana and I were so thrilled. We could not stop talking about it, for we have admired your sire’s many accomplishments in these lands. That you are visiting us today is, well,” she giggled, “almost too exciting to believe.”

“Indeed.”

Juliana bit her lip. Even Edouard’s voice was beautiful. Smooth and rich like a sumptuous confection.

She clasped her sweaty hands together and wondered how to excuse herself and slip away. Quite apart from being mortified, she had matters to attend—such as tasting the sauce to be served with the roasted quail, since the cook sometimes made it too spicy.

“—and we worked many long, tiring hours on this magnificent celebration planned for you today,” Nara was saying. “A delicious feast, some fine musicians.” Her voice raised on a flirtatious laugh. “There will be dancing later.”

“I love to dance,” Edouard said with a lop-sided smile. “And you, Lady Juliana?”

Struggling to quell her rising anger—how could Nara claim credit for the work without a glimmer of guilt?—Juliana glanced at Edouard and, somehow, roused a smile. “I enjoy dancing.”

“May I request a dance with you?”

An invitation to dance. Was it a prelude to a betrothal? If so, how did she graciously decline?

Before Juliana could reply, Nara said, “She would be delighted to dance with you.”

Edouard’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “I am pleased to hear such. Lady Juliana?”

After a sharp glance at Nara, who was beaming like a giddy fool, Juliana met his gaze again. She tried to formulate an appropriate reply that wouldn’t encourage his courtship. “I would—”

“Milady.” A petite maidservant curtsied at Juliana’s side. With a twinge of alarm, she recognized the young woman she’d assigned to care for her mother that day.

Juliana faced the maidservant. “What is wrong?”

“Yer mama is suffering pains. I have summoned the healer, but I thought ye should know.”

Juliana touched the woman’s arm. “Thank you.”

With a hesitant smile and curtsey, the maidservant hurried away.

A frown creased Nara’s brow. “Of all moments for Mama to be unwell.”

Barely holding back the fiery words filling her mouth, Juliana clenched her hands. How could Nara be so insensitive? Would her sister ever think of aught but herself?

Blinking away the sting of angry tears, Juliana dropped into a curtsey before Edouard. “Please excuse me, milord. I must see to my mother.”

As she rose, he caught her right hand.

“Oh!” Nara gasped, and then giggled.

Juliana swallowed. Edouard’s warm, callused fingers held hers so gently. Did he clasp every woman’s hand with such tenderness?

Of course he did. He was a rogue. He’d mastered the nuances of that gallant gesture and knew how to use it to get his way.

Juliana sensed the stares of several esteemed guests nearby. Unease rushed through her. She didn’t want to offend Edouard, but she also didn’t want to imply interest in a relationship between them. Yet before she could discreetly draw her hand back, he pressed a light kiss to the backs of her fingers. How deliciously warm his lips felt against her skin.

A shiver rippled through her. Beware this rogue, Juliana.

“Until our dance, then,” he murmured.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWO

Edouard stood at the edge of the raised dais, sipping a goblet of red wine. Bracing his hip against the lord’s table, already cleared of the meal’s leftovers, he looked over the merry folk in the hall who waited for the last few tables to be moved away to make room for dancing.

“Do you see Juliana?” He glanced at Kaine, also leaning against the table and watching the crowd, no doubt deciding which young woman to ask to dance first.

Kaine shook his head. “I see many lovely ladies, but she is not among them.”

The image of Juliana bloomed again in Edouard’s thoughts: fair, dewy skin; a willowy figure; wide eyes that assessed all around her with both intelligence and sensitivity. And her breasts . . . A silent growl tickled his throat. He’d never been so tempted by a luscious, well-displayed bosom. The fact she’d been so shy about her feminine beauty made her all the more intriguing, for if he guessed correctly, she’d had little experience with men. He’d be the first to kiss her on the lips.

Near the hearth, the musicians tuned their instruments, playing a few strains of a familiar song that wove through the chatter and laughter. Welcoming the resolve burning in his gut, Edouard took another sip of the fine Bordeaux. His chance to kiss Juliana would soon be upon him. If he didn’t seize his opportunity, he’d lose the bet.

Losing wasn’t in Edouard’s nature—or, he vowed, in the heart of any de Lanceau.

Where was Juliana? Had she run off, anxious about his request for a dance?

When the maidservant had brought word of her mother’s discomfort, Edouard had wondered if Juliana’s responsibilities would keep her from the celebrations. She’d returned to the hall, however, just before the meal started, to take her assigned chair on the right side of the lord’s table beside her father and Nara—to Lord de Greyne’s obvious relief.

Edouard and his father had sat on Lord de Greyne’s left side. The formal seating arrangement had made it impossible to converse with Juliana, but Edouard had caught glimpses of her during the meal, putting bread into her mouth, nibbling pieces of venison from her eating dagger, and drinking her wine. Several times, he’d had to remind himself not to stare.

Glancing over the hall again, he downed more wine. Whatever Juliana’s reasons for vanishing, he wouldn’t be denied so easily. He’d find her and woo her into a meeting with him where, with Kaine as witness, Edouard would bestow upon her a kiss she’d never forget.

Kaine tsked. “What a shame Juliana is not here. I think you will lose our bet, my friend.”

“The day is not done yet.”

Edouard spied Nara a short distance from the musicians, talking to two other ladies who looked of similar age. They glanced his way, gasped, and their faces turned red.

Who better to ask about Juliana than her sister, even if speaking to Nara made him want to rip out his own hair?

He smiled warmly at Nara, brushed past Kaine to step down from the dais, and strode to Nara’s side. Ignoring the young ladies’ breathless squeals, he said, “I am sorry to interrupt, but have you seen Juliana?”

Nara’s pretty face clouded with a frown before she looked to the servants clearing away the last table. “She is not here in the hall?”

“Nay.”

“She may be with Mother.” A hard glint touched Nara’s eyes. “She had best not be outside sketching in that wretched book of hers. Father will be furious.”

Aware of Kaine’s keen stare, Edouard said, “Where, outside, might I find her?”

Nara smoothed her hand over her fitted bodice that looked a fraction too tight. “The fish pond. But milord, mayhap you would prefer to stay with us? Juliana might return to the hall later. We can dance. Talk. Become better acquainted.” Her lashes fluttered. “Please, will you not stay?”

“I will return soon.” He winked. “Will you ladies reserve a dance for me?”

Nara’s friends sighed with delight.

Her gaze shone with pleasure. “Of course, milord. We anxiously await your return.”

Leaving the ladies’ excited chattering behind, he wove through the crowd, hurried into the torch-lit forebuilding, and pounded down the stairs to the sun-washed bailey. Servants of the noble guests, most of them drunk, were lounging on parked wagons and empty barrels, drinking and talking; some were swaying to the music drifting from the hall. Only a couple of the commoners looked his way.

No sooner had he started toward the pond glinting a short distance past the slate-roofed kitchens, than Juliana stepped out of the kitchen doorway, carrying a wooden tray laden with food and an earthenware mug. Held tight under the silken drape of her left arm was a leather-bound book. Her face taut with concentration, she started toward the keep, seemingly oblivious to the other people in the bailey. Including him.

As she approached the large well, situated between the kitchens at the keep, he cleared his throat.

Her gaze flew up. She blinked, then tried to drop into a curtsey. “Milor—”

The tray tilted. The mug slid sideways, threatening to pitch its contents onto the ground. She squawked, scrambling to right the tray. He rushed forward and snatched up the vessel.

She blushed. “Thank you. I am glad it did not spill.”

Her sweet lavender fragrance, distinct from the well’s earthy odor, teased him. He savored her scent before looking at the green liquid in the mug. ’Twas an unappetizing-looking brew. “What is it?”

“An herbal infusion for Mother.”

So her responsibilities, not a fit of nerves, had kept her away from the dancing. Triumph began to simmer inside him, even as he strategized how to garner her trust and arrange the meeting for the kiss. “Is your mother still in pain?” He hoped he sounded concerned.

Juliana nodded and looked down at the tray. He followed her gaze to the wheat bread, sliced fowl, and jam tart. A meager repast, compared to the feast. He tried to tamp down inconvenient remorse.

“I did not expect you to be in the bailey, milord.” While flawlessly polite, her tone conveyed her suspicions as to how he happened to be nearby at just the right moment to save her mother’s healing drink.

“I became concerned when I could not find you in the hall.” Unable to resist, he added, “I thought you were avoiding me and the dance you promised me.”

A hint of defiance sparked in Juliana’s eyes. “Mother refused the meal the maidservant brought her. I hope she will feel well enough now to eat a little of this for me.”

Edouard set the mug back on the tray. “’Tis kind of you.”

“She is my mother.”

The protectiveness in Juliana’s voice made him smile. He admired such loyalty to one’s family; he was very close to his parents and younger sister. If and when he married, he’d like that quality in a wife.

He suddenly became aware of footsteps a short distance away, accompanied by an astonished chuckle. Kaine.

Go on, fool! Kiss her right here, in Kaine’s view, coaxed a mischievous voice inside his head. Press your lips to hers and win the bet.

A tempting thought. The drunken servants were farther down the bailey and caught up in their revelry; they wouldn’t notice the kiss. The kitchen door was open, but the folk inside would be dealing with the leftover food, not watching the well. His sire would never know . . .

What are you thinking? a more rational voice intruded. Have you, the firstborn son of a famous knight, forgotten how to be chivalrous? Stand down from your bet, out of respect for her.

At that moment, Juliana looked past him and dipped her head in a gracious nod to Kaine. Edouard sensed her preparing to say “goodbye” to go and see her mother. Sunlight swept her profile, turning her skin to the hue of virgin snow. Her lips were the color of the trellised roses growing in Branton Keep’s gardens.

He swallowed, stunned by the realization forming in his mind. He wanted Lady Juliana de Greyne’s kiss. Not merely to win the bet, but because he wished to kiss her.

She started to turn away. Purely on instinct, he touched her right arm; his fingers rubbed over her silk sleeve, noting the warmth of the skin beneath.

Juliana jumped and then twisted free, her skirt rasping against the well’s stonework; the mortared side was level with her lower thigh. Wide-eyed, she said, “Milord, I . . . must be on my way.”

How loudly his pulse was drumming. “When you have visited your mother, will you grant me our dance?”

Her breathing quickened. He glanced at her luscious bosom outlined by the shimmering silk—he couldn’t help himself—then raised his gaze to meet hers.

“I . . . Mayhap, milord.”

The unguarded insolence in her tone should annoy him; he was, after all, the son of the most powerful man in Moydenshire. But he found himself even more captivated. He hadn’t yet met a woman who didn’t giggle and swoon when he wooed them. Juliana, however, still seemed immune to his attempts to charm her.

He clearly hadn’t found the right means of persuasion.

Aye, ’tis the right of it, the mischievous voice coaxed. You must lure her in, convince her she’s the only lady you’ve ever desired, and then claim your kiss.

“Please, Juliana.” Edouard smiled as though he found her the most ravishing of women and dared to close the slight distance between them. “Surely you will not deny me one dance? I would be honored to have that memory of this day.”

She gnawed her lip and glanced about the bailey, obviously unsure. Before she could move away, he closed his hands over hers, still holding the tray.

“Milord!”

She trembled in his grasp. How soft her skin felt against his. The yearning inside him strengthened.

Hurry! Kiss her.

He sensed Kaine edging nearer for a better view.

“Juliana,” Edouard murmured, leaning forward, the tray pressing against his belly. He didn’t care. His mind shut out all but her, very close now. Instinct told him he had an excellent chance of succeeding in his kiss. And he craved it. How he craved it.

“Milord.” Her gaze locked on his mouth. “What—?”

“You are beautiful, Juliana.”

A shivered sigh broke from her. “I . . . am?”

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered.

“Kiss?” Her gaze darted away, as though searching for Kaine.

Did she fear him witnessing their kiss and then telling their sires? She might think he and Edouard were trying to trap her into a betrothal; she couldn’t possibly know about the bet.

“Kaine will tell no one,” he said softly, trying to think past the anticipation humming in his blood. “’Twill be our secret. I promise.”

He lifted his hands from hers, readying to trail his fingers along her jaw and tilt her face up for his kiss. Juliana’s lavender scent flooded his senses. He could almost taste the sweetness of her lips.

Just as he reached for her, stomped footfalls approached.

“Juliana!” Nara shrieked.

“Nara?” Kaine called. “What are you—?”

Before Edouard could glance her way, Nara plowed into her sister. A deliberate attempt to thwart the kiss.

Juliana gasped. Stumbled sideways.

Forcing down a curse, Edouard caught the younger lady’s arm and hauled her away from Juliana. Giggling, Nara spun against him and slid her arm around his neck. “I am tired of waiting for our dance. Return to the hall with me.”

Scowling, he pushed her toward a shocked-looking Kaine and turned back to Juliana. She’d almost regained balance of the tray, but it teetered. An object hit the rim of the well, then landed with a slap.

“My sketchbook!” Juliana cried.

Edouard looked at the tome, lying partway over the well’s opening. The parchment pages, secured to the cover by a strip of leather, had fallen open to reveal a rough sketch of a man’s face.

His face.

Surprise rippled through him, while with a low moan, Juliana scrambled to retrieve the book. Trying to help, he grabbed for it, and his elbow knocked the tray.

As it crashed onto the rim, the mug shattered. The bread and fowl fell into the well, while the jam tart landed sticky side down near Juliana’s sketchbook.

Edouard groaned. “I am sorry.”

Moving in behind him, Nara tsked. “Now look what you have done, Juliana.” How horribly smug she sounded.

“What Juliana has done?” Kaine snorted.

Edouard glared at Nara. What a nasty, deceitful little—

“Why, ’twas not your fault, milord.” With a blinding smile, the young woman blinked up at him and squeezed her way in between him and Juliana. “Let me get that sketchbook.”

“Nay!” Juliana grabbed for the tome. Her shaking fingers tried to grasp hold of the sliding book, spattered with green droplets.

With a rasp, the tome slid closer to the opening of the well.

“Careful!” Edouard snapped.

Just as he reached past Nara to snatch hold of the book, she poked out a finger . . . and shoved the book off the edge. Pages turned as it tumbled down into the darkness.

“Nay!” he roared.

With a choked cry, Juliana lurched forward. She fell to her stomach on the well’s rim and made a frantic downward grab.

Nara sniffed, a sound of disdain. “Forget those foolish sketches.”

“Go away, Nara.” Anguish thickened Juliana’s voice. “You have done quite enough.”

Edouard’s gut clenched. If Juliana leaned any farther into the well, she might fall in.

He pushed Nara out of the way. Now that he stood beside Juliana, he leaned forward to hold her waist.

A swift kick knocked his right foot, causing his boot’s sole to skid on the dirt. Nara’s doing. He roared, even as he tried to regain his balance. Losing his foothold, he pitched toward Juliana.

“God’s teeth,” Kaine shouted.

Edouard fell against her. With a shrill scream, she hurtled forward.

Her hands flailed, trying to grab the opposite side of the rim. Her legs thrashed. Kicking up a froth of silk, she continued to slide forward.

Worry and rage threatened to choke Edouard. She could be badly injured falling into the well. She could die. Grabbing for Juliana’s skirts, he yelled, “Hold still!”

“I am falling!” she shrieked.

Edouard caught rising voices somewhere nearby. Others about the castle were aware of the crisis. Soon, all would know. Including his father.

He couldn’t think of that now. “Do not worry,” he called to her. “I will pull you out.”

“Edouard!” Kaine, too, caught part of Juliana’s gown.

The fragile silk tore.

“Juliana!” Edouard cried, lunging for her arm.

She screamed again and plummeted head first into the depths.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER THREE

The scream seared the back of Juliana’s throat as she fell in the inky dankness.

She scrambled to catch hold of the stones passing by, to find a handhold and stop her descent. Impossible. She was falling too fast.

The wooden bucket for drawing water loomed ahead. She twisted her body, tried to grab for the bucket, but missed.

Down she plunged, for what seemed an eternity, until she splashed feet first into icy water. Before she could draw a shocked gasp, she submerged; the water dragged her into its depths. She shoved out with her arms, forced her body upward. When she broke through the surface, she hauled air into her lungs. The sound echoed back to her, ghastly and hollow.

Kicking her feet, she fought to stay afloat.

“Help!” she yelled to the circle of sunlight far above. “Help!”

“Juliana!” Edouard called down to her, while Kaine and Nara leaned in beside him. Edouard sounded anxious. Worried, no doubt, that he’d be in trouble for what had happened. Well, he deserved to be punished for shoving her into this hellish pit!

“Help me!” she shrilled. The darkness was so intense, she couldn’t even see her arms moving in the water. She’d been told Sherstowe’s well was wider and deeper than most; a long-ago lord had ordered it built that way, so if necessary, the castle could withstand months of siege.

If she didn’t leave these depths soon, she could suffer a severe chill or drown.

She moaned.

“Hold on,” Edouard said. “I promise, Juliana, we will get you out.”

An eerie whisper echoed—her silk gown, floating on the water’s surface. She couldn’t see it, but fabric bobbed against her skin, a sensation akin to the nudging of a submerged creature.

Something else bumped against her. A bit of wood? A lost toy? A monstrous toad who was lord of this underworld? Smothering a hysterical giggle, she dared to reach out and touch the object and found her floating, waterlogged sketchbook.

Tears stung her eyes as she drew the book close. It squelched as she pressed it tight to her chest, the odor of soggy parchment sharp in her nostrils. Her book was ruined. She’d know for certain when she’d got it into the light, but she doubted her sketches had survived.

How kind of you, Nara, a bitter voice cried inside Juliana. Are you pleased that you managed to push my sketchbook into the water? Was destroying my drawings—something so important to me—your way of showing off for Edouard?

Juliana’s teeth chattered. The coldness seeped to her bones. Why wasn’t Edouard lowering the bucket to pull her out? Or, if that wouldn’t work, sending down a rope?

Frantic activity seemed to be taking place at the surface: heated discussion, a squeaking noise, shouts. Panic shivered through her as she continued to tread water. She must stay calm. Be patient. But what if the pulley for the bucket was broken? Father had planned to replace it, because it kept jamming. That might have happened now. How, then, would she get out?

She didn’t want to die. Not today. Not when Mother needed her help to recover.

Not like this.

“Help m-me.” Juliana drew upon all of the fear coalescing inside her. “Help. Meee!”

“Juliana!” Edouard shouted down.

“Get m-me out!” she screamed, not caring if she sounded like a frightened child. Terror pounded at her temples. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to die!

“Stay calm,” Edouard said, his soothing voice floating down to her. “I imagine ’tis dark and frightening—”

“Aye!”

“But we will rescue you. We will not leave you down there, I promise. I give you my word.”

The word of a rogue who’d tempted her with a kiss and pushed her into this dangerous place? She didn’t want his help. Yet he seemed to be leading efforts to get her out. “W-what is wrong? Why is it t-taking so l-long?”

“The pulley was stuck, but we fixed it. Listen, now. We are going to lower the bucket. ’Twill be easier than you trying to hold on to a rope while we draw you all the way to the surface. Stand in the bucket. We will pull you up.”

What if the pulley jammed again? What if the bucket couldn’t hold her weight and broke? She might perish before they could find another way rescue her. “Edouard!”

“I am here, Juliana. You will be all right,” he said. “Trust me.”

A muffled creak came from above. He’d started lowering the bucket.

Hurry. Hurry!

She waited, treading with her tiring legs. Her harsh breaths echoed.

“The bucket will reach you soon,” Edouard said.

Holding her breath, she tried to discern its arrival. The air stirred close to her face. An object splashed nearby.

She reached out and touched the rough-hewn side of the bucket.

“I have it!” she called, relief soaring inside her. She reached higher to grab hold of the connecting rope. The bucket shifted, sloshed, but she managed to slide one leg over the side, then the other, and set her feet on the bottom.

“I am in!” she cried.

Tucking her sketchbook under her arm, she held tight to the coarse rope with numb hands. One shuddered breath. Two. The rope tautened under her grip, and then she felt herself slowly rising. A joyous sob rattled in her throat.

Little by little, she rose. The bucket swung gently with each tug from above, while water trickled from her gown, hanging over the bucket’s side, to the surface below. Her teeth were still chattering, but hope glowed inside her. Soon, she’d be on solid ground.

Long moments seemed to pass before the sunlit stones of the well’s rim came into view. A crowd of servants and guests had gathered around the opening, many of the men assisting with the rope.

One more tug and her head cleared the well. Edouard and Kaine reached in to catch hold of her arms. They pulled her up to the well’s edge.

Clutching her sketchbook before her like a shield, she swung her trembling legs over the well’s side and stood.

The crowd cheered and clapped. “Lady Juliana is safe!”

“Well done, milords,” one of the men cried.

“What heroes!” another man shouted.

Juliana sucked in a breath of fresh air, all too aware of the water dripping from her ruined gown to puddle in the dirt. Her bodice stuck to her skin; the wet silk had turned indecently sheer, but at least the sketchbook hid her bosom from the crowd’s view.

Most importantly, though, she was safe.

“Thank you,” she said to the helpers by the well, to Kaine, and at last, to Edouard.

He no longer looked the arrogant rogue. His expression grim, he dipped his head in reply. Dirt streaked his right cheek and grubby patches marked his tunic. He’d taken off his mantle. It lay in a heap on the edge of the well.

As conversation spread through the crowd, Edouard touched her arm. “Are you hurt?”

“Nay.” Juliana jerked from his gentle grip.

“Are you certain—?”

“I am.” She could hardly bear to look at him, the man who’d told her, of all astonishing things, that she was beautiful. The man who’d almost kissed her, knocked over the tray, pushed her into the well—and then rescued her. She didn’t know how to feel about him.

Worst of all, the excitement stirred up by his desire for a kiss still simmered inside her, taunting her with what might have been.

Edouard sighed, a sound heavy with regret. “I am glad you found your sketchbook.”

Most likely a ruined sketchbook. Unable to speak past the tightness in her throat, she nodded.

“That . . . drawing of me . . .”

Heat swept Julian’s face. She’d never intended for Edouard to see that foolish, impulsive sketch. Never should she have indulged that curious desire to draw him, and not merely so Mother could see what he looked like.

Fingering wet hair from her cheek, a gesture Juliana hoped might hide her blush, she shivered and glanced toward the keep. Somehow, she must excuse herself, make her way to her chamber, change her garments, and then tend to Mother, all without her sire learning of this mishap.

Of course, he might already know. He’d be very upset to have this incident happen on such a crucial day. She tried not to let her shoulders droop. How she’d wanted this celebration to be perfect.

Nara patted her arm. “Poor Juliana. You must feel rotten, soaked through as you are. What a shame about your new gown. And your sketchbook . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “Is that what smells?”

“With careful drying,” Juliana said firmly, “the odor will go away.”

“Really?” From Nara’s tone of voice, she meant, “Not likely.”

A tart retort flew to Juliana’s tongue. Nay. She wouldn’t speak so to her sister in front of Edouard and the other guests. Enough dramatics had already occurred, and an argument between her and Nara would only feed gossip. What she needed to say to Nara could wait till later that evening when they were alone.

Looking again at Edouard, Juliana dropped into a stiff but elegant curtsey. “Please excuse me, milord.”

His lips parted, indicating he was about to reply. Spinning on her heel, she hurried toward the keep, the torn section of her gown dragging in the dirt.

Before she had taken five steps, footfalls sounded behind her. “Here. This will help to warm you.” Edouard matched her strides, and cloth settled about her shoulders. His mantle. As she looked up at him, he reached around and drew the heavy wool about her shoulders. It smelled of horse and sunlight and . . . him. “I wanted to give this to you a moment ago,” he said, “but you rushed off.”

She wanted to still be annoyed with him, but sympathy filled his gaze. Did he guess how much effort it took for her to maintain her dignity when she was soaked and tired? Did he know how hard she’d fought not to yell at Nara?

“Thank you,” Juliana murmured.

Edouard smiled. “’Tis fine English wool.” He winked like a mischievous boy. “It comes from the estates of some rich lord. De Lanceau, I believe his name is.”

She smiled back. “I feel warmer already.”

“Good.” His expression sobered. “For all that has happened today, I am truly sorry.”

How heartfelt his apology sounded. A secret part of her sighed with pleasure. As she looked up into his handsome face, its angles brushed with sunlight, her surroundings seemed to blur away into nothingness, till there was only him.

His gaze, bright with an emotion she couldn’t quite pinpoint, held her like a tender touch. Awareness of him ran like a warm drink in her veins. Was this how a lady felt before her gallant hero swept her into his arms? Juliana’s pulse fluttered in a wild rhythm, for his stare reminded her of that instant not so long ago, when he’d said he wanted her kiss.

Never before had a man said that to her. Juliana’s gaze shifted to Edouard’s mouth, and suddenly, she wanted to know exactly what a kiss—his kiss—was all about.

Do not be foolish. Have you forgotten he pushed you into the well?

Juliana focused on tugging the mantle closer about her. “Thank you,” she managed to say, “for loaning me your garment.”

“Keep it as long as you like.”

A kind offer. However, others might see him as presenting her with a gift, a token of his affection. A garment as personal as a mantle likely held a certain significance between lovers. She must see the mantle returned to him as soon as she’d donned fresh clothes.

“I will get it back to you”—she resumed walking toward the keep—“later today, milord.”

“All right.”

“Juliana,” Nara called. “Does this mean you give up your dance with Edouard?”

Juliana stumbled to a halt, her back to her sister. Dance with Edouard? Was that all Nara cared about? Juliana’s grip tightened on the sketchbook until pain shot through her fingers.

A harsh sigh welled inside her as she turned to look at her sister. Right now, the last thing Juliana wanted to do was dance. However, she couldn’t very well forfeit her dance with Edouard, one of the most important guests at the festivities, because onlookers could see this as an insult. He’d rescued her. Some would say he’d saved her life. What grateful young woman wouldn’t want to dance with her hero?

The day’s emotions squeezed down upon Juliana, threatening to crush the last of her courage. She wouldn’t yield to tears. Not before all these people. Especially not in front of Edouard.

“At this moment,” she said, “I have more pressing concerns than a dance. But thank you, Sister, for reminding me of it.”

A sensible, non-committal answer. Now, to reach the quiet of her chamber; she had no wish to face another dilemma while dripping wet and bedraggled.

“Edouard,” Kaine said, somewhere close behind. A loud slap echoed—the sound of a hand coming down upon a shoulder. “If you ask me, I vow you have lost our bet.”

Juliana frowned as she walked. Bet?

“Kaine! For God’s sake . . .”

She might have kept on at her steady pace, but for the frustration in Edouard’s voice. She turned, her wet gown twisting about her legs, and caught the warning glare Edouard threw at his friend an instant before his guilty stare met hers.

“Bet?” Coldness settled in her stomach. “What bet?”

***

As misgiving clouded Juliana’s expression, Edouard fought a groan. He should have known his dealings with Kaine would end in disaster. Now he might have to answer to the folly. And to the woman who, in a very short time, had become more to him than a fleeting challenge.

“What bet?” Juliana repeated, while her poignant gaze bored into Edouard. He felt that stare as though it reached inside him and wrenched his soul. Shame licked through him, becoming more intense when her attention refused to waver.

“Ah . . .” Kaine chortled and threw his hands wide. “’Twas but a private jest between lads. Not a lady’s concern.”

That’s right, a voice inside Edouard said. Take Kaine’s example and lie. You don’t have to admit your foolishness. Why hurt Juliana? She’s endured enough already.

That wouldn’t be honorable, an equally strong voice broke in. If you respect her, care for her, you’ll be honest. Even if it means you must accept blame.

Still holding Juliana’s stare, Edouard dragged his hand over his jaw. He wanted to make the right decision. If his sire learned of the bet, though, he wouldn’t be at all pleased. Just thinking about his father’s disapproval made sweat break out on Edouard’s forehead.

“Not a lady’s concern?” Juliana’s eyes narrowed. “Why then, Kaine, do you look so guilty?”

“Do I?” He laughed, even as his face turned red. “Well, I—”

“And you, Edouard. You have not answered me.” Her fingers tightened on her sketchbook, a gesture that drew his gaze to her bluish nails. “Do I guess correctly? This bet does concern me?”

“Oh, nay,” Kaine cut in. “Of course not. Right, milord?”

Another, silent groan broke inside Edouard. “Be quiet, Kaine.”

“I am only trying to help.”

Edouard barely resisted a snort. Kaine was only trying to save his wretched arse. But like a loyal friend, he’d tried to cover for Edouard, too.

Aware their conversation had drawn the attention of curious observers, Edouard smiled at Juliana. Instead of lying, or admitting the truth, he’d press his charm on her and convince her to drop the matter for now. If she insisted on the truth, he’d divulge it later, when fewer were in earshot, and when no one who overheard would take the news to his father.

Gesturing to her soaked clothes, he said, “Please, Juliana, go and put on dry garments. Then I will be pleased to—”

“I want to know now.”

She looked so miserable, he longed to cross to her, draw her into his arms, and hug her, as he’d comfort his younger sister. However, that would certainly set tongues a-wagging.

As the silence persisted, Juliana’s chin tilted higher. She wasn’t going to give in. Would she stand there, cold and dripping, until she caught a severe chill?

Her chin was quivering.

“Juliana . . .”

“Why will you not tell me? That is most puzzling of all.”

Another groan bubbled up within him, for he felt his resolve weakening. He couldn’t lie to her; he didn’t want to. In this instance, lying seemed akin to cowardice.

He closed the distance between them, ignoring Kaine shuffling a short distance behind. “Juliana,” Edouard said, near enough to her that he could lower his voice and keep their words private. “You are right. We did make a bet.”

Kaine cursed and kicked at the dirt.

“We—”

“—bet that my sketchbook would end up in the well?” she said in an anguished tone. Her gaze shifted beyond him to Nara and he remembered the younger woman’s eagerness to shove the book into the depths. Did Juliana believe he and Kaine had conspired against her with Nara? Ugh. What a distressing thought.

“Nay, Juliana. We meant no harm to you or your drawings. We—”

“Aye?”

He cleared his throat. “Made a bet as to whether or not I . . .”—God’s blood—“would win your kiss.”

Shock, then hurt, darkened Juliana’s eyes. “Kiss?”

Her hissed reply was just loud enough to draw stares, though he suspected the onlookers were too far away to make out what she said. He raised his hands, palm up, trying to tamp down his rising apprehension and regret. “I admit, at first, I went along with the bet. Stupid, I know, but ’twas a challenge between me and Kaine, and I . . . wanted to win.”

“Challenge.” She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes, and her lips parted on a sob.

“Juliana . . .”

“’Tis all I was . . . am . . . to you? A challenge? Another lady for you to count among your conquests?”

“Damnation.” Edouard hauled his fingers through his hair. He hated to see tears streaming down her face. Yet he dared not reach for her. Not when so many gazes were upon them.

Juliana stepped backward, putting distance between them. The pain in her expression faded to stony remoteness.

A dull ache squeezed his innards, for he sensed she was lost to him. Naught he said or did now would likely change her opinion of him. Yet he truly did want her to hold him in high regard. “I did not mean to hurt you, Juliana. Neither, I am certain, did Kaine.”

“Hurt me? Hurt me, milord? Did you once consider my feelings before you tried to trick me into a kiss?”

“Wait a—”

“Did you feel any guilt at all while you attempted to seduce me? What about when you knocked over the food for my mother? Was that mishap part of your ploy?”

Anger began to weave through Edouard. He’d told her the truth about the bet; she’d thanked him by attacking his honor. Did she really believe he’d deliberately knock over a meal intended for an ill woman? Or, in her frayed emotional state, had Juliana just blurted the first words that came to her mind?

He sensed the accusing gazes of the encroaching spectators, condemning him without even knowing all the circumstances. He wasn’t a beast. Neither was he a witless peasant, to be shrieked at by Juliana as though he and everyone within earshot were deaf. “Tipping the tray was an accident,” he said, struggling for calm. “You must know that. I never intended—”

“And when you pushed me down into the well?”

Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“Lord de Lanceau rescued her,” someone in the throng said. “Did he not?”

“Was that a trick?” another person asked.

Edouard balled his hands into fists. He hadn’t pushed Juliana into the well. Nara had done that, by dislodging his foot and causing him to fall against Juliana.

But here, in the bailey of the de Greyne castle, he couldn’t point an accusing finger at the wicked little sister. Where was the gallantry in such an act? He’d only come off looking more of a monster, especially when Nara denied his claim, burst into tears, and went running to her father. Not a good idea, to be guilty of offending both of his host’s daughters in one afternoon.

Juliana’s lips were blue with cold, but she was clearly waiting for some kind of reply from him. An admission of guilt? Never. “I did not mean for aught to happen to you,” he said, doubting his words would make any difference. “I realize you are angry, but you must believe me.”

She shook her head. Damp tendrils of hair slipped against her cheek and ran into her tears. “I cannot.”

Those two words bored into him. He shuddered, as though fighting the pain of a knife.

“All that happened between us today,” she said tonelessly, “was part of your deceit. So you could win the bet.”

“Not all that happened.” He locked gazes with her, about to insist how wrong her words were, but his focus was shattered by the tramp of approaching footfalls. Daring a glance, he saw his father walking alongside Lord de Greyne, their long cloaks swaying with each stride. Neither man looked pleased. In fact, his sire’s mouth flattened into a disapproving line.

“Juliana?” Her father’s frown deepened. “How in God’s name . . .?”

She glared at Edouard. The fury in her eyes . . . It snatched the air from his lungs. Reaching to her shoulders, she hauled off his mantle and threw it at him. He caught it a moment before it would have landed in the dirt.

“Juliana!” Lord de Greyne shouted. “What are you doing?”

“Milords,” Edouard said, stepping forward and bowing. “If I may explain?”

“Explain. Good,” she said, each word brittle. Clutching her sketchbook against her bosom, she said, “Tell them all, Edouard. ’Tis indeed a fascinating tale. One that shows just how unsuitable you and I are for a betrothal, now or ever.”

Close behind Edouard, Kaine whistled.

Edouard heaved in a furious breath. Better that she’d have slapped his face in front of all these witnesses. But nay. She chose to outright reject him, in a very humiliating spectacle that would be gossiped about for months to come.

Well, he would not stand for it! “Betrothal?” he growled back. “I have no wish to be betrothed. Especially not to you!”

A collective gasp rose from the onlookers.

“Edouard,” his father snapped.

Juliana’s tear-streaked face whitened. She stumbled backward. For all of two breaths, he regretted his words, until she dropped into curtsey so stiff, he vowed her spine would snap. “Good day to you, Father, Lord de Lanceau,” she said as she rose. “To you, Edouard, I bid goodbye.”

***

Juliana shuddered and snuggled into the solar’s wide bed, next to her mother. Telling all that had happened—the important details, at least—had left Juliana exhausted. “I am sorry, Mama, for not coming to you sooner. Truly, I am.”

Her last words dissolved on a sniffle. The bed ropes creaked as her mother shifted against a mound of pillows; her frail arm slid around Juliana to draw her in close. Mama smelled as Juliana remembered from childhood—of sun-dried linens, sweet almond oil, and comfort.

“There, now.” Lady de Greyne kissed Juliana’s brow; soft, gray hair brushed against Juliana’s face. “No more crying.”

Juliana noisily blew her nose on a linen handkerchief, while strains of a favorite chanson, borne on the afternoon breeze, floated in through the solar’s open window. She rubbed her cheek against Mama’s shoulder and listened, becoming aware of the wheezy quality of her mother’s breathing. There was another sound, too. A steady pulse on the bedding—Mama, lightly tapping her fingers in time to the melody. She began to hum.

A sense of discordance, of un-rightness, pushed its way into Juliana’s contentment. Beyond the cocoon of this chamber, the revelry went on, regardless of her mother’s infirmity and the incident at the well.

What more, though, could Juliana expect? Her father couldn’t neglect his invited guests. Not when many of them, including the de Lanceau’s, had traveled a fair distance.

Why, then, did that ugly knot inside Juliana twist another notch?

Because of him.

She scowled and her fingers clenched around the handkerchief. Before that bet-making knave had come to Sherstowe, her life had been pleasant. Uncomplicated. Now? She could scarcely think past the turmoil churning inside her.

Down in the music-filled hall, Edouard de Lanceau was probably dancing with a pretty, young noblewoman. He’d woo that lady to near swooning with his clever words and handsome smile.

That girl in his arms might be Nara.

Juliana groaned.

Her mother’s cool, blue-veined hand touched Juliana’s cheek. “Hush, my sweet child. All will be well.”

“I think not, Mother.” Juliana dabbed at her eyes.

“Why do you not go back to the celebration? You look lovely in that honey-colored silk and you worked many days to bring about this day. Go enjoy yourself. Chat with Mayda. Dance . . . with some handsome lads.” Her mother sighed, clearly remembering happier times.

Juliana fought more tears. In time, Mama would be well enough to join festivities at the keep; she’d dance again with Father, smiling and laughing as before. But for Juliana to return to the hall? To feel she must dance with Edouard? She shook her head. “I cannot leave you now, Mama. Not when you have refused to eat today. The maidservant I sent away a short while ago will be bringing you a tray soon.”

“Oh, Juliana.” Resignation darkened Mama’s voice.

Juliana fought a tug of dread and clung to the promise she’d made to help Mama get better. “You must try to eat, even a small amount.” Juliana managed a shrug. “Besides, I do not feel like reveling.”

“Because of . . . your sketchbook?” Her mother expelled a short breath, one that seemed tinged with pain.

Sitting up, Juliana looked at her mother. Mama’s face relaxed from a grimace, but her chalky skin was more ashen than usual. “Mama, are you all right?” Juliana pressed her palm to her mother’s brow to check for fever. “How selfish of me, to be thinking of myself, when—”

With a feeble touch, Mama batted Juliana’s hand away. “Do not worry about me. Your sketchbook might be fine, once dried. If not”—she drew another sharp breath—“you should ask your father for another.”

“I shall.” Juliana sniffled. “He does not appreciate my drawings as you do, though. He does not say such, but I sense he wishes I would work harder to be a lady.”

Her mother chuckled, a sound like brittle leaves. “You are a lady. And one, I am certain, who could win the heart of any young lord in our hall.”

Juliana blushed. “Mama!”

A tender, sad smile tilted her mother’s lips. “Do you know why your father was so pleased to have Edouard de Lanceau here? I know your sire can be difficult at times, but he wants a good marriage for you.”

Juliana frowned. “Edouard pushed me into the well.”

“That must have been an accident. He did rescue you, aye?”

Juliana barely stifled a gasp. Was Mama taking Edouard’s side over her own daughter’s? “But . . .”

“He was probably trying to impress you, and—”

“He made a bet with his friend, Mama, that he would win my kiss.”

“I see.” Her mother winced and slid farther back into the pillows. “Did Edouard win? Did he . . . kiss you?”

“Nay! Neither will he have another chance. I do not wish to see him ever again.”

Juliana waited for her mother’s nod of approval. Instead, the sorrow in her gaze was shadowed with regret. “Are you certain, Juliana, you feel that way?”

Juliana plucked at a loose thread on the bedding, while the tangled emotions of the afternoon burgeoned up inside her again. “I do not know what I feel, Mama. When Edouard told me I was beautiful, when he looked at me as though I were the only maiden in this land, I felt such gladness. It seemed as if part of my heart . . . glowed.”

“Mmm,” Mama murmured, sounding as though she understood.

“My body felt strange, too, soaring and yet weighty at the same time. I could scarcely breathe. Oh, Mama, I have never felt such odd sensations.”

“Imagine how you would have felt if he had kissed you.” Mama was smiling in a most curious, knowing way.

“I do not care to imagine,” Juliana said firmly. “I am glad I discovered what a deceitful rogue he is before that happened.”

As Mama’s smile faded, the sense of un-rightness weighed deeper, and Juliana looked over at her sketchbook, propped open against the window’s iron grille. A precarious position, but she wanted the tome to dry quickly.

The parchment pages had buckled. The leather was ruined. But she’d try anything—anything!—to preserve the drawings she’d rendered with such care. Some, like the sketch she’d done of her stillborn baby brother a few weeks ago, before she’d washed and wrapped his body for burial, she could never replace.

She rose, crossed to the window, and reached out to straighten a wet page that had folded over on itself. Did she dare look at what was left of her brother’s drawing?

“Tell me more about Edouard.”

Juliana glanced over her shoulder. Mama lay with her eyes shut, her upturned hands lying like lilies against the bedding.

“Describe this young man to me,” Mama said softly, “who sought your kiss.”

Returning her attention to her sketchbook, Juliana sighed. She didn’t want to discuss Edouard. However, if Mama wished it . . . “He is, without question, the most arrogant, sly of tongued—”

Mama chuckled, before her laughter faded to a tight wheeze. “’Tis what I thought of your father, when I first met him.” A faint pause. “Is Edouard . . . handsome?”

Oh, aye. Did Juliana want to admit, however, that her fickle heart had been wooed by his beauty?

“He is attractive enough.” Her finger, somehow, settled near the middle pages of her sketchbook where she’d drawn him. “His hair is dark, his face finely formed. I vow most women would be thrilled to have his kiss.”

How strained her mother’s breathing sounded. Glancing back at her, Juliana hoped the maidservant would arrive with the ordered meal. Did Mama also need more healing herbs?

Mama’s damp eyes opened. “Juliana,” she whispered, pleading. About to tell Juliana, no doubt, that she should rethink her opinion of the great lord Geoffrey de Lanceau’s son and heir.

Juliana stared out the window, barely able to choke down a frustrated cry. “I know what you are about to say, Mama. You believe I should not judge Edouard by what happened at the well, and that I should be happy he wished to kiss me. But he is not like Father. Edouard and I would not suit.”

Mama moaned.

“Mayhap one day, I will meet a lord’s son and become betrothed. Right now, I do not care to marry any man.”

A rattled sigh came from the bed. A sigh of disappointment? Juliana swallowed hard, for she didn’t ever want to disappoint her mother. However, marriage was not a matter to take lightly. “If I wed, I would have to leave Sherstowe. How could I leave behind all I know?” Her finger slid along her sketchbook. “How could I leave you, Mama?”

Silence.

“Mama?” Juliana turned. Her mother lay with her eyes shut, her lips slightly parted. The odd slackness of her jaw, the sudden feeling of being alone, sent Juliana rushing to the bedside.

Shaking, she caught her mother’s hand. Limp.

Lifeless.

“M-mama?” Juliana gently shook her mother’s shoulder. Mama’s eyes didn’t open. Neither was she breathing.

“Mama!”

Her mother’s head lolled against the pillow.

“Oh, God,” Juliana sobbed.

Rowdy laughter rose from the bailey below. Life continued with its relentless momentum, while her mother . . .

“Mama, please. Come back.” Juliana sniffled and touched her mother’s cheek. Was it selfish to want her mother to keep living? Now, at least, she’d be free of pain.

A soft knock on the door. “Milady.”

Juliana slowly rose, uncaring of the tears dripping onto her bodice. She opened the panel.

The maidservant, holding a laden tray, said, “The fare—”

“Please find my father,” Juliana said quietly. “Tell him my mother is dead.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER FOUR

Englestowe Keep, Moydenshire

Summer, 1213

Edouard, you are a wretched coward.

Boisterous music, clapping, and cheering—celebration of the marriage between Landon Ferchante and his bride, Mayda—drifted from Englestowe Keep’s great hall as Edouard staggered through the forebuilding’s open door and out into the night. Sidestepping several sots sprawled unconscious on the ground, he heaved in breaths of cool summer air.

His head reeled. “Damnation,” he said, then grimaced. He shouldn’t have downed so much wine. Yet in honor of Mayda’s marriage, her proud father, lord of Englestowe, had provided an excellent red imported from France.

Moreover, in past months, discontent amongst Edouard’s sire’s allies over the king’s injustices had strengthened. In secret, many lords vowed rebellion was inevitable. Among them, Edouard’s father.

For one night, ’twas good just to drown in the pleasure of now.

And God help him, she was here.

Juliana.

Edouard stumbled away from the weak light coming out of the forebuilding and headed toward the keep’s wall. Earlier that day, he and Kaine—along with Dominic de Terre, Edouard’s father’s closest friend—had arrived at Englestowe to attend the wedding. When still boys, Kaine and Edouard had gone to live at Dominic’s keep to serve as pages and to be trained as squires. In due time, they’d earn their spurs and become knights.

After Edouard had greeted his parents and Lord de Greyne, he’d turned to counter a remark from Kaine—and had spied Juliana. His words had shattered on his tongue.

Edouard hadn’t seen her since that day at Sherstowe. He’d heard from friends that soon after her mother’s death, Juliana had gone to live with Mayda, her best friend, and that she planned to move to Waddesford Keep after the wedding to be Mayda’s lady-in-waiting. He’d written a letter to Juliana expressing his condolences for her mother’s death a few months ago, but hadn’t received a reply. Mayhap she’d never received the letter. More likely, she hadn’t cared to respond.

When he’d spied her, she was walking toward the forebuilding with several other ladies. She hadn’t seen him. Not surprising, since the keep’s bailey was crowded with arriving guests. The instant he’d seen her, though, with her hair bound in a shiny braid down her back and her buttercup yellow gown drifting at her ankles, the world around him had seemed to freeze. Silence had enveloped him, one so intense, he’d heard the choked gurgle of his swallow. Laughing at something her friends had said, she’d disappeared into the forebuilding.

He’d known then that he had to speak to her. Every day since their disagreement at Sherstowe, he’d thought of her and that kiss they’d almost shared. He couldn’t change the past, but he’d like to know she’d at least acknowledge him again.

Finding the opportunity to talk to her?  That had been a challenge all day.

His shoulder bumped the keep’s wall. He cursed, turned his back to the wall, and slowly slid down it to a squat. He shouldn’t care so much about regaining her favor. It shouldn’t eat at his pride that months ago she’d said “goodbye” in a tone that implied she despised him.

But it did.

“Juliana,” he said on a groan. His muddled thoughts drifted to earlier that evening when she’d realized he was in the hall. Her elegant head had turned, as though she’d sensed him nearby. Her posture had stiffened, and when their gazes had locked, her eyes had become huge. Then she’d whirled around and disappeared into the crowd.

During the lavish meal, where she’d sat one table away, she hadn’t once looked at him, although Nara, sitting farther behind, had caught his gaze and wiggled her fingers at him with annoying frequency. Later, when the dancing and revelry had begun, Juliana had stayed close to her friends and Mayda and had managed to be dancing whenever he’d thought to approach her.

Coward, Edouard. You should walk back into that hall and demand to speak with her. Refuse to let her elude you. You are, after all, Geoffrey de Lanceau’s son and heir. She owes you respect.

Aye. ’Tis what he should do. Would do.

When he wasn’t quite as drunk.

He sucked in another breath of night air, blinking as his head spun. God’s teeth, he shouldn’t have snatched up the challenge of that last drinking contest with Kaine and several other friends, but he hadn’t wanted to look a fool.

He blew out a sigh. “Juliana,” he said softly.

“Not Juliana,” a feminine voice said from the darkness, “but I hope you do not mind, milord.”

Nara.

He swallowed down an oath. How had he not heard her approach? Regardless of how he felt about her, his father wanted to keep good relations between their families, especially after the mishap at Sherstowe.

Edouard rose on an awkward lurch, his woolen tunic scraping the stones behind him. To steady himself, he pressed back against the wall.

Nara’s silk gown rustled as she stepped from the nearby darkness, another young lady at her side. Nara cupped her hand, whispered in her friend’s ear, and the young woman curtsied shyly to Edouard and then walked back to the forebuilding.

“Hello, Nara,” he said, hoping he didn’t slur his words. He blinked to clear his bleary gaze, for her gown, exquisitely fashionable, plunged a little too low in front. The night air, or arousal, had caused her nipples to bead against the fabric.

Unwelcome desire stirred. Nara might be a pretty creature, delightfully formed, but even tonight she didn’t compare to his memories of Juliana.

“Good evening, milord.” Smiling, Nara strolled closer, her hips swaying more than was appropriate for a maiden. “’Tis a pleasure to see you. You are looking as handsome as ever.”

He managed a grin. “Thank you.”

Her gaze traveled over him, and he wondered, as his fuzzy mind sharpened slightly, what she intended by following him outside. Her being here in the dark with him, without a chaperone, wasn’t proper.

Before he could ask what she wanted, she said, “Why are you out here all alone, milord?”

“’Twas warm in the great hall, and I wanted some fresh air.” He raised his brows. “You should be inside, showing the young lads how well you can dance.”

She laughed, a flirtatious sound. “The only lord I want to dance with is here before me.”

Ugh. A sound must have escaped him, for her smile softened into a pout. “We never got our dance at the feast at Sherstowe. I regret that. Very much.”

“As I recall, a great deal happened that day.”

“Especially with Juliana. I heard you speak her name.” Nara raised her brows at him in coy accusation, while her slender fingers swept along her neckline, as though to draw attention to her cleavage.

Shrugging, he looked out across the darkness. He didn’t have to explain himself to Nara. Caution tingled through his sluggish mind, for he didn’t doubt she was deliberately enticing him. He’d be wise to return to his friends as soon as he could.

He glanced at the light streaming out from the forebuilding, a beacon leading him back to Juliana. “’Twas a pleasure chatting with you, but—”

Nara stepped nearer. She stood so close, he could touch her if he wanted. He didn’t. He kept his hands firmly by his sides, wishing he’d had the sense to put distance between him and the wall behind him. “Nara—”

“Have you spoken to Juliana tonight?” she asked.

“Not yet. I will, as soon as I reach the hall.”

Nara tsked and rolled her eyes. “May luck be with you.”

He tried to ignore a pinch of misgiving. “Why do you say that?”

“She cannot bear to even hear your name. Did you realize she was so upset after what happened at Sherstowe, she left?” Sympathy crept into Nara’s stare. “I doubt she will ever forgive you for pushing her into the well.”

“You caused that to happen.”

Nara smiled. “Me, milord?”

“Aye.” He forced enough menace into the word that her eyes widened. “You kicked my foot. You made me fall against Juliana, and that caused her to go into the well.”

With a careless shrug, Nara said, “An accident.”

“Nay.” Emotions of that day simmered again inside Edouard. “That act was deliberate. You could have killed Juliana.”

“Mayhap.” Nara’s hand slowly slipped down her throat, drawing his attention to the plumpness of her bosom enhanced by tight silk. “But all turned out well. Except for our dance.”

He dragged his gaze from her enticing breasts, but not before she saw. She grinned, caught her lip between her teeth, and closed the gap between them.

“Nara.” Cursing the way his blood heated with interest, he scrambled sideways along the wall, his clumsy legs slow to follow.

Her arms slid around his neck. Pressing her supple body against him, she cooed, “Kiss me, Edouard. The way you were going to kiss Juliana by the well.”

His drunken body responded to her enticing feminine scent; his loins stirred from her breathy plea. What are you doing? his mind cried. Shove her away, or you are doomed.

“Stop, Nara.” His voice emerged a rasp.

Her lips brushed his chin. “I am the one you want. I will make you forget my sister.”

Edouard shuddered as her fingers caressed the hairs at his nape. He didn’t want to forget Juliana. He needed to go inside, to speak with her . . .

Ah, God, he had to make Nara cease.

“Nay,” he said. Hands on her waist, he began to push her away.

Her hot, wet, hungry mouth crushed to his.

***

“Come on.” Her eyes bright with excitement, Mayda snatched up Juliana’s hand and pulled her through the noisy crowd toward the forebuilding.

“Mayda, wait!” Juliana dug in her heels, but her new shoes, bought to go with her gown for the wedding celebration, skidded on the freshly-strewn rushes and herbs on the floorboards. With a helpless squawk, she stumbled along after her friend.

Mayda whirled around, her finest silk gown, chosen to be her wedding dress, floating about her slender figure. Leaning in close, she murmured, “Do not be silly and protest, Juliana. We both saw Edouard go into the forebuilding. ’Tis the perfect chance for you to find and speak with him, now he is no longer amongst his friends.”

Giddy anticipation swirled up inside Juliana. She did want to speak with him, but what was she going to say? What if he was still annoyed and didn’t wish to speak with her? Terror rushed up in a daunting wave. “I do not think . . .”

Mayda narrowed her eyes. With a firm hold, she drew Juliana away from the singing, clapping throng to a quieter section of the hall. “You have been miserable every day since the incident at Sherstowe,” she said, not letting go of Juliana’s hand. “You know ’tis long overdue for you two to reconcile.”

“True, but . . .”

Mayda huffed. “Still, you protest. How many times have you told me of that kiss he almost bestowed upon you? The way he admired your beauty?” Her eyes shone with her impassioned words. “Are you not curious to know if he wants to kiss you again? If the feelings you hold for him are still worth cherishing?”

“Mayda,” Juliana said softly. “He wooed me to win the bet. I do not know if he truly cared for me.”

Mayda squeezed Juliana’s fingers. “What man could not care for you?”

Tears pricked Juliana’s eyes.

With the swish of silk, Mayda hugged Juliana. “I want you to be happy,” she whispered. “I want you to have a husband as charming as Landon. That man could well be Edouard.” Drawing away, she wiped at her lower lashes. “You must speak with him, Juliana. Tonight, before your opportunity is lost.”

“All right.” Juliana smiled. Hand in hand with Mayda, she hurried to the forebuilding.

Mayda led the way down the torch lit stairs, and then they were out into the dark bailey beyond. The cool night air touched Juliana’s face, but her cheeks felt hot and tingly. Oh, but she dared not yield to the happiness bubbling up inside her. If she became too overwrought, she’d not be able to say one sensible word to Edouard. She did not want to ruin this chance.

“Where might he be?” Juliana’s breath caught. “Mayda, can you feel how I am trembling?”

“Keep a lookout,” her friend said, still in front, glancing to and fro in the shadows while she drew Juliana forward.

Mayda came to an abrupt halt.

Juliana bumped into her. As Mayda’s head turned, her expression filled with shock and dismay, movement in the shadows claimed Juliana’s attention. “Nara,” a male voice said with a groan.

Blinking hard, Juliana discerned a man and woman pressed against the wall, engaged in lusty kissing: her sister and . . .

Edouard!

A gasp lodged in Juliana’s throat.

As though suddenly becoming aware of spectators, Edouard tore his mouth from Nara’s. His gaze, dazed at first, cleared and widened with astonishment. “Juliana,” he said, breathing hard.

At the same moment, Nara looked over her shoulder, met Juliana’s stare, and smiled smugly.

“I am sorry, Juliana,” Mayda said shakily. “I did not know.”

Tears blurred Juliana’s vision. Drawing her hand from Mayda’s, she stepped back, away, her heart pounding so ferociously in her chest, she could scarcely breathe. What a fool she’d been!

“Juliana,” Edouard called. “Wait.” His steps unsteady, he started toward her.

Somehow Juliana managed to lift her chin and hold his gaze. How could he still look so handsome to her? Why did the agony inside her make her want to weep over this wretched rogue?

“I was about to return to the hall and speak with you,” he said, his tone rough. Glancing at frowning Mayda, now standing beside Juliana, he dragged his hands through his mussed hair. “Look, I know how this must appear.”

Juliana struggled to hold back the anguish almost choking her. Had he and Kaine made a bet tonight? Since Edouard couldn’t have Juliana’s kiss, he’d win her sister’s? She did not care. “You do not owe me an explanation, milord.”

Silk rustled as Nara approached his side. “Indeed, he does not. You made it quite clear at Sherstowe that you did not want to be betrothed to him. You never wanted to see him again.”

A frown darkened Edouard’s face. “Juliana, I never intended to kiss Nara.”

Disbelieving laughter broke past Juliana’s lips. “It just happened?”

Nara winked at Edouard and giggled. “Milord, you give the most pleasing kisses.”

Juliana forced down a sob. To know her sister had enjoyed Edouard’s affections, to see her sister gloating . . . Refusing to let them see her pain, Juliana spun to face the forebuilding. Sorrow in her eyes, Mayda slid an arm around her, and they began walking toward the light.

“Do not go!” Edouard called.

Glancing back, Juliana fixed Edouard with a glare. “Tonight has further proven what I realized months ago, milord. You could never be my husband, for when a man kisses me”—her voice wobbled—“I want it to be meaningful. I want it to prove the wondrous love between us. I want it to reinforce that we were destined, out of all the men and women in this vast country, to be together.”

He loosed a sound akin to a groan. “Juliana.”

“What she said about a kiss?” Nara brushed up against Edouard. “’Tis how I felt when you kissed me, milord. I vow you were never destined to wed her. Our fathers will have the alliance they desire, for you will marry me.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER FIVE

Waddesford Keep, Moydenshire

Late spring, 1214

From the muzzy depths of sleep, Juliana heard a baby wailing.

She snuggled deeper into downy softness—the pillows on Mama’s bed? She’d been dreaming of Mama. They sat together in the bed in Sherstowe’s solar, turning the pages of Juliana’s sketchbook, while talking about the drawings: her father’s favorite horse; the stillborn baby boy; and . . . the face of Edouard de Lanceau.

Why, tonight, had she dreamed of Edouard? Why, after all that had taken place between them, couldn’t she forget him?

The baby’s cry came again, shriller this time. This infant wasn’t part of her dream.

Wake up, Juliana! her conscience urged. Little Rosemary is hungry.

Trying to rouse her sleepy mind, Juliana rubbed her eyes. Her lashes were wet, as they were every time she thought of Mama. When she opened her eyes to darkness, her senses wakened, and she recognized the faintly musty smell of her straw pallet in the antechamber of Waddesford Keep’s solar. She’d slept in the small, adjoining room from the day she became Mayda’s lady-in-waiting, to be close by whenever her friend needed her.

Why wasn’t Mayda putting her babe to her breast? At just over a week old, Rosemary needed her mother’s milk.

Mayhap, like Juliana, Mayda was only just rousing to the baby’s cry. Lying motionless, Juliana waited to hear the creak of the large rope bed as Mayda slipped from it, crooning to her child.

The only sound, apart from Rosemary’s crying, was the faint crackle of the fire.

Unease tingled through Juliana. Was Mayda all right? She’d been restless and weepy earlier that evening, but had assured Juliana she was merely tired from being wakened often in the night to nurse Rosemary. A reasonable explanation. In most circumstances, Juliana might have accepted it. However, the arguments between Landon and Mayda had become more frequent over past weeks. The birth of the little girl, when his lordship had wanted a son and heir, had added to the strain.

Juliana pushed aside her blankets, trying not to heed the other suspicions sifting into her mind. But they wouldn’t be ignored. They shoved to the forefront, as demanding as that wretched woman who’d arrived as a guest a short while ago and quickly settled in: Veronique Desjardin. Her rogue of a son, Tye, who looked close to Juliana’s twenty years of age, had also moved into the keep.

When Juliana set her feet on the icy floorboards, her right foot knocked an object in the dark, sending it sliding away with a hiss: her current sketchbook. She’d set it beside the bed before snuffing the candle to sleep. Groping in the blackness, she found the book, and then tucked it under her pallet. She didn’t want to slip on the tome again, especially if she returned to the antechamber carrying Rosemary.

As Juliana walked into the solar, her eyes began to adjust to the shadows, tinged with a reddish glow from the hearth’s embers. Her gaze went to the rope bed. Empty. The bedding on Mayda’s side had been pushed to one side, suggesting she’d left the bed for some reason and hadn’t yet returned. The blankets on Landon’s side appeared undisturbed.

How many nights, now, had he slept somewhere other than the solar?

And with whom?

Juliana’s heart squeezed, for she’d seen the scorching glances between Veronique and Landon—looks that went far beyond a lord being attentive to a guest. Not wanting to upset Mayda, Juliana had kept her suspicions of his infidelity to herself. That had become a kind of punishment, for she’d wondered if she should tell Mayda?

Juliana, though, had no definite proof, and it would be all too easy for Landon to deny all and order Juliana to leave Waddesford; then, Mayda would have no one close to her to help her. In the end, Juliana had chosen to stay silent, while hoping Mayda would discover the affair for herself.

No doubt, that was why Mayda wasn’t here. She’d gone searching for her husband.

Juliana hurried across the plank floor to the wooden cradle, trying to ignore the unease racing through her. Mayda had placed Rosemary’s bed at the edge of the hearth tiles, hoping to keep the baby warm through the night, but a draft swept through the room.

Juliana shivered, and not just from the cold. Mayda adored Rosemary. She’d never let her get so hungry.

From when they were young girls, Mayda had talked in a dreamy voice about becoming a wife and mother. Despite the difficult pregnancy and ordeal of birthing Rosemary, the joy that lit Mayda’s face whenever she looked at the newborn with a tuft of wispy brown hair and blue eyes was unmistakable.

“There, now,” Juliana murmured, leaning over the cradle. She slid her hands under the bawling Rosemary and the woolen blanket wrapped around her and picked her up. Humming a lullaby, Juliana tucked the baby into the crook of her arm and gently rocked her.

Rosemary kept crying.

“All right,” Juliana soothed. She must find Mayda; if she couldn’t be found swiftly, then a nursemaid who could feed Rosemary.

As Juliana started toward the solar doorway, her gaze slid over the long trestle table along the opposite wall. Gold glinted. She crossed to see what the object was: Mayda’s wedding ring.

A violent tremor snaked through Juliana. At the same moment, a memory flashed into her mind, of Mayda’s tearful, whispered words when she lay against bed sheets smeared with blood from Rosemary’s birth. “If aught should happen to me, you must keep the baby safe. Promise me that, Juliana.”

Sitting on the bed’s edge, watching over Mayda till maidservants returned with clean sheets and the healer brought another pain-dulling tonic, Juliana touched her friend’s hand. “Do not worry. The healer says you will be fine. So will the babe.”

“A girl.” Mayda’s lips trembled while she glanced at the infant, sleeping in its cradle beside the bed; Mayda’s gaze looked almost . . . terrified.

“She is beautiful,” Juliana said. “Perfect, in every way. Tiny, round nose. Chubby fingers—”

“But not a son.”

Landon’s wish for a boy was well known to everyone at Waddesford. Juliana forced a comforting smile. “Nay, but—”

Mayda’s fingers curled into Juliana’s in a tight, almost crushing, grip.

Juliana fought not to wince. Her friend didn’t seem like herself, and probably didn’t realize her grasp was so strong. “Landon will love her,” Juliana murmured. “Why would he not?”

How clearly she remembered her mother weeping over her dead son, a baby she’d desperately wanted, whether ’twas a boy or a girl. Surely, no father would reject the miracle of his own healthy child, especially one with such a sweet countenance? “One look at his daughter’s face,” Juliana added, “and Landon will adore her. I vow he will be so proud, he will want to show her off to all within the keep.”

She hoped so. Mayhap this little girl would bring an end to the terrible arguments and unite the Ferchantes as a family. Mayda deserved to be happy.

Mayda shook her head against the pillow. How defeated she seemed. “Listen, Juliana. I must tell you before the others return. I have hidden a bag of jewelry—”

“Mayda.” Juliana struggled against rising worry. Her friend was beginning to sound completely out of her wits. Surely, Mayda didn’t fear for her and Rosemary’s lives?

“If I come to . . . harm,” Mayda rasped, “you will take what’s hidden and flee far from here with Rosemary. Sell the jewels—”

“Hush, Mayda—!”

“—You will have enough coin to provide for both of you for years.” Her tone sharpened. “Promise me.”

Unnerved by her friend’s wild-eyed stare, Juliana looked to the door, hoping to see the panel open and the healer step inside. Mayhap his lordship would be with her, eager to see his child for the first time.

“Promise, Juliana.”

Agree to steal a lord’s daughter and valuable jewelry? Swear to commit crimes that could see her imprisoned for the rest of her life? “I—”

“Juliana!”

Mayda’s gaze held such haunted fear, Juliana couldn’t help but nod. “All right. I promise. I will do as you ask.” After all, how likely was it that Mayda would come to the harm she feared?

Rosemary’s wail snapped Juliana from her memories. “There, there,” she said, as she continued toward the door. When Juliana drew near, she realized the door was slightly ajar; the chilling draft blew in from around it.

Wishing she’d taken the time to pull on a woolen wrap, but not wanting to delay Rosemary’s feeding any longer, Juliana drew open the door and stepped out into the hallway lit by flaming wall torches. The draft whispered across the passageway’s stone floor; it seemed to be coming from the stairwell farther along, the one leading to a door that opened onto the wind-scoured wall walk.

Over the sputter of the nearby torches, she heard voices. A man and a woman, arguing. The harsh quarrel drew Juliana toward the stairwell. Some of the words carried down to her on the gusting wind. She recognized Mayda’s voice, shrilled by bitterness. The sound of her friend’s torment . . . Unbearable.

Juliana hugged Rosemary closer. The baby sniffled, then whimpered, as though about to cry again. Curling her finger, Juliana rubbed it against Rosemary’s toothless gums. Turning her head to follow Juliana’s knuckle, Rosemary began to suck.

Juliana hesitated at the bottom of the stairwell, caught between eavesdropping or walking away. In truth, she had no right to listen. Landon and Mayda, as lord and lady of this keep, deserved their privacy. But remembering the fear in her friend’s expression and her earlier promise, Juliana forced herself to step into the close stairwell, shivering at the coldness of the stone beneath her bare feet.

“—do I mean to you? Do you love me? Care for me at all?” A wrenched sob. “I wish to know, Landon.”

“Cease.”

Partway up the stairwell, Juliana froze. How could Landon speak to Mayda in that manner? His tone was little more than a snarl. He’d speak that way to a murderous traitor chained in his dungeon. His wife, the mother of his babe, deserved far more respect.

Regret pierced Juliana, for less than a year ago, Mayda and Landon had seemed so much in love, in the way they’d smiled at each other, exchanged coy words, touched hands, and kissed. Just observing them had stirred yearnings within Juliana, for she’d hoped one day to have a marriage equally as wonderful. But all the trust and happiness between Landon and Mayda seemed to have vanished. For their relationship to have come to this was nothing less than tragic.

“Do not turn your back on me. I want an answer,” Mayda shrieked.

“How you tire me,” Landon growled, followed by the rap of footfalls on stone. The sound implied he’d moved away from her.

More sobbing came from above, and Juliana bit down on her lip. The cruelty of Landon’s tone was truly frightening.

Was Mayda in danger? Would Landon harm her, as she’d suggested days ago?

The atmosphere, indeed, seemed ripe for violence. If Juliana dared to interrupt, though, saying the babe had woken and needed feeding, that would give Mayda a reason to return to the solar. She’d be safe then. If she and Landon had more to discuss, they’d do so later, when they’d both had time to calm their tempers.

Aye. That was the best solution. Yet putting herself in the midst of the disagreement . . . Juliana pressed back against the stone wall and fought a twinge of alarm.

Don’t be foolish, Juliana. You are friends with Landon. He will not harm you, especially when you have his daughter in your arms. If you care for Mayda and little Rosemary, you will find the strength to act for them.

Shifting Rosemary closer to her shoulder, to shield her from the wind swirling down into the stairwell, Juliana pressed on.

“You say I tire you.” Mayda’s words shattered on an angry wail. “I never see you. Day and night, you are always gone. Do you think I am a fool, Landon? Do you believe I do not know of the servants’ gossip? Of the rumors you—”

“I told you before. Cease!”

“I will not! I am your wife.”

Weak moonlight, coming through the open doorway leading onto the wall walk, touched the stairs ahead. As though becoming aware of her mother’s nearness, Rosemary warbled.

“I warn you, Mayda. If you do not be quiet—”

The brutal fierceness of Landon’s voice . . . Mere steps away from the open door, Juliana hesitated. A frightened moan scratched her throat, but she forced the sound down. She thrust her finger against Rosemary’s mouth to soothe her hungry snuffles.

“You will not make a fool of me any longer!” Mayda shouted. “I want the truth—”

“Veronique excites me.”

A shuddered gasp. “S-she—?”

“—pleasures me. Whenever I wish. However I wish. Are you happy now, wife?”

Juliana squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, Mayda. I am sorry. To be rejected with such indifference must be heartbreaking.

Hoarse sobs broke from Mayda, each one swollen with helplessness and rage. The sounds pierced deep inside Juliana, for she’d cried that way after her mother had died. She’d wept until every last tear had dried up, and she’d been too exhausted to cry any longer.

“You bastard.” Mayda’s weeping roughened, while Juliana climbed the last stairs. “How could you betray my love? And to her? Did you not think—?”

A scraped footfall. A grisly crack: the sound of a fist hitting flesh.

Mayda groaned, a sound of excruciating pain.

Oh, God. Oh, God!

Rosemary struggled, her little legs kicking against the blanket, as Juliana forced herself through the doorway and onto the battlements.

Landon and Mayda were some distance down the wall walk, their figures limned in moon glow. The eerie light, cutting through patches of inky shadow, skimmed the squared stone merlons and the gaps between them that overlooked the moat, almost dry from months with little rain.

Glaring at Mayda, Landon flexed his right fingers, doubtless easing discomfort from the blow, then swept his palm over the front of the brown woolen tunic that reached to his thighs. The lazy gesture, executed with a faint measure of disgust, heightened the warning buzzing inside Juliana.

“Mayda,” she said. Fear muffled her voice; the wind snatched the sound.

Landon was dressed in garments fit for a cool spring night, while Mayda wore only her linen night rail, covered by a cloak she’d thrown about her shoulders but hadn’t fastened. Her unbound blond hair snarled in the breeze as she stood with her head bowed to the side, one hand pressed to her cheek, clearly still stunned by the blow. As Juliana hurried forward, her friend straightened. Her hands lowering to clench at her sides, Mayda faced her husband.

“How dare you hit me? Did you think that would silence me?” she screeched, before she winced and cradled her face again with her hand. “How I hate you!”

Juliana shivered as a gust whipped at her; yet her chill went beyond physical discomfort. Perilous emotions flowed between Landon and Mayda. Anger and bitterness seemed to cocoon them from all else, for they still hadn’t noticed her, or heard the babe’s fussing.

“Mayda,” Juliana called again, louder this time. If only she were nearer! Still, her friend didn’t hear her.

“Listen well, Landon.” Mayda trembled. “Our marriage is ended. I cannot wait to tell my parents, who so admired you, how you—”

Landon’s face contorted in a sneer. His arm whipped up, no doubt to strike again. Mayda threw up her hands—to hit back or plead with him—even as Juliana cried, “Mayda!”

Her friend’s head swiveled. When Mayda’s gaze fell upon Juliana and Rosemary, her teary eyes widened. Pain and terror etching her expression, Mayda opened her mouth, clearly about to speak.

Landon’s fist slammed into her head.

“Nay!” Juliana screamed. “Mayda!”

Eyes rolling, Mayda keeled sideways, then backward. Toward the gaping space between the merlons.

Juliana hurried forward, trying not to jostle Rosemary, heedless of the wind buffeting her and slowing her down. “Mayda,” she shrieked. “Beware!”

Mayda bumped against a merlon, then staggered. Her hands flew wide, a frantic attempt to regain her balance. “Juliana—” she groaned.

Landon lunged forward and shoved her. Hard.

Mayda’s hands flailed, grasping for a handhold. Seizing only air.

“Mayda!” Juliana shrieked.

With a shrill cry, her friend fell backward over the side. Her scream carried, and then . . . abrupt silence.

Several yards from Landon, Juliana stumbled to a standstill. Horror pounded inside her. Her whole body shook as she looked from Landon, his seething stare upon her, to the dark, vacant space where Mayda had disappeared.

Rosemary bawled.

The wind hissed, cold and . . . empty.

“Mayda,” Juliana whispered, pressing her arm across her churning stomach. “Oh, God!”

Over Rosemary’s cries, Juliana heard shouts somewhere down the wall walk. Castle folk were investigating the scream. At the same moment, Landon glanced over the battlement, as if to see what had become of his wife.

Could she have survived such a fall? Not likely. Not when the almost dry moat was strewn with rocks.

Mayda was dead. A demise she’d feared days ago.

Even as bile stung the back of Juliana’s mouth, another, more deadly thought snared her focus. She was the only one to have seen what happened. A witness to a lady’s murder.

Landon would no doubt convince any curious folk that what had taken place was an unfortunate accident. He was lord of Waddesford; his statement wouldn’t be questioned. Hers, however . . .

She took a shaky step back. He’d murdered once tonight. Would he kill her this evening, to silence her? Then would he do away with his daughter, whom he’d never wanted?

As he tugged down his sleeves and faced her, Juliana scrambled backward toward the doorway. She’d whirl around and run—

Movement on the wall walk snared her gaze. A slender figure emerged from the shadows close to Landon. Veronique. Raising her hands, she started clapping.

Merciful God!

As she strolled into the pale moonshine, light swept over her waist-length red tresses that brushed against her long black cloak. The vibrant, reddish hue, unnatural for a woman her age, looked even more eerie in the moonlight. Not only was Veronique applauding, but smiling as though she’d witnessed a superb performance.

“Well done, Landon.” Each of Veronique’s words sang with triumph.

“Well done?” Juliana choked out while forcing her shocked body to continue backward. Get to the doorway, her mind screamed. Save yourself. Protect Rosemary, as you promised. Hurry!

“I killed my wife.” Landon sounded stunned. Did he not believe what he had done?

“You did what was necessary.” At his side, Veronique reached up a hand, turned his face so that he looked at her, and kissed him full on the lips. Pressing up against him, she said, “Now you are free. No one will separate us.”

Juliana swallowed. There could be but five steps left till she reached the doorway.

“Aye.” Landon exhaled a sharp breath. “But—”

Four.

“You had no other choice,” Veronique murmured. “Do not worry. We will ensure her death is considered no more than an accident.” Veronique’s gaze fixed on Juliana. “Starting with her.”

Run!

Juliana spun and bolted into the stairwell.

Her bare feet skidded on the rough stones. Rosemary, bouncing in her arms, shrieked. Her cry echoed in the passageway, the sound mirroring the frantic scream rising inside Juliana.

“She cannot get away,” Veronique snapped from the wall walk.

“I know,” Landon said. “Guards!” he yelled. “Guards!”

Juliana heaved in a breath. She must get out of the castle.

How?

No time to retrieve Mayda’s hidden jewels. Juliana would have to—

Footfalls pounded on the stairs behind her.

She reached the torch lit passage. Holding tight to crying Rosemary, she raced toward the wooden landing that led down into the great hall. Most of the castle folk would be asleep there; she’d weave through the rows of straw pallets, dash into the forebuilding, and down to the bailey. From there . . .

Then what?

“Juliana!” Landon roared, close behind.

With an agonized gasp, she tried to run faster. Her lungs burned.

Shouts and tramped footfalls carried from behind her—and the landing ahead.

She was trapped.

A sharp tug on her hair yanked her head back. Pain spread through her scalp, while the passageway’s ceiling became a blur. She stumbled, almost dropping Rosemary.

“Got you,” Landon snarled.

She screamed with all the breath left in her lungs. Landon slammed her back against the passage wall. Rosemary jounced in her arms, even as Juliana twisted against his bruising grip on her upper arms.

“Let me go!” she choked.

Rosemary’s gulping cries rang off the stone. Landon didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Quiet.” Breathing hard, his grasp as tight as manacles, he glared down at Juliana. He smelled of drink, night air, and . . . danger. Juliana shuddered. Would he kill her now?

“Do as I say.” Landon clearly expected her obedience.

“Killer!” she cried. How she wanted to spit in his face! “Mayda loved you! How could you—?”

Armed men crowded in from the landing. Not Landon’s men-at-arms, most of whom she knew by name, but mercenaries. Veronique’s hired thugs.

Oh, God. Oh, God!

“Lady de Greyne has gone mad,” Landon called, loudly enough for all to hear.

“Liar! You—”

“She means to harm the babe,” he cut in, drowning her voice with his own. “She—”

Juliana threw her body’s weight to one side. He tightened his grip. She kicked and struggled.

Behind her, metal rasped: the sound of a sword being drawn.

Terror whipped through Juliana, a moment before Veronique sauntered out of the stairwell to block that way out. Crossing her arms, she smiled.

“Someone help me!” Juliana sobbed. “Lady Ferchante was murdered. I saw! I swear—”

Landon pulled her away from the wall. “Take her.”

Two of the mercenaries grabbed her arms, restrained her, as Landon stepped away.

“Give me a sword,” Landon commanded.

She was going to die! “Please, listen!” Juliana shrieked. “He—”

His lips drawn back from his teeth, Landon raised the blade. One swift slash, and she’d be dead. So, most likely, would Rosemary. Sobbing, Juliana cradled the baby tighter.

A curse broke from Landon. Daring to glance up, she saw him standing as though frozen, his sword ready for its killing strike.

For an instant, their gazes met. In his eyes, she saw remorse.

“Please,” she whispered. “Landon, I beg you—”

“Turn her around,” he growled. She tried to struggle, but the thugs spun her so her back faced Landon.

Whack! Stunning pain crashed through the back of Juliana’s head. Her teeth cracked together, while her upper body jolted forward. Do not . . . drop Rosemary, Juliana told herself through the blinding agony.

Oh, God. So . . . dizzy.

She couldn’t stand up . . . any longer.

Juliana’s legs wobbled. The passageway floor swirled into a muddy blend of grays and browns.

Mayda, I am sorry. So sorry.

The cloying tang of rosewater stung her nostrils. Veronique. Juliana tried to open her mouth, to speak, but her jaw refused to work. She could only groan as Veronique pulled Rosemary from her arms. “Kill her,” Veronique muttered, shoving the wailing baby at a mercenary.

Mayda, I am sorry . . .

Juliana collapsed to her knees. Head . . . spinning. Men . . . still holding her arms. She fought to lift her head.

Fight. Save Rosemary, her mind screamed, even as the agonizing pain sapped the strength from her limbs.

Her groggy mind barely registered the masculine grunt behind her. The whistle of the sword through the air—

Whack!

Blackness.

***

Veronique stretched out atop the bed in the candlelit solar, propping her head up on her hand. As she tugged at her bodice to reveal more of her cleavage, her gaze settled upon Landon, standing before the hearth with his back to her.

The orange-yellow firelight licked over the front of his body and etched shadows over his legs braced slightly apart, broad arms hanging listless by his sides, face bowed to the flames. He’d stood that way for long moments, tense and silent, as though his mind was elsewhere.

Back on the wall-walk with his shrieking wife, no doubt.

Veronique stifled a sigh of disgust. Was he battling with his morals? Condemning himself for what he’d done? How she despised a man who couldn’t subjugate his own conscience.

She’d sensed the turmoil inside him when he’d aimed to run Juliana through with the sword. He couldn’t do it; his sense of chivalry had got in the way. Instead, he’d ordered her turned around—sparing himself from the condemnation in her eyes—and then had hit her twice at the back of the head, rendering her senseless.

“I will finish her off,” Veronique had said, taking a sword from one of her mercenaries. How sweetly the pleasure of killing had run in her veins, urging her to plunge the sword into Juliana’s pretty flesh.

Landon, however, had stayed Veronique with a hand on her arm. “No need. I hit her hard enough to cause death.”

Had he? Or had he not wanted to see his wife’s best friend slashed while he looked on? The true reason no longer mattered, for Veronique had made certain of Juliana’s death. Even if Juliana had somehow survived her wound, she’d died from drowning, for two of Veronique’s loyal mercenaries had carried her limp body to the river and thrown her in.

The thoughts brought a smug smile to Veronique’s lips. The unfortunate Lady Juliana, who saw what really transpired on the wall walk, was safely eliminated. No one would dispute that Lady Ferchante committed suicide by throwing herself over the edge. If, for some reason, any of the castle folk questioned Landon’s account of what happened, Veronique’s mercenaries would discreetly eradicate them.

All in all, the perfect ending to the night’s developments that left Landon completely in her hands. He was a vulnerable but necessary puppet in her plot to crush his wretched lordship, Geoffrey de Lanceau. The only man she’d ever loved.

Just thinking her former lover’s name caused anguished rage to sear through her breast. How she would make him suffer! Now, though, was not a wise moment to indulge in her hatred of him; now, she must ensure Landon was firmly in her control.

Catching a strand of her hair—its natural, graying color dyed red with henna she’d bought from a merchant in France—she began to twirl it around one of her fingers. “Landon,” she said with a petulant sigh. “Come to bed.”

His head lifted a fraction, causing his light brown hair to glint in the firelight. Yet he didn’t glance her way or attempt to speak.

The anger in Veronique’s blood deepened. No one ignored her. He should know that by now. He owed her respect, for she’d helped rid him of his wife and the babe he never wanted. She’d freed him.

“Landon,” she said again, more forcefully.

He stirred then, straightening to his full height while he plowed a hand through his hair. The movement caused the wool of his tunic to draw taut over his broad shoulders, outlining indents and swells of firm muscle.

A lustful growl scratched her throat, for while he might annoy her, he was, indeed, an attractive man. Half her age, he’d proven again and again how thoroughly he could pleasure her, and, in his ramblings, had proved how useful he could be in furthering her ambitions.

“Why do you not heed me?” She drew out her words with a petulant purr. “You should be abed. With me.”

“I cannot,” he rasped, still not facing her.

“You are not tired?” A lusty giggle slipped from her. “’Twill be a challenge, then, for me to render you sweaty and sated.”

His arm fell back to his side. Tension marked the set of his shoulders. “I killed my wife tonight, Veronique.” His voice shook. “I killed her.”

Before she could catch it, a fierce breath broke from her. “Landon—”

He spun then, the soles of his boots squeaking on the glazed hearth tiles. A gasp—quickly forced down—scalded her throat at the redness of his eyes and the moisture glistening at his lower lashes. His expression bespoke barely leashed anguish.

Her disgust for him hardened. The sooner she twisted his torment to her desires, the better. A delicate kind of manipulation, but she’d practiced on countless other lords. Years ago, before he became lord of Moydenshire, she’d even manipulated the great Geoffrey de Lanceau, turning his vengeful anger over his father’s killing into a scorching passion unlike aught she’d ever experienced before. Or since.

Anger hummed again at the memory of Geoffrey. She forced all thoughts of him aside and, softening her expression into one of concern, pushed up to sitting on the bed. “All is taken care of, Landon, as I promised. Do not fret.”

While she held his gaze, she tilted her head and swept her hair to the side, causing it to tumble away from her tightly laced bosom to reveal all of her bountiful cleavage. Since Tye’s birth, she’d taken good care of her body, splurging on creams, lotions, and ghastly-tasting brews that scoured her innards with painful efficiency but kept her slim. The result was well worth every bit of coin she’d coaxed from her hapless lovers, for her breasts were still smooth and enticing enough to lure men as young and virile as Landon. As she eased a pucker in her bodice, his gaze followed the movement of her finger, and she fought a triumphant little grin.

“Do not fret,” he said, before spitting a curse. He looked away, at the far wall. “I was so angry with her, I could scarcely think.”

Still, he was dwelling upon his dead wife. Veronique would have to use more effective persuasion. She slid her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and strolled toward him, her fine silk gown brushing at her ankles. “I know you were angry,” she soothed. “How could you not be? I saw how your wife provoked you. Bitter word after bitter word.”

Landon’s watery gaze shifted back to her.

“She was cruel. Relentless.” Veronique halted before him and cupped her hand against his cheek. “I vow she planned to enrage you, to make you strike out at her—”

“You do?”

Veronique nodded. “She wanted you to wound her, so she could win sympathy from the folk of this castle. What better way to turn your loyal subjects against you?”

Landon’s throat moved with a swallow. “She meant to manipulate me, then.”

“Exactly. You wanted a son and heir, as is your right as lord. She birthed you a daughter.” Veronique stroked her thumb across his mouth. “She failed you, Landon. She is to blame for all that happened tonight. Not you.”

Sensing the emotional barrier around him wavering, Veronique dared to press flush against him and loop her arms around his neck. He tensed, but she placed a line of kisses down his cheek. “How foolish she was to turn against you,” she murmured against his skin. “You made her the lady of a fine castle. You gave her all she could ever want. Yet still she wasn’t satisfied.”

Landon shuddered. “I killed her.”

“She killed herself.” Veronique slid her tongue along his stubbled jaw line, tasting the rough salt of his skin. “Remember that, my love. She committed suicide.”

His head turned, and she followed his gaze to the gold ring lying on the trestle table near the pots and grooming essentials she’d brought to the solar. How tempted she’d been to slip that bit of jewelry into her gown, to claim it had gone missing. Before she took the ring, though, she’d wanted to be sure ’twas the one he’d spoken of nights ago, as they lay in each other’s arms after coupling—the ring he’d been given by Geoffrey de Lanceau to show he could be entrusted with the most secret of information by Geoffrey’s spies and warriors.

Trying not to give away her excitement, she said, “The ring. I noticed it earlier. ’Tis yours?”

“Nay. Mayda’s wedding ring.” A groan broke past his lips. “She chose it herself—”

“Shh.” Veronique used the pressure of her fingers to turn his head back to face her.

“Veronique—”

“She is to blame. Remember.” Veronique pressed her open mouth to his and forced his lips apart with her tongue, coaxing him to kiss her back.

How unyielding his posture felt—as though he might shove her away. She couldn’t allow that. Not when she hadn’t yet got hold of the special ring. Not when he had so much more to offer her and Tye in their goal—nurtured for long, long years—to destroy Geoffrey and all he cherished.

Even as she sensed Landon rallying a protest, she moved her hand to the back of his head, to tangle into the hair at his nape. While she intensified the kiss, her other hand slipped between them, to the belt of his hose, and then lower, to cup his maleness. ’Twas flaccid at the moment. But she knew how to make him hard.

“Veronique,” he choked out, against her mouth.

“Let me ease your torment,” she whispered, while her fingers dipped inside his hose and closed around his manhood. She rubbed him with gentle strokes. “I know what you like. Let me pleasure you, Landon.”

He groaned against her lips. “I . . . cannot . . .”

“Hush, my love. You can.” As he trembled, and she felt him thrust against her palm, she indulged in a silent, gleeful laugh. She’d won him over as she knew she could.

While she rewarded him with a shattering climax, she’d savor his grunts, gasps, and groans. For with him under her sway, she was ever closer to the day she vanquished Geoffrey.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER SIX

Edouard lifted a hand from his horse’s reins, shooed away a fly that had landed on his mantle’s sleeve, and squinted against the morning sunlight. The dirt road that he, Kaine, and three men-at-arms traveled ran alongside the slow-moving river to their right that continued through the village a short distance ahead, built close to Waddesford Keep.

His gaze rose to the stone fortress ruled by Landon Ferchante. Memories drifted into Edouard’s mind of the wedding celebration at Englestowe. What a night that had been, one that had forever changed him.

He struggled with the resentment that flared whenever he thought of his regrettable betrothal to Nara. However, he’d never dishonor his family by forsaking the code of honor that formed the mortar of his life and had bound him to her from the moment they’d kissed. Theirs would be a marriage of duty, never love.

Stifling bitter regret, he tried to shove the recollections aside. Not long now until he and his men reached the castle, and he must conduct the crucial meeting on his father’s behalf.

Not long, also, before he might see Juliana again.

Anticipation wove through him, for he’d heard she still lived there as lady-in-waiting to Lady Ferchante. With him arriving at the keep as his sire’s representative, Juliana might at least make an appearance to greet him. ’Twould lift his spirits to see her lovely countenance. Most likely, though, she’d do all she could to avoid him, as she had since his betrothal was announced last summer.

The resentment inside him became a dull ache in his chest. Nara might have succeeded in getting a betrothal, but he hadn’t stayed around to be shown off like a coveted bauble. He’d returned to Dominic’s keep, focused on his duties, and honed his fighting skills. By accepting every assignment Dominic offered to him, he’d managed to delay the wedding. But by the end of May—mere weeks away—he’d be a married man.

Edouard sighed and lowered his arm to rest it upon his thigh. When he’d persuaded his sire to let him ride to Waddesford, he’d never imagined that he’d be this unsettled. Neither had he planned to journey to the keep, but while Edouard was visiting his parents, his sire had fallen ill.

“You cannot ride to Waddesford,” Edouard had insisted when he’d come upon his sire scrutinizing the accounts ledger spread out on the lord’s table in the great hall. Edouard’s father had refused to rest, despite his lady wife’s protestations and the fever burning his brow.

“I will go as planned.” Edouard’s sire hadn’t looked up from the ledger. “I intended to pay a surprise visit to Landon’s keep soon anyway to confirm all is as I expect, as I do of all of my estates now and again. I will also take the blanket your mother embroidered as a gift to celebrate the babe’s birth.” His voice softened. “But as you know, I aim to discuss another matter with him, and I—”

“—should be abed,”Edouard said. Words his worried mother had insisted he work into the conversation somewhere.

His sire, rubbing his sweat-beaded brow with one palm, sighed. “God’s teeth.” As he wiped perspiration from his flushed cheek, his hand shook.

“You look wretched, Father.”

“As I feel.” He tossed the quill on the table, splattering black ink, then dropped his head into his hands. “I cannot even stand the taste of wine. The mere smell makes me want to vomit.”

“Then you will not be able to raise your goblet in a toast when Lord Ferchante agrees to join your rebellion. One more reason why I must take your place.”

His sire, looking weary, shook his head. “I would not ask such of you. ’Tis too dangerous. If aught went wrong—”

“’Twill not. Trust me.”

His father had thrust his palm up in clear refusal to discuss the matter any further. “I will contact Dominic.”

With effort, Edouard had reined in his disappointment. Dominic would undertake the mission if Edouard’s sire asked, but Edouard was capable of the task. Last autumn, after he’d helped to drive murderous thieves from a forest on Dominic’s lands, Dominic had ensured Edouard was knighted. The prestige of knighthood proved that Edouard was a skilled warrior and could be entrusted with important duties.

Edouard’s father, always over-protective because of the remote chance Veronique could resurface in Moydenshire, might be reluctant to put his son in danger, but Edouard was ready for difficult responsibilities. Even a mission as treacherous as privately asking Lord Ferchante if he’d join other lords in trying to reinstate a charter created over one hundred years ago by King Henry I, a document that would set limits upon King John’s powers and help curtail his corruption.

“Father,” Edouard had said, “with all due respect, sending a missive to Dominic and awaiting his reply will take several days. I can ride to Waddesford on the morrow.”

A faint smile touched his sire’s mouth. “I appreciate your offer, Son, but you are not yet a lord. ’Tis not your battle.”

Edouard pushed his shoulders back and refused to heed the awkward feeling he got every time he challenged his sire. “I believe ’tis my battle, Father. One day, I will inherit the honored title of Lord of Moydenshire from you. If I undertake and succeed in this vital mission, surely that better prepares me for my future responsibilities?”

Edouard’s insistence had succeeded, for with a grudging laugh, his sire had relented and assigned him the mission. Thank God. Thinking of the upcoming meeting with Landon Ferchante wasn’t what made Edouard’s stomach cinch into a knot. Thinking of Juliana, though . . .

“Oy! Edouard. Any chance we can stop for a piss?” Kaine called from behind him.

Another of the three warriors escorting Edouard grunted in agreement.

“Of course,” Edouard said over his shoulder. He looked at the bank sloping down to the shallows, where some industrious folk—fishermen, mayhap—had cleared away a section of the tall reeds that grew along the water’s edge. “’Tis a good spot, also, to water the horses.”

“Quite picturesque, really,” Kaine said. “Good for all kinds of pleasurable pursuits.”

Edouard snorted a laugh and, with a nudge of his heels, steered his horse down toward the river. Kaine seemed to think of naught else these days but seducing women. A pang of regret ran through Edouard, for he could only imagine what his best friend was enduring after his young wife’s death last winter from a virulent sickness. Kaine had loved her, and losing her had deeply wounded him.

The closest Edouard had come to love were his feelings for Juliana. Somehow, no other woman compared to his memories of her. Whether she was truly as exceptional as he recalled, or whether his recollections of her had distorted since last year, he’d soon find out, when he met her again.

Today.

His gut tightened another notch as he halted his horse and slid from the saddle. Holding the reins in one hand, he led his mount forward, his leather boots sinking into the mud as he strode into the shallows. Small fish scattered like tiny arrows in the water, while he inhaled the heady scents of moist earth and vegetation. When his horse lowered its head to drink, Edouard turned his face up to the sunlight. How good the sunshine felt on his skin.

Water trickled close by. “Ahh,” Kaine said, a sound of intense relief.

Edouard chuckled. As he relaxed his shoulders and glanced downriver, a pale object in the reeds snared his gaze. Frowning, he stepped farther into the depths to discern exactly what he saw.

A bare foot.

The muddy hem of a garment, swaying in the stirred-up waves.

He dropped the reins and crashed toward the reeds.

“What is wrong?” Kaine called.

The water grew deeper, soaking Edouard’s fine leather boots to the knee and the lower part of his mantle, but he forged on, his hand on the hilt of his sword. When he neared the portion of reeds crushed by the body, he slowed to assess the poignant scene before him.

The young woman lay on her left side. Her long, dark brown hair splayed in a grimy tangle across her face, hiding her features from his view. The ends of her tresses had tangled up in the reeds’ stems. As he edged nearer, he saw that her head was resting on her left arm; it stretched up as though to grab a handhold in the muddy bank. Her right hand, fingers as pale as scoured bone, looked about to plunge into the muck and lever her farther out of the water. To safety.

“Edouard?” Kaine shouted again, followed by splashed footfalls.

Edouard caught his breath as he slowly crouched, ignoring the tug of his mantle as it soaked up more water. Her grubby garment looked to be one used as sleeping attire, or a chemise usually worn under a gown. Not a coarsely woven piece of clothing, as a peasant might wear. Judging by the border of tiny, embroidered flowers along her sleeve, ’twas a garment of superior quality.

Foreboding buzzed through his mind, even as he reached out to gently move the hair from her face. He hoped she was still alive. She could tell him who she was, and what had befallen her.

Small waves lapped against her body as Kaine crashed closer to Edouard. “What have you—? God’s blood!”

“Aye,” Edouard said grimly.

“Is she alive?”

“I am not certain.” Edouard’s fingertips slid against her temple, easing the matted hair downward. At first touch, her flesh seemed deathly cold, but then . . . He sensed the faintest pulse of life’s blood.

As the mud-knotted skeins slid away, they revealed her closed eyes and sweep of thick lashes, the smooth slope of her cheek, and elegant jaw line.

He froze. He knew her.

She looked older than he remembered, her features those of a woman rather than a maiden.

Kaine sucked in a sharp breath.

Dismay and anger, suppressed from months ago, broke free on a flood of memories. Edouard trembled at their force, while shock raced through him to settle like a cruel iron band around his heart. “God’s blood,” he whispered. “Juliana.”

***

Darkness blanketed her mind. Blackness so thick and limitless, she was lost in it.

Lost . . .

She tried to draw together the fragments of her thoughts, to find herself, but the inkiness shifted. It wrapped around her consciousness, squeezing tighter and tighter, until the fragments disappeared. The darkness settled back into a vast swath of nothingness.

So . . . cold.

So . . . alone.

Pain throbbed somewhere in the muzzy reaches of her mind. Sounds—muffled, distorted—sifted down to her. They brushed against her thoughts, taunting her, with all that she couldn’t comprehend.

A tiny part of her began to struggle. To fight its way toward the origin of those sounds.

I am here. In the dark. Find me!

But the pain . . . It slashed down upon her, crushing her with its ruthless, invisible grip. Agony screamed within the huddled reaches of her being. How well the pain echoed the greater ache trapped inside her. That anguish hinted at something . . . ghastly.

I am here. In the dark. Lost!

The inkiness began to press in upon her.

She had to find her way out of the darkness. Had to!

If only she knew why.

***

Unable to stop himself from shaking, Edouard smoothed his fingers down Juliana’s cheek. “Juliana, can you hear me?” He stared down at her ashen face, hoping his question got a response from her. However, he saw not the slightest sign that she’d heard him.

“Juliana!” he cried, his tone hoarsening. The horror of finding her like this churned within him. He longed to slam his fist into something solid, to channel his ferocious turmoil. Losing his temper wouldn’t help revive her, though, or assure her she was among friends. With a strangled groan, he caressed her face again.

“Why is she lying in the river?” Shock tautened Kaine’s voice. “What could have happened to her?”

“I do not know. But I will find out.”

Juliana had to live. She had to.

Pressing his lips together, deciding the best way to take her from the water, Edouard looked at the reeds crowding at her back. His gaze fell upon a dark stain between her shoulders. With sickening dread, he realized what he saw wasn’t mud, but blood.

The chill from the water seeped into his bones as he leaned over to examine the hair at her nape. Blood matted the strands together. A lot of blood. It had dried along her hairline and the neckline of her chemise. As his fingers eased aside the hair, an ugly, purplish mass came into view.

His stomach lurched.

“Someone hit her. Hard,” he said. “With a heavy object.”

Kaine exhaled a ragged breath. “What you mean is they aimed to . . . kill her?”

“Aye.” Rage and confusion burned inside Edouard. Who would want to murder her? Who had dumped her here, in the river? Who’d dare to consider her life to be as worthless as a sack of refuse?

He would know the truth!

“She was living with the Ferchantes, was she not?” Kaine asked. “Do you think his lordship knows of this incident?”

A very good question. One of many that had sped into Edouard’s thoughts. “Landon Ferchante may indeed have some answers. Right now, though, we need to ensure that she survives. We must get her dry and warm. She needs a healer.”

“There must be one in the village. Shall I ride ahead and find out?”

“I will send one of the others. If she wakes, she will know us. That may be a comfort to her.” Or, mayhap not, considering their disastrous prior encounters. She might tell him to get his wretched hands off her and never touch her again. He’d be delighted if she roused with the strength to scorn him.

Reaching down into the murky water, Edouard slid one arm under her upper body, gently tilted her toward him, and then slid his other arm under her knees. He lifted her into his arms. As he rose, water streamed from her gown and ran into his garments, soaking through to his skin. Her limp body slumped against him, her head falling to rest against his shoulder.

He looked down at her, wondering if by moving her he’d encouraged her to wake. Hoping, hoping, that he had. Her eyes remained closed. His heart squeezed at the pitiful blankness of her features.

When his gaze flicked down the rest of her body, a breath lodged in his throat, for he hadn’t anticipated how intimately her garment would reveal her feminine form. The muddy linen stuck to her body, defining the generous swell of her breasts, the outline of her nipples, and the curve of her hips. The thought of any other man seeing her this way, almost nude . . .

He glanced up, to see Kaine’s attention lift from Juliana. Jealous rage, so savagely hot he almost choked on it, flashed through Edouard. “Fetch my saddle blanket,” he ground out.

A flush darkened Kaine’s cheekbones. “A wise idea. I will bring mine, too.”

“Send one of the men into the village to find the healer.” Turning Juliana away from Kaine’s view, Edouard said, “I will wait here. The others cannot see her until she is covered.”

Water sloshed as Kaine plodded back to the bank. Edouard tightened his hold on Juliana, pressing her body even closer to his, hoping his body’s warmth might help revive her.

Hurry, Kaine. Hurry!

“What did his lordship find?” one of his men-at-arms said from the bank.

“A lady, wounded and near death. Later, there will be time for explanations,” Kaine said. “’Tis urgent we see to this woman’s well-being.” More conversation, less distinct, took place, and then Edouard heard the clatter of hooves as one of the men raced off.

Kaine returned to Edouard, two blankets tucked under his arm. “All is as you ordered.”

“Thank you.” Edouard slowly faced his friend. “I realize I will need your help to enwrap her . . .”

Kaine’s gaze steadily held his. “I am glad to assist.” Clearly doing his best not to look at Juliana’s bosom, he opened up Edouard’s blanket. Together, maneuvering her in Edouard’s arms, they managed to get the woolen covering all the way around her. Then Kaine unfolded his blanket partway and stretched it out over her.

“She must be warmer now,” he said.

“Warm enough, at least, till we can set her in a hot bath by a warm fire.” A shiver ran through Edouard, for his feet were turning numb inside his water-encased boots. But he wouldn’t think about his discomfort. All that mattered was saving Juliana.

With Kaine at his side, he headed toward the bank, taking care not to kick up waves and get water on the blankets. Her head shifted against him and her lips parted a fraction, revealing the even line of her front teeth. But she made no sound. Not the slightest cry or pained sigh.

“You are safe now, Juliana,” he murmured, willing her to hear him. “I swear, upon my soul, no one will hurt you like this again.”

Fear pressed in on him. Would she live, or was she so close to death her spirit would just slip away without him knowing? On the faintest breath . . . gone?

Nay. She wouldn’t perish that way. Such a strong, kind, beautiful woman deserved justice for the grievance done to her. If he could do naught else for her, he’d see her assailant captured and held accountable for the heinous crime.

As Edouard neared the water’s edge, his waiting men-at-arms exchanged glances. “Milord,” one of them called. “What are your orders?”

“Prepare to ride. The healer cannot be far from here.” Edouard’s boots met firm ground and, when he accidentally jostled Juliana, he cursed. He glanced back at Kaine. “Help me get Juliana onto my horse.”

“Shall we help?” another of the warriors asked.

Edouard shook his head. Juliana’s body might be well concealed, and they were trustworthy men, but the thought of others touching her in any manner . . . Nay.

Halting before his grazing horse, Edouard eased Juliana into Kaine’s waiting arms. Edouard mounted his steed, then, with his friend pushing her from below, pulled her up onto the saddle in front of him. He shifted her legs so she sat across his lap, settled the second blanket over her, then slid one arm around her body to draw her against him.

When he took up the reins, her wet head shifted into the crook between his head and shoulder. Edouard paid no heed to the water dripping down his neckline; he’d change his damp garments and dry off once she was in the healer’s care.

The faint puff of her breath tickled his skin. How intimate their posture must look from below—as though they were lovers. A notion he’d dispel if anyone made the assumption. He might resent his betrothal to Nara, but being an honorable man, he’d never abandon his commitment to her.

A long-ago memory of Juliana standing before him by the well, her tresses aglow with sunlight, flitted through his mind. How vibrant she’d looked that day. What he would give to see even a glimmer of that spirited woman now.

Find that strength of will, Juliana. Fight to open your eyes. Fight to live.

Edouard glanced down at Kaine, preparing to climb up onto his mount. Hope lit his friend’s eyes. “Did she stir?”

“Nay.”

Kaine’s mouth flattened. He nodded once before he gathered up the reins and swung onto his horse’s back.

With the men-at-arms close behind, Edouard spurred his mount in the direction of the village. With each sway of his horse, Juliana rocked against him. Did the motion of the horse cause her pain? He hoped not.

Thatch-roofed cottages, some surrounded by wooden fences, came into view along the roadside. Closer to the village outskirts, hoofbeats, growing louder by the moment, reached them. Narrowing his eyes against the sun’s brightness, Edouard looked to the approaching rider: his man-at-arms that Kaine had sent to find the healer.

When the man drew near, Edouard called, “What did you learn?”

“The healer’s cottage is on the opposite side of the village, milord. According to the merchant I spoke to, though, she is not there.”

“Why not?” Frustration turned Edouard’s voice to a growl.

Disquiet flickered in the rider’s eyes. “She is at Waddesford Keep and has been for the past sennight. Apparently, she went to help Lady Ferchante give birth and has not returned.”

Edouard’s gaze again slid down to Juliana. A gut feeling told him the healer’s situation and Juliana’s were connected. How, exactly, he didn’t yet know.

As though attuned to the flow of his thoughts, the rider added, “She has folk in the village who depend upon her herbs and ointments to ease their ailments. She has never abandoned their care before.”

“Then we must find out what is delaying her.”

The village gates loomed ahead. Edouard rode through them into the main street, shaded by stone buildings and filled with townsfolk, animals, and rumbling carts. He blinked against the churned-up dust, even as worry and impatience chafed at him. So many unanswered questions.

The barest change in Juliana’s breath against his neck, the faint shifting of her weight, snapped Edouard’s gaze back to her face.

Her eyes were open.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sounds and smells rushed into the darkness filling her thoughts. Her groggy mind struggled to identify them, even as an onslaught of pain forced her consciousness up, up, into the brightness, like a bubble soaring up from the bottom of a river to pop on the surface.

Her eyes opened. A blur of colors careened before her. She blinked, and as her perceptions slowly focused, she recognized the sweet scent of horse, the metallic tinkle of metal, and the brush of cloth against her cheek.

“Juliana.”

The voice rumbled beneath her ear. A man’s voice, reassuring as it spoke the woman’s name. A glimmer of insight skated at the farthest edge of her thoughts. Something about the voice . . . She tried to chase the intuition, to mentally catch hold of it.

While she did so, she realized she was upon a horse and held in strong arms. She rested against the broad body of the man who’d spoken.

Misgiving skittered through her, heightening her sense of disorientation. How had she come to be upon a horse? Who was this man? Should she trust him, or fear him?

Her stomach clenched on a wave of agony. The ache within her skull threatened to obscure all else, to crush into nothingness the fragile hope blossoming inside her. But she couldn’t let it. These new sensations spoke to the loneliness inside her; they promised that at last, she’d been found.

Fighting her pain, swallowing down the bile rising to the back of her mouth, she tilted her head to look up at him.

Her gaze touched first his jaw dusted with stubble, then the taut plane of his cheek. Unable to resist the demand of his stare, she met his gaze. Concern shone in his thickly lashed blue eyes framed by dark, strong brows. Her heart lurched, a hard wallop against her breastbone, for this stranger had the most handsome countenance.

He looked upon her, however, as if he . . . knew her.

As though he cared for her.

A startled cry parted her lips. Panic whipped through her like hot sparks, and she tried to struggle, but . . . She couldn’t move her arms; they seemed to be trapped at her sides. And the pain—

“Juliana,” he said again, more urgently. “Please, do not be afraid. You are safe.”

Juliana? Why did he call her such? Oh, God.

“You remember me,” he urged. “’Tis Edouard. Edouard de Lanceau.”

The smallest tingle of acknowledgment brushed the fear and agony clouding her mind. Yet as soon as the sensation surfaced, it was sucked back down into the blackness trying to envelop her. Another hint of insight submerged. Lost.

“You remember me,” the man named Edouard went on, a plea now in his eyes. “We met for the first time last spring, at the feast at your sire’s castle. Sherstowe Keep.”

Feast. Sherstowe.

A rough sound of discomfort grated in Edouard’s throat. “I rescued you from the well.”

His words tumbled into her mind, rousing her loneliness. She didn’t remember.

His gaze shadowed with disappointment. “Surely you recall what happened . . . with Nara.”

She knew no one by that name.

Or did she? She didn’t remember. Not him. Not Juliana. Not the feast.

Naught.

A rasping noise broke into her racing thoughts. ’Twas the sound of her own breathing.

Noises swooped in upon her: voices; dogs barking; the squeaked rattle of passing carts. The sounds crowded one atop another, tangled together, until the cacophony raging inside her head threatened to split her apart.

The darkness coaxed.

“Juliana,” Edouard yelled, even as the creeping shadows began to dim the color around her and stifle the noises. How soothing, to fall back into the numbing inkiness . . .

I am here. In the dark. Find me! a voice inside her shrilled.

And then, all went black.

***

“Nay!” Edouard choked, bending his head close to Juliana’s. “Stay awake. Please, Juliana!”

Her head lolled against his arm.

“She is too weak,” Kaine murmured.

Edouard’s eyes smarted as he studied her wan, expressionless features. A wisp of hair had slipped from the blanket to trail across her fine-boned cheek; it looked gut-wrenchingly stark against her pale skin, and he gently swept it away.

How he wished she’d open her eyes again, look up at him, and prove she wanted to fight the injury that sapped her strength. In that moment before her consciousness slipped away, though, he’d seen doubt in her eyes, and a raw sense of hopelessness.

“She did not tell us who wounded her,” he said quietly. “I should have asked her right away. Yet I wanted her to know she was among friends, for she seemed—”

“Frightened,” Kaine said.

Edouard nodded. Fear, however, didn’t quite encompass the emotions he’d glimpsed in her eyes. “As you no doubt noticed, she did not seem to recognize me, or even her own name.”

“The blow to the head.” Kaine sighed. “I have heard of such happening. It may be some time before her memory returns. Days. Weeks.”

Clenching his jaw, Edouard looked at his men. “We do not have weeks. I want to know what happened to her. I will not rest till I do.” He fixed his gaze upon the rider who’d gone to find the healer’s cottage. “You. Ride ahead to Waddesford Keep. Tell Lord Ferchante I will arrive shortly with Lady de Greyne, who urgently needs to be seen by the healer. I also have matters of estate to discuss with him, as an appointed representative for my father.”

“Aye, milord.” The man turned his horse and rode away into the crowd.

Edouard’s gaze settled upon the other two men-at-arms. Tipping his head to the closest one, he said, “You will return to Branton Keep and report to my sire. He should know of these unusual circumstances, as should Lord de Greyne.”

The man nodded, then rode past them, back toward the village gates.

Kaine raised his eyebrows. “That leaves only two of us to protect you, Edouard.”

“Me and Juliana.” Edouard brushed aside a curious tingle of unease; he, Kaine, and his fellow warrior were all capable fighters. “Is that too great a responsibility for you, my friend?”

Mirth lit Kaine’s gaze before he shrugged. “I will do my very best to protect your wretched arse. And Juliana’s pretty one, of course.”

How in hellfire did Kaine know Juliana had a pretty arse? Scowling, Edouard spurred his horse forward. “Enough. We ride to Waddesford Keep.”

***

Standing before the trestle table in Waddesford Keep’s sun-washed solar, Veronique swept a rosewater-dampened comb through her tresses, as she did every morning. The ivory comb whispered as it fulfilled the ritual she never neglected. Her perfumed, vibrant red hair, when trailed over eager, naked male flesh, had seduced many a lover. Including Landon.

A gloating smile edged up the corner of her mouth. Last evening, despite his reluctance, she’d not only wrested sweaty, gasping control of his body, but after fornicating, he’d fallen asleep in her arms.

Landon needed her. His emotions were hers to manipulate as she desired. That was most satisfying of all. If all went as she planned today, she’d finally have possession of the ring he’d been awarded for his trust and loyalty by Geoffrey de Lanceau.

A ring that, slipped onto her son’s finger, would let Tye into his lordship’s most trusted elite. Her grin broadened. What a perfect moment for Tye to run Geoffrey through with his sword. To at last destroy the Great Lord of Moydenshire.

“Oh, Geoffrey,” she murmured, “if only you knew what lay ahead.” For long, long years she’d waited to crush him—the one man, in all her life, who’d cast her aside. She’d never met a man as strong willed as Geoffrey, until she’d birthed Tye. At last, Fate was leading her to triumph. With a throaty laugh, she smoothed a hand over her breasts, then down the front of her green silk gown to her belly, where lusty tremors clenched her womb.

Just as her hand eased lower, footfalls sounded in the corridor outside. She recognized that gait; Landon walked like a plodding ox. She ran her comb through her hair one last time and, as the chamber door creaked open, faced him, resting her hip against the table to accentuate her body’s curves.

“Landon,” she cooed, before realizing another person approached as well.

Tye.

Determination blazed in his eyes as he strode in after his lordship, his shoulder-length brown hair tied back from his face with a leather thong and a sword belt buckled over his light gray tunic and black hose.

Naughty boy. Tye hadn’t even asked permission to enter the solar. Later, she’d warn him not to repeat that mistake. But right now—

“A rider arrived at the gates moments ago,” Landon said. Sweat shone on his forehead—almost as much sweat as she’d roused from him during coupling. How disgusting.

Veronique waved a dismissive hand. “Surely you can deal with him.”

“Mother—”

“A messenger”—Landon’s voice hoarsened—“sent by Edouard de Lanceau.”

Shock tightened her grip to crushing force on the comb. “What?” Edouard, Geoffrey’s firstborn son. His heir, destined to inherit a rich, flourishing empire. Hatred flared inside her, for she loathed every de Lanceau. Loathed them.

“Edouard is on his way here,” Tye said, his voice steady and cold.

“With Juliana.” Landon groaned. “He asked for the healer to tend her wound.”

Veronique hissed a breath. “Juliana is alive?”

“I do not want to believe it, either. How could she have survived?” Shoving his hair back with his fingers, Landon began to pace. “That injury should have killed her. I should have made certain. Left no doubt.” His unruly gaze locked with hers. “You assured me she was dead. ’Tis your fault.”

Rage whipped through her. “How dare—?”

“If she wasn’t dead by the time your mercenaries reached the river . . .”

“They believed she was. They would not have disobeyed me.” How unwise of Landon to blame her for this unforeseen complication. If he wasn’t of such use to her, she’d grab her knife and slice his flesh until he begged an apology. Still, she’d find those two mercenaries who’d taken Juliana away and, after questioning, would see them killed, for no one failed to do what she ordered of them.

Landon’s boots scraped on the planks as he continued to pace. “De Lanceau must have heard of Mayda’s death. He doubts she killed herself. ’Tis why Edouard has come.”

Veronique snorted. “I do not think so.”

“Why else would Edouard be visiting my keep? The messenger mentioned matters of estate, but . . .”

Shutting out the annoying drone of Landon’s voice, Veronique set her comb down on the trestle table and swept her hair back over her shoulders. Landon’s insecurities didn’t matter. Neither did Edouard’s reasons for visiting Waddesford Keep.

“Mother.”

Tye’s tone of voice compelled her to look at him.

“Edouard is riding here.” He spoke each word as if ’twas forced between his teeth, and pride kindled in her breast. She’d raised him well. He might have de Lanceau blood running in his veins, but he, too, shared her hatred of them all.

“’Tis an opportunity we cannot ignore,” Veronique answered, while her thoughts began to fashion a new plan. Edouard, Geoffrey’s beloved son, so close by. Easily within her grasp. Her breath caught, suspended by the enticing promise of vengeance. She’d have tremendous leverage over Geoffrey, if she owned his son’s life.

“Veronique,” Landon groused. He clearly didn’t like being ignored.

Her attention slid to him, while laughter bubbled within her; it broke free on a shrill cackle.

Landon threw out his hands. “You laugh? Why in hellfire . . .?”

Warning tingled in the back of her mind. She mustn’t lose his cooperation. Not till she had that ring. Softening her laugh, she crossed to him. “Do not be angry with me, Landon. In truth, Edouard’s visit could not be more perfect.”

He squinted at her as though she was mad. “We will turn him away at the gates. I will order my men to tell him I cannot speak with him, because . . . I am away.”

“Oh, come now. ’Twould not be very hospitable.” Tilting her head to one side, Veronique glanced at Tye. She nodded once.

The corner of his mouth tilted in a smirk. He turned, strode to the door, and closed it behind him.

Landon scowled. “Where is he going? I did not give him orders.”

Her hips swaying, her gown rustling like a cruel whisper, Veronique strolled to Landon. “Tye will make arrangements for Edouard.” With a breathy sigh, she slid her hand up under his tunic and stroked his sweaty chest.

Landon caught her hand, stilling it with a fierce grip. Sensual excitement rushed through her as he said, close to her cheek, “I want Edouard sent away.”

Did Landon really believe the keep was still in his control? That what he said or thought made any difference? Steeling the disgust from her expression, she lowered her lashes on a provocative flutter. “We would be wise to find out why he has ridden here. Also, we must know what Juliana has told him. That is, before we murder her.” Veronique nuzzled his cheek and then kissed him. “Aye?”

“How will we kill her? Edouard will know—”

Veronique pressed her fingers to Landon’s lips, silencing him. By the time Juliana died, Edouard would be in no position to save her pathetic life, or his own. But Landon didn’t need to know any details of what was to come. “We shall say poor Juliana perished from her wound.” A credible tale. Even witless Landon would agree.

“If you . . . think ’tis best.”

Anticipation throbbed inside Veronique, for now was the ideal moment to mention the ring. “I vow, Landon, you should also be wearing the jewel de Lanceau gave you. Edouard will expect to see it. We do not want to arouse his suspicions.”

“A-all right.” Drawing away, he strode to his wooden chest shoved against the wall by the bed, opened it, and rummaged inside. He drew out a leather bag and tipped the contents onto the chest’s closed lid.

Veronique’s fingers curled into fists. At last. At last!

Landon went very still, before a strangled cry broke from him.

“What is wrong?” Veronique snapped.

Dismay shivered across his face. “The ring. ’Tis gone.”

Her jaw clamped so tightly that pain lanced through her cheek. “Are you certain ’tis not there?”

“Aye. Many other jewels are missing, too. Cloak pins, gemstone rings inherited from my sire.” He shook his head. “A chain with a gold cross—”

“Did you put these jewels somewhere else, for safekeeping?”

“Nay. I—” His expression hardened. “Mayda. She took them!”

A likely possibility, considering their bitter fights in the days before she’d died. Trying to control her rage, Veronique said, “Your wife confided in Juliana, did she not? They were the closest of friends.”

“Aye.”

Welcoming the malice burning within her, Veronique smiled. “Let Edouard ride straight through the castle gates. We will be waiting.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER EIGHT

The dirt road curved out of a stand of trees, guiding Edouard and his men into open sunlight and the approach to Waddesford Keep. The stone fortress sprawled across the land ahead, with guards visible above the gatehouse and along the battlements.

As his gaze fell upon the lowered drawbridge and raised portcullis, Edouard blew out a sigh of relief. His messenger had reached the keep. They were expected.

Gently squeezing Juliana’s limp body, he murmured, “Help is moments away, I promise.” She hadn’t stirred since waking in the village. Worry for her left a gnawing ache in his gut, but soon, she’d have the care she needed.

Ah, God, he’d sell his fine horse, even the prized dagger belted at his hip, if the healer needed money to purchase special herbs or ointments to save Juliana.

When he neared the keep, Kaine and the other man-at-arms riding a few paces behind, he sensed many gazes upon him. He was used to drawing awed stares, being the son of Moydenshire’s lord. Holding his head high, he tamped down a pinch of nervousness over the meeting he’d promised he’d have with Ferchante, one that now must include blunt questions as to why Juliana was found near dead in the river. Not an easy matter to discuss, but one that mustn’t be ignored.

Aware of the onlookers on the wall walk, Edouard briefly savored the honor of visiting on behalf of his respected father. One day, this castle’s lord would owe allegiance to him. One day, these folk would be his.

Foreboding suddenly pierced the glow inside him, and his gaze shifted back to the gatehouse. For a moment, he sensed . . . malevolence.

Surely not. His sire and Lord Ferchante weren’t enemies, but friends and allies. His taxed nerves must be playing tricks upon his mind.

Mentally shoving aside his unease, he guided his horse onto the drawbridge crossing the moat that looked nearly dry. The scent of stagnant water wafted up to him as the animal’s hoofbeats sounded on the wood. A moment later, Edouard heard the other horses walk onto the drawbridge behind him. The escalating clatter of well-trained mounts, handled by skilled, loyal men, sent reassurance flowing through him.

The guards at the end of the drawbridge—heavily-armed, tough-looking men—bowed as he rode under the wooden teeth of the portcullis into the shadows of the gatehouse. The sun-brightened inner walls of the bailey came into view. A small crowd had gathered in the bailey, an array of castle folk and servants who’d left their daily duties to get a glimpse of him. They were separated from him by warriors, lined up in two opposite rows to form a corridor, a sign of respect when greeting honored guests.

The warriors dipped their heads as he rode past, and Edouard nodded back while keeping a secure hold upon Juliana. When his gaze skimmed the bailey, he saw Lord Ferchante striding out of the forebuilding’s doorway. He looked much the same as the last time Edouard saw him, at a Christmas feast last year. Ferchante smoothed a hand over the front of his tunic, clearly wanting to make the very best impression.

“Lord Ferchante,” Edouard called and reined in his horse. Kaine and the men-at-arms halted their horses a short distance behind him, as they’d been trained to do. They’d keep a lookout for danger. A formality, really, when they were on friendly ground.

“An honor to see you, Lord de Lanceau.” Ferchante dropped into an elegant bow.

“Please, call me Edouard.”

“If you will call me Landon, milord.”

Edouard smiled. “Agreed. Thank you for opening your gates to us and preparing for our visit.”

Landon smiled back. Somehow, though, his expression seemed strained; ’twas even more evident when he looked at Juliana. His hand swept over his face and, for a moment, alarm gleamed in his eyes.

Disquiet tingled anew in Edouard’s blood. Was Landon worried about Juliana’s condition? She had, after all, been Mayda’s closest friend. Or, was he more concerned that he’d suffer punishment for what had befallen Juliana, since she resided at his keep? Questions to be dwelled upon later.

“Landon,” he said, “as you can see, Juliana is badly hurt. The man-at-arms I sent on ahead was to request the healer. We were told she is here.”

“She is,” Landon agreed. “We have readied for Juliana’s care.”

“Good.”

Landon’s gaze darted to the crowd, and then back. The nervous gesture suggested he wanted to be certain all was in order for this initial meeting.

Yet someone standing within this bailey must know who’d attacked Juliana. Edouard’s sire wouldn’t have let an opportunity pass to coax out a witness; Edouard mustn’t, either. “Lady de Greyne was living at this keep, was she not?” His arm tightened a protective notch around her. “Do you know how she came to be injured? It appears someone tried to murder her.”

“Murder?” Landon seemed to grow tense. Doubtless he was shocked by the thought that someone in his household may have committed such a heinous deed. “Did she . . . tell you such?”

“Nay. She only roused once on our journey here, and only for a moment. Let it be known,”—Edouard raised his voice to carry across the bailey—“I offer a reward to anyone who saw what happened to her.”

A murmur rippled through the throng.

“Please, Edouard.” Landon thrust a hand toward the keep. “Come inside with your men. Refresh yourselves. As you ordered, we must get Juliana to the healer.”

Indeed, the sooner her wound was treated, the better. The unsteadiness of Landon’s tone, though, made Edouard pause.

“My men will see to your horses,” Landon went on. “They—”

“One moment.”

“Aye?” Landon’s hand skimmed over his sweaty face again. A hand that bore only one ring, and it wasn’t the one given to him by Edouard’s sire.

Edouard forced his lips into a genial smile. “My father has certain ways he likes matters to be conducted between his loyal lords. If you would show me what he gave you. A sign, if you will, of the trust between us.”

A curious silence fell upon the crowd, as though all the others, too, awaited that confirmation from Landon. “The ring, you mean.” Landon’s face crumpled on a wry laugh. “I fear I was so busy making arrangements for your visit, I forgot to fetch it from my chamber.”

A fair explanation. Still . . .

“Surely, Edouard, you do not need such proof to know you can trust me?”

A chill crawled through Edouard. He did, indeed, want proof. Why didn’t Landon offer to fetch the ring and prove his loyalty?

Just as he tightened his hold on his horse’s reins to wheel it around, Kaine’s mount nudged alongside his. “Something is wrong,” Kaine said between his teeth. “There are too few guards on the battlements, and that man by the stable . . .”

As Edouard began to turn his horse, he risked a glance. His gaze locked with the unwavering stare of a dark-haired warrior who looked about his age. His hair, tied back with a strip of leather, was long enough to touch between his shoulder blades. He had the physique of a seasoned knight. His obvious fighting strength, however, didn’t cause dread to slam through Edouard.

The man’s face . . .

Familiar.

He looked like Edouard’s father. A harder, rougher version, but still . . .

Only one man could fit this shocking resemblance: Tye, the bastard son of Edouard’s sire and Veronique. A child Edouard’s father pointedly refused to acknowledge.

If Tye was here, then his ruthless mother must be also.

“Ride! Now!” Edouard bellowed. He spun his horse and kicked it toward the gatehouse.

Shouts erupted behind him, along with the hiss of drawn swords, hoofbeats, and running footfalls.

A creak echoed: the sound of the drawbridge rising.

Hellfire! Within moments, they’d be trapped inside these walls.

“Edouard!” Kaine shouted from close behind.

Men swarmed in around Edouard’s horse to block his escape. They grabbed for his mount’s reins and reached for Juliana. As he struggled to keep hold of her and draw his sword, Edouard kicked the nearest lout, sending his head snapping back with a loud crack.

The force of the blow sent Juliana bumping against Edouard. He gasped and fought to regain his balance. Kicking out again, he caught another warrior full in the chest. The man careened back into the throng.

Cursing under his breath, Edouard abandoned his attempt to free his sword. Yanking his knife from his belt, he slashed out at a man tugging at his left leg, then rammed his heels into his horse’s sides. There was still a chance to reach the drawbridge.

Tossing its head, the horse merely sidestepped; a mercenary had a firm hold on its bridle.

A coarse laugh carried across the din. “You are trapped.”

Edouard’s head swiveled. His furious stare locked with that of the dark-haired thug who resembled his sire.

As though he were some kind of god, the sea of men parted to let the thug through. His broadsword, pointed at an angle toward the ground, glinted with lethal sharpness. With insolent, swaggering strides, he crossed to Edouard.

“Who are you?” Edouard glared at him, refusing to look away.

A woman’s laugh, shrill with glee, floated from near the forebuilding.

Veronique? Oh, God. Oh, God.

The dark-haired man reached Edouard’s side. “My name,” he said with a cold smile, “is Tye. At last, we meet, Brother.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER NINE

Edouard glared down at the man who’d dared to call him brother, the bastard who’d suggested, in that one word, that he had a birth right to be part of the revered de Lanceau lineage. The lout grinned, obviously relishing Edouard’s hatred.

From what Edouard knew of Tye, he’d been presented, without any forewarning, to his sire in a meadow when a young boy, a pawn in one of Veronique’s prior schemes. Edouard’s sire had refused to believe he’d fathered Tye. While insistent that the boy was, indeed, of de Lanceau blood, Veronique had offered no definite proof.

When Tye was a child, his developing features might not have been distinct. In the grown man—the shape of Tye’s mouth, the boldness of his gaze, the angles of his face—Edouard saw the resemblance to his father.

Their father.

Or a man who looked very much like Geoffrey de Lanceau.

Refusing to break Tye’s stare, Edouard tightened his grip on his knife. How diligently his sire had tried to keep this bastard from influencing any part of his life. He’d striven to spare the family from the anguish of his past liaison with Veronique, an ambitious, French-born commoner who believed herself worthy of the privileges of the noble elite. While they all knew of Veronique and Tye, the two were akin to an unpleasant secret, spoken of only when necessary.

Regardless of the truth of Veronique’s claim, Edouard had no doubt Tye’s intentions toward him were hostile. He’d never allow himself to be manipulated into a plot to destroy his sire. He had to get Juliana away from peril.

“I demand that you withdraw your lackeys. Let me and my men leave,” Edouard said, not caring to soften the lashing whip of his voice.

Tye didn’t even blink. “Demand.” He laughed while he looked to the men around him. They, too, chuckled. “Why would I let you go? We only just met. As brothers, we have much in common to discuss.”

“I have naught to say to you, whoreson.” Edouard glanced over his shoulder. “Landon! Order these men to move aside, or—”

“Ferchante no longer rules this keep.” Tye flipped up his sword; the tip rested at Juliana’s thigh, atop the blanket wrapped around her. With one thrust, the blade would slice through to her delicate skin and deeper still. He’d leave her crippled. More likely, she’d slowly bleed to death.

“I do not wish to hurt her,” Tye said, “especially when she is already so gravely wounded. You must care about her, aye, to have brought her to the healer?”

Edouard glowered. He wasn’t going to honor this thug with a response. Tye, though, seemed to read the answer in Edouard’s expression, for he smiled.

“Since she is important to you, you will do exactly as I say. Sheath your knife and hand it to me. Unbuckle your sword belt and drop it as well.” He motioned to the nearby mercenaries, who edged forward to take the weapons.

Edouard’s gaze shot to the drawbridge, almost completely raised. Was there any chance of escape? Any way of getting Juliana away from here?

“There is no escape.” Tye’s words rang with command. “Do as I say.”

Grunts and scuffling sounds of a struggle drew Edouard’s gaze to Kaine, trying to fight off mercenaries hauling him down from his mount. Kaine fought well, but there were too many opponents. He vanished beneath a swarm of men.

Tye tsked. Regret flickered across his face before his fingers flexed on his sword, as though readying to plunge it into Juliana’s flesh. “I thought you cared for Lady de Greyne, but—”

“All right.” Edouard slid his dagger back into its leather sheath. Untying it from his belt, he leaned around Juliana to pass it down, even as he watched for a moment of opportunity.

Gaze narrowing, Tye eased his sword back from Juliana’s thigh. He didn’t step away, but held the weapon at the ready, obviously prepared to inflict the wound he’d promised if his orders weren’t obeyed.

Silent, foul oaths burned Edouard’s throat as he dropped the dagger and one of the mercenaries caught it. How he wanted to strike out at Tye, to plunge into a ferocious, bloody swordfight. The fighting urge ignited with the same force as his hatred. However, such an assault might endanger Juliana. Here in this keep where the enemy reigned, he must be her protector. Her survival could depend upon him.

With Tye studying his every movement, Edouard unbuckled his sword belt. It slid away; with a thud, it landed on the ground.

“Good.” Tye sneered. “Now . . .”

His head tipped to the side. Even as Edouard registered the signal, mercenaries grabbed his left leg. More thugs pulled at his mantle, yanking him down toward the dirt.

“Juliana!” he cried, when her body tumbled from his grasp. A fall from the horse, in her weakened condition, could kill her. Is that what Tye intended? A quick way to be rid of her? Edouard kicked out at the louts dragging him down, lashed out with his fists, but there were too many of them.

He was falling. The ground rushed up to meet him.

Juliana, forgive me.

He landed on his side. His head hit the hard-packed dirt and the crowd of dusty boots within his view became a muddy blur. Groaning, he struggled to focus.

Fight. Save Juliana.

As he hauled himself up on unsteady hands and knees, men snatched the pin securing his cloak and whisked the garment from his shoulders. More mercenaries seized his arms and hefted him to his feet.

His knees threatened to give. Still, he thrashed. He had to break free.

Grab a sword. Rescue Juliana. Fight—

Steel flashed. A sword pressed against his jaw.

Hissing breaths between his teeth, Edouard froze.

“I knew you would struggle.” Laughing, Tye walked into Edouard’s line of vision while holding the sword. “I expect I would have done the same.”

“Juliana—” Edouard croaked.

“There.” Tye gestured to two mercenaries, coming into Edouard’s view. A crushing ache ripped through him, for they’d stripped the blankets from her body. Ah, God, she was almost naked, before all these men! The louts held Juliana upright between them, her head and shoulders drooping while they gripped her upper arms.

“Did she fall?” Edouard bit out. “Is she—?”

“Alive? Aye. She only fell a short distance. The men caught her.”

Rage flared within Edouard. The mercenaries’ dirty, callused hands were too close to her breasts. If they dared to molest her, especially when she couldn’t protest or fight back . . . Glaring at Tye, he ground out, “If they touch her . . .”

Tye’s gaze shifted to the men behind Edouard.

“Damnation!” Edouard yelled. “Do not ignore me.”

“Do you have him secured?” Tye said, as though Edouard hadn’t spoken.

“Aye.”

Tye lowered his sword and shoved it back into its leather scabbard. “I will take her.”

“Nay!” Edouard struggled, but his captors held him firm. He could only watch as Tye eased Juliana from the mercenaries’ grasp and scooped her into his arms. Her cheek pressed against his tunic front, while her silken hair tumbled free.

Edouard shook, barely able to hold back his fury. To see her in that whoreson’s arms . . .

Tye turned toward the keep. “This way.”

The crowd around them separated, again letting Tye through. The thugs restraining Edouard dragged him forward. Across the sea of warriors, he saw Kaine and his other man-at-arms being hauled away, to be held in a different location, it seemed.

“Hold.”

At the curt order, spoken by a woman, his assailants halted. As Edouard’s head turned to face forward, he saw a slender, red-haired woman standing beside Landon. Veronique, he guessed. She must be close to his sire’s age, but her features were austere, beautiful, and unnaturally youthful. Her crimson, painted lips curved into a triumphant smile as her gaze traveled over his body, from his face right down to his scuffed boots.

“Well done, Tye,” she said.

“Thank you, Mother.”

Edouard glared. What he would give to wipe that smirk off her gaudy mouth.

“Tsk, tsk.” Veronique strolled forward. She smelled of rosewater, a fragrance he vowed to hate for the rest of his life. As her scent filled his nostrils, he exhaled sharply, hating to inhale even the slightest essence of her, the woman who’d devoted her life to destroying his noble sire.

Her smile broadened, suggesting she enjoyed his discomfort. She shifted forward and reached out, as if to wipe dirt from his cheek. He jerked his face away.

“Stubborn,” she mused. “Just like your accursed father. But we will change that.”

Edouard fought a tremor. What did she mean? The way her eyes gleamed with promise left a foul taste in his mouth.

“Where do you want them, Mother?” Tye asked, shifting Juliana in his arms.

“Veronique.” Landon stepped forward, his expression dazed. “I asked moments ago, and you still have not answered me. I demand to know your intentions. To treat Geoffrey de Lanceau’s son in this manner—”

“Tye, also, is de Lanceau’s son.”

Frowning, Landon looked from Tye to Edouard.

“They are half brothers.” Veronique’s lip curled. “Edouard was born in wedlock; he is considered Geoffrey’s first-born and heir. However, but months after Geoffrey cast me aside, I birthed Tye. Who, I wonder, really is the firstborn?”

“There is no proof my sire fathered Tye.”

Veronique snorted in disgust. “Is that what your father told you?”

Edouard struggled against an unwelcome tug of doubt. “Even if by some chance your claim is true, Tye is illegitimate,” Edouard said through his teeth. “By law, he cannot inherit. He has no claim to my sire’s estates.”

Her gaze sharpened to a cruel glint. “Did you realize your father spurned him when he was but an infant? I gave Geoffrey the opportunity to acknowledge Tye as his flesh and blood; he refused. Clearly, Tye’s life was—and still is—worth no more to him than a dog’s.”

Edouard bit his tongue. She was doing her best to provoke him—and succeeding. He wouldn’t dare mention the times he’d come upon his sire, holding one of the gloating missives he’d received from her through the years, that told of Tye’s conquests in various fairs and tournaments in Normandy. Edouard would never forget the haunted regret in his sire’s expression, quickly shuttered away when he realized Edouard was nearby. “Do not speak for my father,” he growled. “What you say—”

“Is the truth. You will come to know just how true my words are. But for now, we must make you . . . secure.”

The way her tongue caressed that last word made him queasy. Did she mean to torture him? Force him, through unbearable agony, to betray his father? He’d fight her and Tye every single moment. Until he died.

“Wait a moment.” Landon caught her arm. “I am lord of this keep.”

Rage sparked in her eyes; since she faced Edouard, Landon wouldn’t see it. Then, as though warning herself not to succumb to anger, she smiled at Landon and set her hand atop his. “’Tis all right. I will deal with this matter, for both of us.” Her eyelid dropped in a sly wink. “Trust me.”

“Do not!” Edouard shouted. “Where is your loyalty to my father? Veronique is a traitor—”

Edouard glimpsed the mercenary’s fist flying toward him, but couldn’t dodge it. The blow sent his head snapping to the side, and he gasped.

When he straightened, his jaw sore and burning, he heard Veronique say, “Have I ever betrayed your trust? Have I given you any reason to doubt me?”

“God’s blood, Landon!” Edouard growled. He tried to meet Landon’s gaze, to persuade him to reject Veronique’s manipulations; his lordship refused to look at Edouard.

“I did not expect Edouard to be harmed.” Landon’s tone roughened. “We did not discuss—”

“We will,” she said. “Later.” Sliding her body against his, she kissed him on the lips. The intimacy revealed they knew each other well.

Did Mayda know of her husband’s infidelity? Edouard thought of the embroidered baby blanket he’d brought with him, the one his mother had lovingly worked on for days, and fought rising hatred. How loathsome for Landon to have betrayed Mayda—especially with a traitorous bitch like Veronique—when Mayda had just birthed his child.

“Go now.” Veronique nudged Landon. “Why not return to the solar and look for that ring from de Lanceau? I will join you shortly.”

“I do not need the ring now, do I?”

“You do not deserve it,” Edouard snarled. “I pray you never find it!”

Landon flinched, even as Veronique murmured, “’Tis best to locate it.” She smiled, but Edouard saw the tautness around her mouth. “We—I mean, you—may need it in coming days.”

Dread trailed through Edouard. Veronique had a purpose for that ring, one no doubt linked to her vengeance against his sire. “Landon,” he yelled. “If there is any honor left in you—”

The mercenary’s fist slammed into Edouard’s belly. He grunted and bent over, hauling in breaths, as his surroundings spun. Heedless of his pain, he forced himself to stand upright.

A hint of doubt lingered in Landon’s expression, but he nodded to Veronique, spun on his heel, and strode toward the keep.

Her smile smug, Veronique again faced Edouard. “As you see, he will not help you. Neither, by the way, shall any of the folk in this castle. My mercenaries are making certain of that. This keep is mine now.”

“Never,” Edouard growled, but she merely laughed.

“Your men are being taken to the dungeon, but you . . .” She curled her fingers, as though caught up in heady excitement. “You are safest in the tower.”

“Tower?”

“Landon told me that long ago, a lord of this keep imprisoned the lover of his unfaithful wife. The poor man, chained there year after year, lost his wits. Some folks believe his anguished screams can still be heard.” She gestured to the thugs behind him. “Take him. Use the chains. When he is restrained, summon me, and I will search him.”

A shudder crawled the length of Edouard’s spine. She’d run her wretched hands over him? Nay!

“What of Juliana?” Tye looked down at her, still unconscious in his arms.

“She needs to be taken to the healer.” Edouard struggled as the men forced him to walk. “Her wound—”

Veronique thrust a crooked finger at him. “You have no say in what happens to her.”

How he wished he could snatch that finger in his teeth and bite it hard. ’Twould only make this situation worse, though, and Juliana needed care. “However much you hate me,” Edouard said, forcing a plea into his voice, “she has no part in the feud between us. She is an innocent. She deserves to live.”

Veronique’s gaze shifted to Tye. “Take her to the tower. She will stay there until I wish to see her.”

Fury boiled up inside Edouard. “She needs a healer!”

Veronique raised her brows, turned her back on him, and walked away.

***

She became aware of light, glowing at the edge of the darkness. The brightness coaxed, encouraging her to gather her strength. To push through the fog of pain. To rise up from the abyss of oblivion.

Sounds broke into the shadows. Distorted. Close by. She mentally grabbed for the noises, hungry to understand them.

A woman’s voice. Hard. Unyielding.

A man’s, taut with frustration.

Edouard’s voice.

Hope, fragile and needy, fluttered up inside her. Edouard. She remembered his handsome face. The way sunlight had glinted on his unshaven jaw. His gaze, wide and earnest, when he’d told her who he was. Such beautiful, honest eyes.

An eager cry welled within her. How she longed to see him.

Her eyelids . . . Heavy as rocks. They wouldn’t open.

The shadows stirred. They grasped at her, clawed like talons into her hope, tried to drag her back down into the stifling nothingness.

Nay. She mustn’t yield.

I am here, Edouard. I will find my way out of the dark.

I will find you.

***

The mercenaries propelled Edouard across the bailey and into the keep’s forebuilding. He tried to note as many details of the fortress’s layout as possible, a strategy that would aid his escape. However, despite his best efforts, his focus kept returning to Juliana several steps ahead, her head pillowed on Tye’s arm as he carried her to the tower.

Worry left a stark chill inside Edouard, for he still couldn’t grasp Veronique’s refusal to see to Juliana’s injury. How could a woman—a mother—be so merciless? She’d obviously become so embittered by the past, her compassion had shriveled like a rotting apple till it no longer existed.

The men hauled him through the castle’s great hall that smelled of musty rushes and wood smoke, down several dark passageways, and then, after more turns, into a narrow stairwell.

The scents of old stone and unwashed warriors crowded in around him as he was forced up the uneven steps. In the cramped space, squashed between brawny assailants, he could barely breathe. Yet he shut out his discomforts, and silently begged Juliana to find the willpower to stay alive, for he’d get her the care she needed, one way or another.

He’d bribe the lackeys who guarded them. He’d trade his fine boots for a pot of salve, and even his horse for a good chance at escape. Veronique might have wrested control here, but surely, someone could be persuaded to help him.

The stairwell twisted up and up until it ended at a wide area in front of a sturdy wooden door banded with iron.

“Here we are.” Tye signaled to one of the mercenaries, who unhooked the key from the ring mortared into the wall. He unlocked the door and the panel swung inward, its hinges groaning with disuse.

Tye entered first, and then Edouard was dragged into the small, rectangular chamber with a plank floor. Light pierced the room’s shadows through a window fitted with a wrought iron grille and crooked shutters. The room held little furniture: one battered straw pallet and a wooden stool laced with cobwebs.

More spider webs drifted above the window; they teased down to where dust-covered chains, bolted into the wall, trailed across the floor. The chains looked to run half the length of the pallet; enough to allow a man to sit with his back against the stone wall and wrap his arms around his knees, or lie on the pallet with his hands close to his belly, but no more.

When a rough tug brought Edouard closer to the bed, he saw marks were gouged into the stone above it. Cut by fingernails? Or a spoon, taken by the captive during one of his meals? What had he tried to tell his captors, or those who were to be prisoners after him, as he succumbed to madness?

The chamber’s lingering atmosphere of despair brought bile flooding into Edouard’s mouth. He didn’t want to be chained like an animal, prey to his father’s enemies. Thrashing against his captors’ hold, he glanced about for any chance of escape. No hope of getting out the window, and the door behind him was blocked by Veronique’s lackeys.

“Still, ye struggle,” one of the men groused. Before Edouard could twist away, the lout slammed his fist into Edouard’s lower back. Gasping, arching his spine, Edouard tried to control the pain flaring through his side, but the mercenaries hurled him forward, threw him face down on the straw-filled pallet, and grabbed his wrists. Dust whipped into his mouth and nostrils and he coughed, desperate for fresh air.

“Chain him so he lies on his back,” Tye said, while the iron links clanked. “Mother would want him that way.”

Edouard clenched his hands, unable to move his head pinned against the mattress by a mercenary’s leg. The way they planned to restrain him, he’d be facing the door—able to see whoever came and went, but unable to defend himself if they mistreated him. A loathsome prospect.

He struggled anew, thrashing his legs, even as the mercenary increased the pressure on his head. Edouard’s mouth and nostrils stung from the dust, while bits of straw poked into his jaw.

Cold metal clamped around his left wrist. The lock engaged with a click, and then, with a brutal shove, the men pushed him onto his back. A mercenary sat on his stomach, pinning him down. Before he could struggle, the right manacle snapped into place.

The men leapt back.

Spitting an oath, Edouard sat upright. As he shoved snarled hair from his face, iron links banged against his right arm.

Tye grinned. “Comfortable, Brother?”

“Do not call me that.”

“We are kin.”

Edouard glowered and wondered how close Tye had to get to the pallet before he could knock him to his arse and wrap his hands around his throat. Regrettably, Tye—the gloating bastard—was staying well away.

“Two of you will stand watch outside,” Tye said to the group of men. “There must always be two guards at this chamber. You are not to respond to any cries or attempts to contact you from the prisoners inside. Understood? Now you may leave.”

As the mercenaries turned and headed for the doorway, Tye glanced at Juliana. His gaze lingered far longer than was appropriate on her breasts. “Since you are taken care of now, Brother, I must see to other matters. You will, of course, keep watch on Juliana?” His attention shifted to the nearest wall, as though deciding where to set her down.

“Tye, Juliana needs to be tended by the healer. Will you at least send the woman up here, to look at her wound?”

Tye raised his brows. “And risk Mother’s wrath for disobeying her?”

“Surely you have some influence with her. You are her son.”

Wariness touched Tye’s eyes. “You have not seen her when she is angry. She can be truly . . .”

Over the tramp of the men’s retreating footfalls, Edouard caught the rustle of cloth.

His gaze flew to Juliana, to see her eyes were open. She peered up at Tye, her expression both puzzled and afraid.

“Juliana!” Edouard called, hoping this time she’d know him. He shoved up to standing.

Her head shifted, and she winced. When she saw him, her face brightened. “Edouard,” she whispered. “Oh, Edouard, I found you.”

Found him? He didn’t understand. But to hear her say his name with such affection was wondrous. “Juliana—”

“At last, you have awakened,” Tye drawled. “Mother will be pleased.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TEN

Veronique set her fingers on the solar’s door handle, the thrill of ordering Edouard to his captivity still hot in her blood. She smiled, for as her coveted bag of fortune-telling bones had predicted, events were unfolding that would bring about her revenge against Geoffrey. How she longed for that moment when she saw defeat in his eyes. Could she make him beg for mercy? She would.

She mustn’t gloat yet, though. There was still much to be done, especially once she had Landon’s ring. Her smile faded as she carefully depressed the handle and eased the door open. Before he sensed her entering the chamber, she’d make certain he was doing as she expected: looking for the jewel. If not, she’d correct that misjudgment on his part—in a way he’d never forget.

As the solar’s floorboards came into view, Landon’s hushed voice carried to her. “—is very important you tell no one. Trust no one. Do you understand?”

“Aye,” a woman answered. Azarel, the healer. Holding the door still, Veronique listened.

Coins clinked. “Here. When you ride out to buy herbs to tend Juliana, take the missive with you. Use this silver and hire a messenger from the village. Tell him this document must reach Geoffrey de Lanceau.”

Veronique sucked in a furious breath. Landon thought to betray her?

She shoved the door wide, sending it crashing against the wall. Balling her hands into fists, she glided forward into the chamber.

Whirling away from the trestle table, where candles, an ink pot, and quill rested, Landon faced her. “Veronique.”

She narrowed her gaze on Azarel. The young woman’s eyes looked enormous as she hastily tucked a rolled object inside her sleeve. When she dipped her head, acknowledging Veronique in the manner she demanded of the castle folk, candlelight winked off her hairpin braided with brown leather and secured in her long, blond hair. The strings of dried mushrooms around her neck shifted.

“Give me the missive, Azarel,” Veronique said.

Landon stepped sideways, blocking her way to the healer.

“Step aside.” Veronique held his stare, commanding him to yield. Caution flickered across his features before he shoved back his shoulders and remained where he was.

“You are a fool, Landon, to anger me.”

“What you are doing to Edouard, the son of my liege . . . ’Tis wrong.”

She’d walked near enough now to smell the hint of fear in his sweat. “Have you still not realized, Landon? All of my actions were meant to protect you.” Her attention slid past him to the frightened Azarel. “I thought you wanted your subjects to keep believing you are a just, honorable lord, rather than a man who murdered his lady wife.”

Landon blanched.

Veronique smiled, savoring the tension in his posture. “Did you do as I asked? Did you find the ring?”

“Why do you keep asking for it? Why is it so important to you?”

Insolent bastard. She didn’t have to explain her desires to him. “Did you find it?”

“I did not look. Edouard was right; I do not deserve it. Whatever your reasons for wanting that ring,”—his mouth flattened—“you shall not have it.”

A coarse laugh broke from her. Did he intend his words as a threat? Ridiculous.

She halted before him, close enough to slap his face if she so desired. “You disappoint me, Landon.”

Raising his brows—a clear dismissal of her words—he gestured to Azarel. “Go.”

The healer started forward.

Veronique threw up a hand. “Stay where you are.”

Azarel stumbled to a halt.

“Veronique does not command you,” Landon growled.

“I do.” Her lips turned up in a ruthless smile. “Try to leave, Azarel, and I will have you killed. Then, I will send men into the village to find your lover and gut him alive.”

The healer moaned. She didn’t move.

Veronique forced coyness into her smile and claimed the gap between her and Landon. When their garments brushed, his familiar scent revived memories of him thrusting between her legs; his hoarse groans when his seed pulsed into her; the many ways he’d sated her lust. She’d miss the pleasure he gave her.

Curling her hand into her right sleeve, she found the opening in the hem and discreetly eased out a small knife.

He’d stepped back, no doubt unnerved by her closeness. Reaching out her left hand, she caressed his cheek. Regret glinted in his eyes before he caught her wrist. “I will not let you destroy de Lanceau.”

“You cannot stop me,” she said, very gently, “for you see, Juliana will tell me where to find that ring.”

He stared down at her, as though suddenly realizing his own insignificance.

She rammed the knife into his stomach. How delicious, to feel his soft flesh splitting apart.

Azarel screamed. “Milord!”

He roared in pain, swiped at Veronique, even as she yanked out the dagger. When he bent at the waist, trying to stem the rush of blood, she slammed the knife into his lower back.

The healer shrieked. “Stop! Please.”

Landon wheezed. A dark crimson stain oozed across the front of his garments. When Veronique stabbed him again, he lunged for her. Giggling, she darted out of his reach. With a gurgled groan, he collapsed on the floorboards.

Sobs breaking from her, the healer knelt beside him. The parchment slid from her sleeve as she lifted his tunic to examine his stomach wound. “Milord,” she cried, but the life was dimming from his gaze.

Veronique snatched up the parchment. She crossed to the fire and tossed the document into the blaze. Flames licked over it, devoured it.

She spun, to find Azarel pushing to her feet. Tears streaked her face, and her shaking hands were coated in blood.

“He is dead?” Veronique demanded.

Azarel nodded.

“Good. Now, you will do exactly as I say. You will set the coins he gave you on the table. Then find mercenaries to get rid of this body. Do not try to betray me.” Veronique trailed a finger along her bloody knife. “If you disobey me, you jeopardize not only your lover’s life, but Edouard’s and Juliana’s, as well.”

***

Fear tingled across her skin like an unwanted caress when she stared up at the dark-haired man who held her in his arms. The bold way he grinned at her left a chill inside her, for she sensed an element of unruliness about him. In his snug hold, she felt . . . vulnerable.

Somewhere close by, men’s voices retreated and then a thud echoed—the sound of a door closing. Merciful God, what had taken place earlier, that she’d be shut in a chamber while in this knave’s embrace?

Should she know him? A hint of remembrance skittered across her thoughts, and she tried to probe the blankness wrapped around her mind. The inkiness seemed to shift like a murky sludge, to fill in the attempted intrusion with more blackness.

Dull pain settled in her brow. Dizziness taunted, threatening to snatch her consciousness, and when she’d just found Edouard. The dizziness mustn’t triumph. In a moment, her head might quit spinning; then she’d try to squirm out of this man’s embrace—

“Juliana,” he murmured, his voice deeper than Edouard’s. “Are you all right?”

“Of course she is not!” Edouard snapped.

This dark-haired man had called her Juliana, too. That must be her name. How, though, did he know her? “W-who are you?” she whispered to him, trying not to heed her headache or the thudding of her pulse.

The man’s expression darkened with suspicion. “You know full well who I am. If you are trying to trick me—”

“Nay!” she croaked.

“Enough, Tye,” Edouard growled. “’Tis not a deception.”

The man named Tye snorted, a sound rife with scorn. “I should trust your explanation?”

“I was with her when she first woke. She did not recognize me, despite us having met before. She has lost her memory. Due, I expect, to the blow to her head.”

Lost her memory. That would explain a great deal.

“You know who did this to Juliana.” Edouard’s tone hardened. “Were you the one who struck her?”

“As much as you would like to hear me say ‘aye,’” Tye answered, “I did not.”

“Who did?”

Tye chuckled, but didn’t answer.

Juliana sensed Edouard’s intense gaze, and carefully turned her head to look at him, standing in a swath of sunlight. His stare held fierce concern.

When unexpected tears brimmed along her lashes, his eyes widened. He took a step toward her. Metal clanked, drawing her attention to his wrists.

He was chained. A prisoner!

Shock raced through her. Bracing one hand against Tye’s shoulder, she scrambled to sit up. Pain scraped down the back of her skull. Tendrils of agony speared through her forehead and neck, before spots swarmed into her vision.

“Careful!” Edouard cried.

Juliana groaned, fighting an upsurge of nausea.

Her vision swam, and then her cheek met solid warmth: Tye’s arm. She’d fallen back into his hold.

“Juliana.” Edouard’s worried voice called to her, luring her from the edge of that cozy blanket of oblivion. How easily she could slip into it, but that would mean abandoning him. She couldn’t, for she had many questions—among them, why he was a captive. What had happened to put him in peril? And what had happened to her? Warning trailed through her, for she had no doubt his imprisonment meant danger for them both.

By sheer willpower, she forced her eyes to open. To find him again.

As their gazes met, he released a rush of breath, a sound that implied she was important to him. A friend. His lover . . .

His Juliana.

If only she could remember what they meant to one another!

He tried to take another forward step, but his chains snapped taut. His muscles bulged beneath the fabric of his tunic, while he scowled at Tye. “She wishes to be free of you. Put her down.”

At the possessiveness in his voice, tiny shivers darted through her. Why couldn’t she remember their relationship? What else didn’t she recall that, for her and Edouard’s well-being, she really should?

Tye vowed he hadn’t wounded her, but he could have held her down whilst someone else hit her. Had Tye imprisoned Edouard? Was she to be a captive, too, for reasons she didn’t even know? Oh, God, nay. She shoved against Tye, forcing herself to fight through her rising pain. “Edouard is right. Set me down.”

Tye tsked. “I doubt you can stand upright.”

Her body, indeed, felt weak. She’d rather crumple on the floor, though, than spend another moment in this knave’s arms.

“Set me down. Please.”

Tye’s brows raised. Then, he eased his arm out from under her knees and lowered her legs to the floorboards.

Her feet brushed the dusty planks. Her wobbly legs took her full weight for one breath. Two—

Her knees folded.

Just as she plummeted to the floor, Tye’s arms slid around her waist from behind. “I have you.”

Tye drew her back against him, supporting her quivering body with his strength. Dizzy with the effort of standing, she slumped in his hold. When her head landed against his shoulder, she gasped at the spike of pain. Darkness swirled into her mind, beckoning her to yield.

“Juliana!” Edouard shouted. “Stay awake.”

For you, Edouard, I will.

She fought the weightiness of her eyelids, focused on the emotions churning inside her to give her strength. How she loathed being dependent upon Tye. Hated the manner in which he held her. His arms shifted; as one swept higher, touching the underside of her breasts, she shuddered.

“Tye,” Edouard growled. His fists clenched, causing his chains to rattle, an eerie echo of the laughter rumbling from Tye.

“I would like to sit,” she said quickly, gesturing to the wooden stool. That simple movement sent more dizziness rushing through her head. Edouard spoke again, but his words grew fainter, as though she’d plunged through a hole in the floor.

Dragging up the last of her strength, she concentrated on his voice. On the excitement that raced through her when he looked at her with such fire.

“—is fainting!” she heard Edouard say. “Hurry!”

“Edouard,” she managed to rasp. Her eyelids fluttered, while she sensed Tye sliding his arm under her knee once again. A rough scrape—the sound of wood grating across wood—carried before cool roughness touched her calves, and an even colder hardness touched her back and head. When the whirling chaos in her head slowed, she realized Tye had set her on the stool and propped her up against the stone wall.

Opening her eyes, she saw him standing beside her with his hands on his hips, studying her as if to see whether she’d stay upright. Her attention slid past him to Edouard, also watching, his expression a touching blend of relief and anxiety.

Holding on to the stool for added support, she smiled at Edouard. He smiled in return.

Muffled voices sounded from outside the chamber.

A moment later, metal grated. The panel swung inward.

Two armed guards stepped inside, followed by a woman.

As she strolled farther into the room, the strong scent of rosewater drifted to Juliana. Light slipped over the woman’s snug-fitting silk gown and red hair that snaked down to her girlishly small waist. Her hips swayed in blatant enticement; her stride also, somehow, conveyed that she had a right to command all those around her. Tall, slender, viewed from the back, she might be mistaken for a much younger woman. Her severe features, however, bore evidence of her years in the faint lines about her eyes and mouth. Most telling were her hands, for her fingers were swollen and bent with age.

“Hello, Mother,” Tye said.

Juliana fought light-headedness and a rush of foreboding. This newcomer was Tye’s mother. A lady, judging by her gown; ’twould explain her imposing manner.

“All is in order, Tye?” she demanded.

“Aye. I was about to come find you and update you on the situation.”

The woman halted several steps from Edouard. As her keen gaze traveled over him, she grinned. “What a pleasure to see you again, Edouard.”

Disdain threaded through her words, and Edouard’s features tautened. He looked truly formidable. Whoever this lady was, he despised her. “Are my men all right?” he demanded. “Unharmed? Their wounds tended?”

“They are well enough, I expect.” Then, as though sensing Juliana’s stare, the woman looked right at her.

The force of the lady’s piercing, amber gaze made Juliana gasp. Her hands, on either side of the stool, clenched the rough-hewn wood.

“So, Juliana,” the woman said. “You are awake.”

This woman recognized her. Addressed her by her first name. Juliana’s fingers tightened to a painful grip. What relation was this lady to her?

“Juliana roused only moments ago, Mother,” Tye said. “I planned to inform you, when I found you.”

The older woman’s stare sharpened. “What did she tell you?”

“Naught. It appears she has lost her memory.”

Panic quickened Juliana’s heartbeat, for the lady’s expression had turned menacing. Why? What had taken place between Juliana and this woman? Juliana pressed her hand to her throbbing, sweat-beaded brow, for her instincts screamed for her to beware.

Flexing her hands, the woman advanced on Juliana.

“Leave her alone, Veronique!” Edouard bellowed.

This lady was called Veronique? A flicker of alarm sped through Juliana’s thoughts, a sense that the name should be important to her. As fast as the warning flared, it dissipated, swallowed by the greater pressure of blankness.

Fear pressed against Juliana’s breastbone. Silk rustled as Veronique neared, teeth bared in a smirk. “Juliana is fooling you, Tye, with her expressive eyes and beauty. She remembers all.” She thrust a gnarled finger in Juliana’s face. “As soon as you have the chance, you intend to betray us.”

Juliana shook her head, and the room whirled before her. Shoving back against the wall, she tried to stand, but her limbs gave way. She fell back down on the stool.

“Do I frighten you?” Veronique cackled, near enough now for Juliana to see the crimson smear on her silk sleeve. Blood. From what . . . or whom? “You were afraid the last time we spoke,” Veronique continued. “You should be terrified now, because—”

“Leave. Her. Alone,” Edouard roared.

“Patience, Edouard. You shall have your turn with me.”

Unshed tears stung Juliana’s eyes as she wrenched her gaze from Veronique’s bloodstained sleeve. How brave of Edouard to try and spare her from this woman. Yet part of Juliana desperately wanted to know the situation Veronique spoke of.

“Your battle is with me,” Edouard went on. “Not her.”

“Not true.” Veronique smirked. “Go on, Juliana. Tell him, if you have not already.”

“I . . . cannot remember.” She trembled, but she had to ask the question gnawing inside her. “What did happen?”

Veronique’s eyes widened, before she loosed a shrill laugh. “You are either very brave or completely witless.”

Tye grunted. “I told you she lost her memory.”

“Because of you, no doubt, Veronique.” Edouard’s chains clattered. “Tye insists he did not injure her. Did you?”

Veronique smiled and turned around. A giddy breath whooshed from Juliana; she’d won a reprieve for now. When the older woman reached into her sleeve, though, and drew out a knife, Juliana’s stomach roiled. Was she going to spill more blood?

Edouard’s blood?

“What happened to Juliana is not your concern right now,” Veronique said to him.

“Why not?”

She strolled toward him, the dagger in plain view. “I did not come to this chamber to discuss her. Only you.”

“Me?” His throat moved with a swallow. He didn’t step back, or otherwise acknowledge the threat the older woman posed, but Juliana saw tension creeping into his features.

Veronique halted before Edouard, just beyond his reach. “I looked through your saddlebag but didn’t find much of interest. However, as we both know, you would keep your most important possessions close to you.” Her gaze wandered over him. “I cannot take the risk you have weapons or documents concealed in your . . .”—her stare focused on his groin—“clothes.”

“Hellfire,” Edouard growled. “You are not—”

“You must be searched. I will undertake the task myself.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Edouard forced down an oath as Veronique’s fingers shifted on the dagger’s hilt. He could only imagine what her search would entail, the intimate violations she’d force upon him in front of the mercenaries, Tye, and most importantly, Juliana.

He dared not look at Juliana, although she’d gasped in horror a moment ago. He couldn’t risk Veronique glimpsing his fear of humiliation. If she saw, she’d know how to control him; he wouldn’t disappoint himself, or his father, by revealing weakness.

“What would Landon say about your searching me? ’Tis his keep. He is responsible for every person within its walls, including prisoners.”

“Not any longer.” Her mouth twisted in a nasty grin. “He is dead.”

“You killed him?” Shock thinned Edouard’s voice. He’d thought she depended upon Landon to keep her influence over the servants, but mayhap, if she had enough mercenaries, she no longer needed him. That meant she must also have the ring entrusted to Landon by Edouard’s father.

God’s blood, Edouard had to know for certain. If she possessed the jewel, she had all that she needed to get close to his sire and murder him. She’d kill Edouard, too, and thus remove any impediment to her and Tye controlling Moydenshire. Without doubt, a woman as corrupt as Veronique knew exactly what to offer King John so her and Tye’s conquest wouldn’t be challenged.

Bracing himself for her gleeful cackle, Edouard asked, “Landon gave you the ring, then?”

Sighing, she shook her head. “He became willful.”

Relief coursed through Edouard. Before he left Waddesford, he’d find that ring; she must never get hold of it.

“I will find it myself,” Veronique said. She gestured to her blood-darkened sleeve—blood that wasn’t yet dry. “’Twas a shame he tried to send word to your father about your capture. I could not allow it.”

Landon had tried to save him. A tremor tore through Edouard, tightening the sickening pressure in his chest. Whatever wrongs Ferchante had committed in recent days, he’d died with some honor.

Would Veronique kill him, also, for her perverse amusement? Or did she need Edouard alive, to bargain with his sire for his life? Either way, she still might mutilate him.

He steeled himself against the revulsion crawling like invisible ants over his skin. He’d cooperate as long as it took for him to gain an advantage. After that, he’d do all he could to gain his and Juliana’s freedom. He’d brought her into this danger; he’d get her safely out.

“Now,” Veronique murmured, “to the reason I am here—”

“I hope you will not send me and Juliana away.” Tye leaned against the wall near Juliana. “This search could be entertaining.”

Only for you, bastard.

A scraping sound drew Edouard’s gaze to Juliana. One hand pressed to the wall, she rose on unsteady legs, her face ashen. “W-what are you going to do to him?”

“As Mother said, search him.”

Fear flickered across Juliana’s features. “Why does she have the knife?”

Because she’s a cruel bitch, who enjoys inflicting pain.

“To protect herself. You see, Edouard has a violent nature. ’Tis why he is chained.”

Edouard snorted. He sensed the bloodlust coursing through Veronique, saw it in the eerie brightness of her eyes. She longed to cut him. She couldn’t hurt his sire, thus she’d take out her twisted revenge upon him.

“Edouard does not seem violent.” Juliana sounded bewildered—lost, even—and his heart ached for her.

A throaty laugh broke from Veronique before she glanced back at Tye. “How little she knows about Edouard.” She motioned to the pair of mercenaries looking on. “Stay close. I will need your help.”

“Aye, milady,” the men said.

Milady? She was a bold wench!

“Tye, I want you here, too, in case your brother needs some persuasion.” Veronique’s gaze slid to Juliana, then back to Tye.

With a lopsided grin, he nodded.

The ghastly tightness within Edouard intensified. If they didn’t get what they wanted from him, they’d hurt Juliana? Not if he had any choice in the matter. Fisting his hands, he waited for the assault to begin.

Veronique nodded to the mercenaries. “Hold him.”

Metal rasped, the sound of knives being unsheathed. He stepped back, slackening his chains to give him more range of movement, but the mercenaries hastily advanced. He swung at the lout on his right, but the other man darted behind him, wrapped his brawny arm around Edouard’s neck, and forced his head back. Pain shot through Edouard’s neck, pinned at an unnatural angle, while the back of his head pressed to the mercenary’s shoulder.

“Edouard!” Juliana cried.

Knives pressed against his neck: one on the left, the other on the right. Spittle rasped from Edouard’s lips. How he wanted to break his chains and give these lackeys a proper fight.

“Careful, Edouard.” The scent of rosewater threatened to choke him as Veronique sidled closer. “Juliana does not want to see you hurt.”

Juliana was quietly weeping. Her anguish gouged at his defiance—as, no doubt, Veronique hoped. To think Juliana cared for him that much . . . . He couldn’t dwell upon that at the moment. He must focus only on the danger.

Forced to look up at the wooden trusses overhead, Edouard struggled to glance sideways at Veronique. Her amber eyes glittered beneath the fall of her lashes as she halted beside him, then breathed out a thoughtful sigh. Her gaze glided from his mouth, to his jaw, to his throat where he felt his pulse leaping in a wild rhythm, then down to his chest.

“Mother,” Tye muttered. “Beware.”

“He will not hurt me.” Veronique’s breath warmed Edouard’s cheek as she leaned in and trailed the fingers of her left hand along his jaw. “He knows better than to try.”

How tempted he was to kick her. His legs, after all, were unfettered. The knives were so close to his skin, though, he’d be cut. Then Veronique might turn her dagger on Juliana, just to spite him.

Refusing to acknowledge Veronique’s taunting laugh, he remained still. Remote. Emotionally detached . . .

Her fingers brushed the front of his tunic, over his belly.

He jolted, unable to control the instinctive reaction. One of the knives pierced his skin and he winced. Sticky warmth moistened his neck.

“He is bleeding!” Juliana shrieked.

“A small cut. Not deadly.” Veronique clucked her tongue. “Look what you have done, Edouard.”

“What you have done,” Edouard snapped.

“Please, stop.” Juliana moaned. “Surely there is another way to search him.”

“Mmm,” Veronique purred, her hand moving again, even as Tye spoke to Juliana, words Edouard couldn’t hear. Again Veronique touched his stomach, this time in a probing caress. Was she looking for a weapons belt strapped beneath his tunic? She wouldn’t find one.

Her lashes lowered a fraction, and then her palm slipped beneath his tunic to touch his bare skin. A shudder rippled through him, and she smiled. Her palm slid up his belly to the indent between his ribs, then to his shoulders, as though memorizing his physical form.

“You are a strong man,” she breathed, while her hand continued to explore. “Such large muscles. You have spent long days practicing swordplay.”

Edouard gritted his teeth.

“Your body is akin to your father’s, when he was younger.”

Did she expect him to respond to that statement? She likely wanted to tell him, in sordid detail, how she’d pleasured his sire when she was his lover. But Edouard had no wish to hear that, or invite more of her taunts. Thus, he kept quiet, despite her fingernails biting into his chest.

Her hand slid out from under his tunic, then grabbed a fistful of it. Leaning forward to nibble his chin, she said, “Let us see just how much you resemble your father.”

The straw pallet shifted at Edouard’s feet. Veronique disappeared from his view.

She’d dropped down in front of him.

He tensed. What was she planning to do?

The mercenary behind him snickered.

Nausea welled inside Edouard as Veronique lifted up the hem of his tunic to bare his hose underneath. He fought the urge to flinch. Never had he felt so naked.

“Well, now,” she said, and Edouard felt her gaze upon his privates. He swallowed, closed his eyes, anticipated her groping touch—

“Stop,” Juliana cried. “What you are doing . . . ’Tis not right!”

“Shut her up, Tye,” Veronique snarled.

“I swear to you,” Edouard growled, “if he hurts her—”

Juliana shrieked.

If only he could see what was happening!

“You will not hurt him,” she sobbed, her voice ragged and desperate. “You will not.”

Edouard’s gut twisted. “Juliana!”

A scuffle. A gasp.

Silence.

“Juliana?” Fear pounded at Edouard’s temples. “Answer me.”

***

On her knees on the pallet, Veronique glared at her son, standing a few paces from the wooden stool. Her gaze shifted to Juliana, slumped forward in Tye’s arms that encircled her waist from behind. She looked as boneless—and lifeless—as a cloth toy.

“What has happened to Juliana?” Edouard demanded.

“She just . . . collapsed,” Tye said. “When she struggled, and seemed unsteady on her feet, I tried to get her to sit down—”

Veronique spat a curse. “All I asked was that you keep her quiet. We need her alive.” With Landon dead, Juliana was the only one who might know the whereabouts of the jewels Mayda had hidden, including the gold ring from Geoffrey—when, that is, Juliana’s memories returned.

If she died . . .

Tye huffed, an expression of annoyance. “I did my best, Mother.”

His best. Wretched child. He’d do his best when he finally killed his father and brought about the life she expected for them both.

“Fetch the healer,” Edouard said. “If you want Juliana to live, you need to treat her, as soon as possible.”

What arrogance, for him to issue orders, especially when he was a prisoner. He was right, though, about Juliana. If she died, that ring might never be found.

Concern tingled through Veronique’s mind, even as her focus returned to the tantalizing swells and outlines beneath Edouard’s hose. She stifled a frustrated groan and stood, ignoring the pop of her aging joints.

Edouard’s gaze locked with hers. Relief shone in his eyes, before they narrowed with hatred.

A mocking chuckle welled in her throat. “Another day, Edouard, I will have my way with you.” She looked at the two mercenaries. “Finish searching him. Bring whatever you find to the solar.”

“And Juliana?” Edouard asked.

Turning her back on him, she scowled at Tye. “Take her to the solar. Watch over her, while I find Azarel.”

***

Juliana woke slowly. Her foggy mind discerned that she lay face down in a shadowed, warm place, her cheek resting on downy softness. Trying to sharpen her perceptions, she inhaled a deep breath. She smelled . . . roses.

Her mind raced, memories galloping one after another. The sun-drenched chamber. Edouard in chains. Veronique tormenting him.

Juliana’s whole body jolted, and she shoved up on her forearms, causing whatever she lay upon to creak. Dizziness turned her surroundings into a blur of dark shadows. Blinking several times, she forced her whirling mind to steady.

A skein of hair had tumbled over her cheek. When she slipped her tresses behind her ear, she realized they felt soft, not thick with grime. Drawing a fistful of hair to her face, she inhaled, and caught the hint of lavender.

Unease trailed through her. Someone had washed her hair. Glancing down at her arm, she noted her chemise wasn’t mud-stained, but snowy white. Her skin, too, was scrubbed clean.

What else had taken place while she was unconscious?

A lump lodged in her throat as she looked about her surroundings. She reclined on a wide, rope bed in a chamber far larger than the one where Edouard was imprisoned. In the darkness to her left, she saw a doorway to an adjoining room. An antechamber?

A sudden awareness nudged at her consciousness. The antechamber was familiar to her. Why?

The sputter of a candle drew her gaze to the nearby trestle table cluttered with pots and other items. When she glanced farther down the room, she saw the wooden shutters at the window were closed against the daylight, and a low fire glowed in the hearth. Veronique crouched by the flames, poking at the embers to start burning new logs.

When she stood, Juliana dropped her head back down upon the coverlet. Closing her eyes, she feigned sleep.

Silk rasped as Veronique approached the table. A soft thud: she’d dropped a cloth item on the tabletop. Then she muttered under her breath, before a hollow clatter echoed, the sound of small, hard objects landing on the wood.

Juliana dared to open her eyes a little. Vivid red hair flowing down her back, Veronique peered at the tabletop. Muttering again, she ran her hand over the wood to gather up whatever lay upon it.

She stilled, her fingers curling into a fist. Her head turned, a gesture that not only implied she sensed Juliana watching, but that she’d expected Juliana to rouse.

“’Tis good to see you awake.”

For a fleeting moment, Juliana thought of pretending to still be asleep, but Veronique was too clever to be fooled by such a ruse. Opening her eyes, Juliana pushed up to a sitting position.

“What place is this?” she asked.

“The solar.”

“Why have you brought me here? What have you done to Edouard?”

Veronique chuckled. “So many questions.”

Questions Juliana wanted answered. When she last saw Edouard, he’d stood with knives against his neck, forced by Veronique into indignity. Ignoring the cautioning cry inside her, Juliana said, “Is he all right? That much you must tell me.”

Veronique faced the bed, and the full force of her piercing gaze settled upon Juliana. She scooted toward the edge of the mattress, fighting the spinning in her head and an awful sense of entrapment. As Juliana swung her legs over the edge, Veronique strolled forward, closing the distance between them.

“Calm yourself, Juliana. I will not harm you.”

The lump in her throat hardened. “How can I be certain?”

A smile curved Veronique’s painted mouth. “I had the healer care for you while you slept. She bathed you, washed your hair, dressed you in a clean chemise, and tended your wound.”

“Th-thank you, for arranging such.”

“I was glad to do so, for I am not your enemy, Juliana. I am your friend.”

Juliana pressed her lips together. She might not remember her past association with Veronique, but she knew, purely by instinct, that this woman wasn’t, and never had been, her friend.

As though attuned to Juliana’s unease, Veronique said gently, “How is your head?”

“A little better. Thank you.” Liar, Juliana’s conscience shrilled. Indeed, she’d be standing now, on a level with Veronique, if her head didn’t pound like a drum.

Still, if Veronique thought her well enough, would she let her return to Edouard?

“Juliana, do you remember the first time we met?”

“The chamber where Edouard is chained.”

Suspicion filtered into Veronique’s gaze. “We had met before then.”

“I . . .” Juliana struggled to recall. The blankness in her mind refused to yield. “I do not . . . remember.” Disquiet coursed through her, for there must be a reason for Veronique’s question. “What took place, at our first meeting? I would like to know.”

A hard gleam lit Veronique’s eyes. “This chamber. Do you remember it?”

“It seems familiar—”

“Aye?” Veronique leaned forward, as though to snatch each word.

“Yet I do not know why.”

“You lived here for many months. You were Lady Ferchante’s closest friend.”

Juliana frowned and took another glance about the room. That explained the sense of familiarity, but not the feeling that something was . . . wrong. “Why is she not here now? May I see her? Mayhap, if I speak with her . . .”

“She is dead.”

“Dead,” Juliana whispered. Her mind shot back to the blood on Veronique’s sleeve. She’d killed the lord of his keep; had she murdered the lady, too?

“Surely you remember the night she perished.” Veronique’s words held a distinct edge. “You were there. You saw.”

“I did?” Juliana trembled. Her ladyship’s death . . . ’Twas clear from Veronique’s tone that Juliana should remember the crucial event. But she didn’t. She didn’t!

Veronique reached out and smoothed a hand down Juliana’s hair. “I did not mean to upset you. I know ’tis difficult, not remembering your past. The healer, however, believes your wound will heal and your memories will return.”

Juliana fought the revulsion roused by Veronique’s caress. She didn’t dare wrench away.

“Since we are friends, Juliana, I will do all I can to help you heal and reclaim your past. I trust, in exchange, you will help me?”

“H-how?”

Veronique’s fingers slid under Juliana’s chin, tilting it up so their gazes met. “When your memories return, you will tell me right away. Agreed?”

“My memories . . . are important to you?”

“Some of them, aye. They will help forge the days ahead.” A cackle broke past her lips, and Juliana fought a shudder. What knowledge could she possibly have that would influence the future?

“Agreed?” Veronique said again.

If she said nay, would Veronique refuse to treat her wound? How very much Juliana wanted to remember who she was. To be complete again. “A-all right.”

“Good.” Veronique’s hand dropped from Juliana’s face. A muffled clatter, a sound akin to what Juliana had heard earlier, came from the shifting of Veronique’s curled fingers. A hard intensity tightened the older woman’s features, a look that suggested she saw beyond Juliana’s answer to the coming days.

Curiosity nagged, stronger than Juliana’s inner warning to beware. “How can you know,” she asked carefully, “what might take place in the days ahead?”

Veronique’s stare focused when it returned to her. “Circumstances surrounding me and my son Tye have been unfolding for years. Those, I know well. I also have these.” She threw out her arm and objects scattered on the coverlet with a soft tap, tap, tap.

Bones. Bleached white, polished, and of various sizes. They looked to be the size and shape of . . . Juliana’s hand flew to her mouth. Surely not.

“Human bones,” Veronique said. “Fingers, cut from prisoners in a French dungeon. They are so beautiful and straight.”

“W-why—?” Juliana couldn’t find her voice. The nearest bone lay near her hip and she edged sideways, hoping the shifting mattress wouldn’t bring the vile object even closer.

“Why were the fingers taken?” Veronique picked up a bone and trailed her bent finger over it in a reverent caress. “These belonged to criminals, the most treacherous of villains. They would not tell the French king’s warriors what they were entitled to know. So the king’s loyal subjects had no choice but to start cutting off the prisoners’ fingers, one by one, to get the information.”

The men had been tortured. Juliana could only imagine the terror and suffering the captives must have endured as the fingers were severed, which made Veronique’s possession of the bones even more grotesque.

“How did you get these bones? W-why would you want them?”

“Tye and I were living in Normandy, close to the prison. I knew several of the king’s men”—she grinned—“intimately. When I asked one of them about the finger bones, he gave me a bag full.”

“He—?” Juliana choked down a moan.

“I took them to an old crone who lived outside the town,” Veronique went on, clearly ignoring Juliana’s distress. “She cured them and showed me how to interpret them.” Not the slightest remorse touched her expression as she studied the haphazard arrangement of bones. “I ask a question of them. The way they fall reveals to me what will happen.”

“To . . . me?”

Veronique’s gaze flickered. “Not just you. Tye. Edouard. Tell me, what do you know of him?”

Juliana shook her head. “Edouard said we met last spring. I do not recall.” A blush warmed her face. “I intend to ask him, though, what he remembers about me, and who I am.”

The impassioned way Edouard looked at her, and the way her heart answered . . . They must have been lovers. They’d kissed, held hands, and made promises of love. That would explain the breathless excitement inside her every time she looked at him.

Veronique began gathering up the bones. “Beware, Juliana, of thinking kindly about Edouard. He will win your trust and then crush it. He is a deceitful bastard, just like his father.”

The older woman spat the word “father” with such ferocity, Juliana wondered what had taken place between them. Of all the people she’d met since she woke, though, Edouard seemed the most honest and compassionate. “Edouard seems so gallant,” she insisted.

Veronique snorted. “’Tis what he wants you to think. Once he has won your trust, he will ask you to help him escape. He insists he cares for you only because he needs your help.”

Could the Edouard she knew be that callous? “Why is Edouard in chains? What crime did he commit?”

Veronique’s hand brushed Juliana’s hair again. Those same fingers had held and cast the bones of tortured men. Shivering, Juliana turned her head to break the contact.

“There are too many of Edouard’s transgressions to recount,” the older woman said, picking up more bones and dropping them into her palm. “Above all, he will never accept that his half-brother, Tye, is deserving of his father’s acknowledgment and riches.”

Juliana pressed her hand to her head which had begun to ache anew. Edouard and Tye were siblings? She’d sensed the hatred between the two men, but never had she guessed they were related by blood.

If, that is, Veronique spoke the truth.

Her account, however, was the only insight Juliana had into what was happening at this keep, and her part in all of it; she must find out all she could.

“Edouard is jealous of Tye, then?”

“Exactly. He will do all he can to prevent Tye from one day inheriting what he is due. Did you realize Edouard came here to kill Tye? To eliminate the threat he poses?”

Juliana gasped. “Surely not.”

“He planned to murder me, too.”

“Why?” Juliana couldn’t stifle her shock.

“I am Tye’s mother. That alone makes me a threat to Edouard and his despicable family.”

“I . . . see.” Juliana didn’t. Not at all. Surely Edouard wouldn’t kill someone just because she was a bastard child’s mother. There must be more to the situation than Veronique wished to divulge. When she had a chance, Juliana would ask Edouard about the older woman’s allegations.

“I know ’tis a lot for you to consider, especially when you are wounded. But—”

A knock sounded on the chamber door.

Veronique smiled. “Enter,” she called.

The door opened with a creak, letting in torchlight from the outside passageway. A slim, blond-haired woman, who looked about Juliana’s age, stepped in, carrying a wooden tray. Her waist-length hair, tied back in a loose braid, swayed against the back of her brown woolen gown as she shut the door behind her and headed toward Veronique.

“Azarel,” Veronique said, before glancing at Juliana. “The healer.”

For the briefest moment, Juliana caught the woman’s gaze. “Thank you.”

Azarel nodded, and then her gaze dropped to the floor. Either she was afraid of spilling what was on the tray, or she feared Veronique. As she came close, Juliana tried to make out the design of Azarel’s necklace. Not clay beads, but various kinds of dried mushrooms, strung onto twine. Several were the same color as the decorative hairpin in Azarel’s tresses.

The healer hesitated a few steps from the bed. The objects on the tray were clear to Juliana now: an earthenware mug, one large and one small covered pot, and a wooden spoon. A peculiar, earthy scent wafted; it reminded Juliana of crushed leaves and wet rocks.

“Did you prepare the potion as I asked?” Veronique demanded.

“A-aye, milady. I brought honey to add sweetness, if needed. I-I also finished the facial cream for you, as you commanded.”

“Hand it to me.” Veronique took the small pot from the healer and strode to the trestle table. “Set the tray on the coverlet, Azarel. Stay here and wait till Juliana has drunk the potion.”

Azarel moved to the bedside and, with a slight tremble to her hands, put the tray beside Juliana.

“What is this drink?” Juliana tried not to sound leery.

“’Tis a calming draught to lessen your pain.” Veronique set down the pot of cream. After opening up a cloth bag, she poured the bones inside and drew the drawstring. “Go on. Drink it.”

Juliana clasped her sweaty hands together. Truth be told, she’d rather endure the pain than ingest that concoction. “I will manage.”

“Please, Juliana, do not be difficult,” Veronique went on. “Not after Azarel toiled to make that drink for you. What would Edouard say if he knew you refused the healer’s care? He was so insistent that you be properly looked after.”

Edouard. Juliana’s heart constricted and she looked again at the brew. If it healed her wound, and helped revive her memories, she must drink it. She wanted to be well again, for him.

The potion lurked in the mug; the brownish liquid reminded Juliana of a brackish pond. She quickly lifted the mug to her lips and sipped. The liquid sluiced onto her tongue. It tasted the way it smelled: earthy and raw. Tipping her head back, she downed the rest and, after wiping her lips, set the vessel back on the tray.

“Well done,” Veronique murmured. “I expect you will feel better very soon.” Setting aside the bone bag, she smoothed her hands over her gown and started toward the bed.

An eerie tingle swept through Juliana. Was she imagining it, or were her fingers starting to feel numb? She flexed them. “What herbs are used in that brew?” Juliana gestured to Azarel’s mushrooms. “Did you use any of those in—?”

The shadows in the room were growing fuzzy. She blinked. The inkiness was starting to creep in upon her.

“Why . . ?” Juliana managed to say, before her tongue became . . . heavy, akin to a . . . small pillow in her mouth. Her mind, too . . . was sluggish. Stagnant . . .

“Take her other arm,” Veronique said, sounding far away.

Hands . . . upon her. Pressing . . . her onto the bed.

Juliana groaned. And then, the shadows rushed in upon her.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWELVE

Veronique leaned over Juliana, lying on her side on the bed. The young woman slept deeply, eyelids still, jaw relaxed. A grin curved Veronique’s lips. Azarel had done exactly as asked.

But of course she would have. Azarel was a gentle soul. The threat of harm to Edouard and especially her friend Juliana—although Juliana, because of her memory loss, no longer recognized Azarel—was more than enough to convince the healer to make the pain potion a higher potency than normal.

“You may go,” Veronique said, not bothering to look at Azarel. “Take the tray.”

“Of course, milady.”

Veronique continued to hover, waiting until the chamber door closed. Then she exhaled a slow breath as she stretched out a gnarled hand and swept it down Juliana’s glossy tresses, drawing out strands to play over the coverlet. Years ago, when Veronique was younger and Geoffrey’s courtesan, she’d had hair that beautiful. Geoffrey had enjoyed running his fingers through it and for her to wear it loose and flowing.

Her jaw hardened on a stab of resentment as she studied Juliana’s face. Smooth, dewy skin. A delicate nose. Full mouth. Her gaze moved down Juliana’s slender neck to the swell of her firm breasts, then lower, to her belly and hips. The loose chemise didn’t conceal her beauty. No wonder Edouard desired her. Oh, aye, there was no doubt of it. She’d seen the yearning in his eyes, even though she’d heard he was betrothed to Juliana’s younger sister.

Tye, also, lusted for Juliana. This unexpected complication made her fate even more interesting. For two brothers who hated each other to want the same woman made for fascinating sport.

Tye, however, mustn’t lose his focus. Naught must interfere with his destiny to kill his sire and seize the de Lanceau empire. Edouard? Veronique smirked. Despite his noble breeding, he was still a man with carnal needs. If offered the right persuasion—a clean, beautiful, sweetly scented Juliana—he might not be able to resist her.

Imagine the dishonor that would befall his respected family, if he, the heir of Moydenshire’s lord and a soon-to-be-married man, ruined the sister of his betrothed, while being held captive. Even if Veronique ended up killing Edouard, she had ways to make sure that the scandal was well known.

How disappointed Geoffrey would be in Edouard. And the anguish the disgrace would cause the de Lanceau family? Wondrous!

Veronique trailed her fingertip down Juliana’s cheek. “If only you knew what lay ahead—”

“Mother.”

Veronique started. She whirled to squint at Tye, standing barely three steps away. She looked past him to the chamber door. Closed. That meant he’d entered and crossed the planks without her hearing. “When did you come in?” Veronique scowled. “Did you knock?”

Tye grinned. “As Azarel left, I stepped inside. You were so engrossed, I decided not to interrupt. We both know you do not like your concentration disturbed.”

True. The boy did have some sense, after all.

Walking to the bedside, Tye frowned. “Is she all right?”

Veronique smothered a smile. How quaint, that he was concerned. “She is sleeping.”

Tye snorted. “You drugged her.”

“To help with her healing.”

“Rather ironic that you are determined to save her, when days ago you wanted her dead.”

Veronique’s lips tightened at the derision in his tone. Did he believe he’d won the right to challenge her decisions? He hadn’t.

“As you well know, circumstances have changed since days ago,” she said. “We need her to survive, at least long enough to recall where Mayda stowed those jewels. I searched the solar myself earlier and could not find them. We do not have much coin left, you and I,” Veronique added. “I plan to sell the jewels left in Landon’s belongings, but with him dead, we need that money to pay the mercenaries to keep our position here secure.”

Tye nodded.  “A wise strategy.”

“Once we have Mayda’s jewels, we can hire more mercenaries. You will need an army of warriors to fight at your side when you conquer your sire’s holdings. With Landon’s ring in our possession—”

“We will devise a plan for me to kill my father, so I can seize power in Moydenshire.”

“Exactly.” Veronique winked. “How well you learn.”

A tautness crept into Tye’s features. “Does that mean, then, we do not need Edouard alive? If we get the ring and lure Father into a trap . . .”

“Edouard cannot die yet.” Veronique plucked a fallen, red hair from her sleeve. “I want Geoffrey to suffer. I want him to know the life of his beloved heir is mine, to do with as I please. That Edouard is as worthless to me as you are to your father.” She giggled, barely able to hold back her delight. “I have already sent a missive to Branton Keep, detailing that Edouard is my hostage and Geoffrey must surrender all to us. He will be devastated.”

“Will he?” Tye didn’t look convinced. “Father’s spies will soon alert him we can be found at Waddesford, if they have not done so already. He will not negotiate. He will send his army to crush us.”

Veronique rolled her eyes, as if she spoke with a dim-witted child. “If so, our mercenaries will defend us. In truth, ’tis all the better if he comes here. We will kill Edouard while Geoffrey watches, helpless to stop us. You”—she patted Tye’s cheek—“will then cut down your sire.”

“I will still have the gold ring,” Tye said, clearly following the progression of her thoughts. “’Twill win me audiences with the loyal knights and lords who paid fealty to him, allowing me to murder them, too.” He paused, and his gaze slid to Juliana, still slumbering. “If all unfolds as planned.”

“Why would it not?” Veronique held his gaze, excitement seething inside her like a murky brew. “All that we need to succeed is within our grasp. I promise, you will have your long awaited chance to kill your father.”

Tye was silent.

She waited, ready to crush his hesitation if he didn’t seem convinced.

His lips curved into a dark smile. “When I slay my sire, he will see the loathing on my face.” Rage glinted in Tye’s eyes. “He will know how much I resented his cruel rejection of me years ago. By my sword, I will take my right to be a de Lanceau.”

“You will.”

Tye growled. “Tell me of the day he spurned me.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I have told you often enough—”

“Tell me again. Now,” Tye demanded. His fisted hands shook.

Touching her face, Veronique hid an elated grin. For him to be this rankled proved he would, indeed, pursue the destiny she’d prepared him for since he was a squalling babe. “That day took place years ago, when you were a little boy,” she said, her thoughts slipping back to the past. “I wanted your father to know about you, but since I was not sure how he would react to the news, I arranged a meeting in a meadow where he could not launch a surprise assault. He arrived with armed men. He looked coldly upon me, holding you in my arms. Even when I told him you were his son, proof of the passion we had enjoyed in his bed at Branton Keep, he remained unmoved.”

Tye scowled.

“He did not believe me,” she went on, bitterness souring her tone. “He said another of my lovers was as likely to be your father.”

The fury in Tye’s gaze intensified. “Not once did he convey the slightest doubt.”

For a fleeting instant, he did, before he regained control of his emotions. “Nay,” she answered.

“Yet you are certain Geoffrey de Lanceau is my father.”

“I am. I was faithful to him. After he cast me aside, I did not take a lover for many days.” She pressed a gnarled hand to her bosom. “I tried to make him listen, Tye, but he accused me of attempting to manipulate him. He ordered me to put you down and surrender to him, to be punished for my past crimes.” She managed to bring tears to her eyes. “I sensed he meant to murder us both. Then he’d no longer have to explain us to his noble family or think about his responsibility to you.”

Tye cursed, a frightening sound. “I never imagined him a man to slaughter a child.”

In truth, your gallant father was concerned you might be harmed, a voice inside her answered. But you need not know that.

“I refused to heed him,” she said firmly.

Instead, Tye, I goaded him with promises you’d grow up to destroy him.

“I refused to put you down and lose you forever,” she insisted.

Why would I, when your body shielded me from his warriors’ weapons?

“Protecting your life was all that was important to me.”

Because, Tye, you are destined to succeed where I failed. You will kill Geoffrey de Lanceau and bring a new legacy to Moydenshire.

“I am surprised, Mother, that you were able to elude my father that day.”

She touched her son’s arm, feeling hard, corded muscles through the fabric of his sleeve. How keenly she felt the anger toward his father seething within him. Good. Just as she wanted.

“’Twas not easy to get away,” she said quietly, “but I had paid mercenaries to protect us. They fought your sire and his men while we escaped.”

I held the knife at your throat, Tye, and threatened to hurt you. That allowed us to get away.

“I thank you, Mother, for risking your life to save me. Without you”—Tye’s visage hardened with loathing—“I might not be alive. How I look forward to slaying my wretched father.”

She smiled. “Naught will stand in the way of our conquest of Moydenshire.”

Tye’s blazing gaze returned to the bed. “Naught, that is, but the lovely Juliana.”

The lovely Juliana, a voice inside her mocked. It didn’t matter if Tye admired her beauty. Juliana was but a means to their victory; once she’d helped them find the hidden jewels, Veronique would have her killed. Whether Tye agreed or not.

“What is to happen to Juliana now?” Tye asked. “Will she stay here in the solar?”

A wicked laugh broke from Veronique. “Your brother must be lonely by now. Take her to the tower. Mayhap he can help awaken her memories.”

***

His boots firmly planted into the pallet, Edouard yanked on the chain attached to his right wrist. With a metallic clink, the links jerked taut, jolting his shoulder and sending white-hot pain through the tendons of his arm. Ignoring the metal biting into his wrist, he glanced back down to the chain’s end, secured to an iron ring bolted into the wall; a little more grit floated down to the planks, but the bolts held firm.

He groaned, rubbed his throbbing shoulder, and let his arm fall to his side. How many times had he tried to free the chain? Ten? Fifteen? He’d thought—hoped—that he’d be able to loosen it from the aging stonework. Anger at his captivity and worry for Juliana had driven him to fight for that freedom. However, he’d made no progress. The day was passing, and unless he came up with another strategy, he’d still be a prisoner by nightfall.

Releasing a harsh sigh, he rubbed his sweaty face. He had to get free. He had to get Juliana and his men away from here and warn his father that his vilest enemies were in Moydenshire.

Ah, God, if only he knew how Juliana fared. Veronique had said she’d locate the healer for Juliana; he hoped she had. What if Juliana perished, and he never saw her again? He could not bear that, especially when he was responsible for bringing her to Waddesford.

Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, giving in to the ache in his heart. Fight, Juliana. Live! I need you to live.

He eased himself down and pressed his back against the wall. He’d rest a short while, then tackle the chain again. Mayhap he could rip open the pallet—with his teeth, if need be—and see if there was aught in the straw filling he could use to wear the stone away from around the bolts.

As he dropped his hands into his lap, the metal around his wrists weighed upon him, a silent, physical taunt. How he loathed being chained, enslaved to another’s will. Or so Veronique thought. He’d show her how much she’d underestimated the proud de Lanceau spirit.

Along with his fury, he tasted shame. He rammed his fingers into his hair, tightened his grip until he pulled at the roots. How he’d wanted to make his sire proud. He’d wanted so much to succeed in his mission, to prove himself to be worthy of the de Lanceau legacy and capable of one day taking on his father’s responsibilities.

Instead, he’d led his men into a trap. If Veronique and Tye succeeded in the poisoned scheme they were crafting with Edouard as their hostage, doubtless he and his father would be murdered. Moydenshire would be racked with chaos. Many innocent folk could die. How easy, then, for the king to bring in his armies, ally with Veronique and Tye in a false show of heroically restoring peace, and take control of the lands and riches Edouard’s father had worked hard to keep from the king’s influence.

A groan tore from Edouard’s throat. That terrible outcome would be his fault. His, for being taken prisoner and becoming a pawn to the treachery. He’d handed his sire’s enemies every advantage. Veronique had murdered Landon, and, fettered as Edouard was, he couldn’t do one wretched thing to fix the situation.

He could only pray that the man-at-arms he’d sent to Branton Keep, after they had found Juliana in the river, reached his sire. His father might send more warriors out to investigate.

However, it could take days for them to reach Waddesford, and they might well receive the same welcome at the castle as he and his companions.

He couldn’t wait days. His father, in this situation, wouldn’t have done so.

His sire would have fought to escape. So would he.

Shifting on the pallet, he ran his hands over it, studying each dip and bump beneath the covering. There must be a weak patch somewhere . . .

Male voices—belonging to the guards, Edouard guessed—sounded from beyond the door. Veronique likely had returned to taunt him further.

Edouard rose to a crouch and watched the doorway.

The key sounded in the lock and the door swung inward, causing a draft to whip over the planks. Dust swirled into Edouard’s eyes, and he blinked.

Grunts and the rustle of straw preceded two mercenaries lugging a pallet between them. They hauled the bed across the chamber and, taking care to stay out of his reach, dumped it against the wall closest to him, rousing more dust. Edouard wiped his watering eyes with the back of his hand.

“’Avin’ a wee cry, are ye?” the graying-haired mercenary said.

Edouard glared at him. “Who will be sleeping on that pallet?”

The other man wiped his running nose on his sleeve and grinned. “Well, ye see—”

“Come on,” the older mercenary said. “We still ’ave ta bring up what’s at the bottom o’ the stairs.” He executed a mocking bow. “Yer lordship.”

Snickering, the two men retreated out the door. The panel quickly closed and the lock engaged.

Edouard looked over the pallet, as lumpy and grimy as his own. He was going to be sharing this cell. With whom? One of his men? Or . . . Juliana?

Anticipation raced through him at the thought. ’Twould be completely inappropriate, especially when he was to marry her sister, but true to Veronique’s depraved character. He and Juliana, imprisoned together, a prospect both exciting and mortifying, for they’d be intimately aware of each other every moment. Each breath, sound, and whisper would be shared.

’Twould be its own kind of torture.

More voices came from outside the door, the cadence of the tones indicating one man was giving orders. Then the lock turned again, and the door opened to admit Tye, holding Juliana in his arms.

Dismay plowed through Edouard; he’d correctly guessed Veronique’s intentions. However, Juliana lay with her eyes shut and appeared as unresponsive as when Tye had carried her out of this chamber earlier. She was clothed in a clean chemise, and her skin and hair looked freshly washed, indicating someone had bathed her. Yet her arms curled toward Tye’s chest in a gesture of entreaty.

Edouard shoved to his feet. “What have you done to her?”

Tye’s boots thumped on the planks.

“Why is she still unconscious? She was to see the healer—”

“—and she did. She is resting now. Sleep is good for curing ailments, is it not?”

“I tell you”—Edouard said firmly—“she does not look well. I demand—”

Tye laughed before halting by the empty pallet. “You are a brave fool, Brother, to speak in that manner to me.”

Beware, a voice inside Edouard shrilled. Do not be foolish and jeopardize Juliana’s well-being.

Trying to keep the force from his words, he asked, “Why have you brought her here?”

“Mother decided she will stay with you.” Tye winked. “She thought you might like a companion.” He dropped to his knees, lowered Juliana to the pallet, and stepped away. She lay with her left arm curved over her waist. Her right arm stretched away from her body, fingers slightly spread and accentuating the slenderness of her hands.

He’d put her on her right side facing Edouard rather than flat on her back, a small kindness that kept pressure from her head wound.

Kindness? Nay. That sentiment had no bearing with Tye.

Edouard met his brother’s gloating stare. “You know this arrangement is not proper.”

“Proper?” Tye shrugged and straightened his tunic.

“I am betrothed to her sister. If that is not significant enough, Juliana is a titled noblewoman. Most likely a virgin.”

“Ah. Your chivalrous morals are screaming in protest.”

Edouard silently cursed and struggled to rein in his rising temper.

“’Twill not be of consequence,” Tye said. “Unless, that is, you intend to defile her?”

“Of course not!” Edouard roared.

Tye grinned, obviously pleased by Edouard’s outburst. “You would not want to give in to temptation and upset not only your future bride, but Father, would you?”

What a vile taunt. Through the red haze clouding his mind, Edouard realized Tye had called their sire “Father.” An even more grave insult.

“He is not your father,” Edouard bit out.

“By blood, he is.”

“When I explain I had no choice in sharing my imprisonment with Juliana,” Edouard went on, his tone harshening, “he will understand. That does not concern me half as much as ruining Juliana’s reputation.”

Tye raised his brows. “What an honorable man you are.”

“I think also of her well-being. This chamber is draughty. It has no hearth to provide warmth. In her weakened condition . . .”

Tye smiled, a wry tilt of his lips. “Fine reasoning, but she is to stay here. Mother’s orders.” His gaze turned cold. “In all honesty, Brother, you two are not likely to leave Waddesford alive. Why torment yourself about morality and matters you cannot control?”

Edouard stifled his biting retort. He would leave here alive, and so would Juliana.

He glanced at her, hoping for a sign she was reviving. Her bosom rose and fell on slow, steady breaths, a sign of deep slumber. If she slept through his and Tye’s conversation, she might not wake for some time.

Footfalls sounded in the stairwell outside the still-open door.

“At last, they return,” Tye muttered.

The mercenaries who’d brought the pallet walked in, sweat streaming down their faces.

“Yer piss bucket, milord.” The gray-haired mercenary set it on the floor then shoved it with his booted foot toward Edouard.

“And yer foin beddin’.” The other man threw a woolen blanket at Edouard before tossing one at Juliana. It landed on her bare feet.

Edouard caught his blanket before it hit his chest. Chain links batted his side as he shook out the worn covering. A bit thin, but ’twould still give some warmth when night fell.

When he looked up, Tye held his stare and smirked. “You have all you need, then.”

“Juliana does not. I would like to speak with Veronique about these arrangements.”

A rough chuckle rumbled from Tye. “When she wishes to see you, she will. Until then,”—his gaze roved over Juliana and lingered, for a moment, upon her breasts swelling against her sheer garment—“you are on your own.”

***

A gritty rasp edged into Juliana’s sleepy consciousness. A rhythmic sound, she slowly realized. Rasp, rasp, rasp. Pause. Rasp, rasp, rasp.

She tried to rouse to full alertness. Her groggy mind resisted; it felt unnaturally dense, dominated by blackness heavier than she’d experienced before.

Wake, Juliana. Find Edouard. You must be certain he is all right.

She became aware of an earthy smell rising from beneath her cheek. She was lying on her side. A prickly roughness scratched her arm, while across her legs, a softer, yet also prickly, sensation persisted.

Juliana swallowed, for an earthy taste clung to her mouth. An unpleasant flavor. If only she had some water or ale to swill the essence away. Indeed, any drink would do.

Drink . . . The last thing she’d downed was the brew the healer had made for her at Veronique’s bidding. Juliana tried to steady her nerves. Was she still in the solar? Was Veronique using those gruesome bones to make that gritty noise?

Rasp, rasp, rasp came again. A shiver crawled through Juliana as she forced her eyes open.

When the muddied browns, golds, and grays within her view gradually focused, she realized she stared at a stone wall across a wood-floored chamber. The tower, where Edouard was chained?

Raising her head, she glanced toward the fading, orange-tinged light spilling in through the window. Edouard squatted with his back to her, his gaze trained on the section of wall, cast in shadow, closest to him. He was examining the mortared stone to which his chains were bolted.

Giddiness bubbled up inside her. He was all right. Oh, how wondrous to see him again. She tried not to allow her gaze to skim over his torn and dirt-scuffed tunic, or note the way the woolen fabric stretched over his shoulder and back muscles, but her mind refused to heed her maidenly request to stop. The hem of his tunic swept his buttocks. Pulled taut from his crouched posture, the dark cloth defined the swells and indents of his thigh muscles. Well-honed muscles, from what she saw.

Her gaze slid lower, to his bare feet pressed into the pallet; his boots were propped upside down against the wall a few yards away from him, mayhap to dry them out. Unable to stop her stare from returning to his arse, she caught her bottom lip with her teeth and hoped he wouldn’t suddenly glance her way and catch her ogling.

His posture shifted slightly as the fingers of his left hand skated over the rough stone. The gentle touch, somehow, reminded her of a caress. An odd, tantalizing tremor ran through her.

Movement drew her attention to his right hand, clasped around a small object. Before she could figure out what he held, he raised his hand to the iron ring. Rasp, rasp, rasp. The sound of a hard item scraping stone.

“Come on,” he said under his breath.

As he dipped his head to check his progress, his hair shifted to trail against his neck and shoulder, defining even more the hard set of his jaw. His uncompromising expression snuffed the excitement inside her, for he did indeed look threatening enough to be a murderer.

Was he truly the man Veronique had described him to be? If so, why was Juliana alone in this chamber with him?

Juliana must have sighed, moved slightly, or made some instinctive sound, for Edouard spun to face her. The chains clanked in a startling cacophony.

Juliana flinched and scrambled back, away from the noise, putting more distance between them.

As her side bumped against the wall, he said, “Sorry. I did not mean to frighten you.”

“You—” She groaned, and her hand flew up to her aching head.

“I was beginning to worry and . . . ’Tis good to see you awake.”

“Have I slept for long?” she asked.

“All afternoon.”

She rubbed her brow and realized her stomach hurt, too. The aftereffects of that drink?

“’Twill soon be nightfall,” Edouard went on, clearly determined to keep her attention now that she was roused. “I will keep working until the light fades.”

“You hope to dig out the bolts?”

He nodded. “I fear, though, I am making slow progress. ’Twould go much faster with a knife.” When he opened his palm, a sheepish grin tilted his mouth. “This pebble is not much of a tool.”

Veronique and Tye wouldn’t have left him any item that might be used as a weapon; a pebble could cause harm if thrown at close range. “Where did you find it?”

He gestured to the pallet. “I broke through the cloth covering—chewed it, actually—and felt around inside the straw. At first, I found only a twig, which I tried on the wall but it broke. Then, on my second hunt around, I found this small rock.”

“I do not see any straw on the floor.”

A faint grin touched his lips. How heart-wrenchingly handsome he looked. “I swept it all under the pallet. I do not want Veronique or Tye knowing what I have done.” He winked. “You will not tell, Juliana, will you?”

“O-of course not.”

He squinted at her, an unrelenting look that sent unease tingling down her spine. She pushed up to a sitting position against the wall, ignoring the tug of her hair caught on the stone. “W-what?”

“You hesitated. Why do you look at me as though I am a criminal?” Looking down at the pebble in his hand, he clenched it in his fist, implying he had to refocus his rising emotions.

“I do not mean to upset you,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “but . . . apart from the past day, I do not remember you at all. I have no idea what kind of a man . . . you really are.”

He lifted his head to hold her gaze. His bold, unapologetic stare made her insides quiver.

“What kind of man did Veronique and Tye make me out to be?”

She moistened her lips. “Well . . .”

A grating laugh parted his lips. “Let me guess. I like to rape nuns.”

She couldn’t hold back a shocked gasp. Dropping her gaze, she studied her hands, entwined in her lap. “Veronique did not say that.”

“She told you I was a killer, though, or an equally brutal man.”

Misgiving tightened like a knot between Juliana’s breasts. She didn’t want to make him angry; how would he react? He might be charming most of the time, but prone to a vicious temper. Hadn’t Tye said Edouard was chained because of his violent tendencies?

Even while she rationalized, part of her protested. You know, in your heart, that you can trust him, and he would never hurt you.

“Tell me what happened when they took you from here,” Edouard said, his voice surprisingly gentle. His tone coaxed her to share her most recent memories, to take him beyond the confines of this dreary chamber to what she’d experienced.

“I awoke in a large chamber. I was lying on a bed.” How distinctly she recalled the room’s details: the dark planes of shadow; the tight weave of the coverlet; the candlelight glimmering on the wooden table. Curious, how she itched to replicate what she’d seen in some way, to understand—to know—all the different forms and textures. Blinking aside the perplexing thoughts, she added, “Veronique told me ’twas the solar.”

Still crouching, Edouard leaned forward. “Did you wake alone in the bed?”

He’d practically spat out the question. Her face warmed, for she didn’t like the implications of that query.

No doubt noting her blush, his expression tautened. “I must know, Juliana. Was someone in the bed with you? A man?”

“Nay!” She threw up a hand. “I was lying on the bedcover, not inside the bedding.”

“Ah—”

“Veronique came to the bedside when I woke. The solar seems to be her chamber, although she said I had lived there, too, at one time.”

A curse broke from Edouard. “How like her to assume the role of lady of the keep, especially now that Landon is dead.”

“Veronique started to explain . . .” what a dangerous man you are, Edouard.

Looking again at her hands, she tried to find a less blunt manner to describe Veronique’s words.

“Juliana.”

“I-I needed to catch my breath.”

“Juliana.” Her name rolled from his tongue; his husky tone caressed each consonant and syllable, making her name seem exotic and . . . beautiful. “I want to know. What did she say about me?”

She drew in a measured breath, grappling for focus. He might have a delicious voice, but that didn’t change the fact she must tell him foul news. “All right.” She tipped her chin higher. “I will tell you. But you must promise not to get angry.”

He raised his brows. “Her words were that favorable, then?”

Juliana huffed. “Promise.”

With a dismissive flick of his hand, he said, “I promise. Why not?”

He sounded bitter. He didn’t like being coerced. But she’d achieved her aims and wouldn’t delay his answer.

“Veronique said you are heartless,” Juliana began.

Edouard grunted.

“A killer—”

“What trained warrior is not?”

“—and that you came to this keep to murder her and Tye, because—”

“Because?” Edouard echoed.

“You are jealous of Tye, your half brother, and do not want him to inherit from your sire, even though he is entitled.”

Shaking his head, Edouard laughed. His laughter faded to a growl. “Well. She certainly did her best to keep you from trusting me.”

Juliana flexed her numbing fingers. “She said you would try to win my trust, so I would help you escape. That ’tis the only reason you care . . . about me.”

His sharpened gaze locked with hers. “’Tis not true, Juliana. Not at all. Truth be told, I vow most of what she has told you is a lie.”

A tiny part of Juliana’s heart sang with gladness. Still, she said, “How so?”

Chains clanked as he dropped to the pallet, then braced his arms upon his bent knees. “To begin, I do not consider myself heartless. Aye, I have killed in my lifetime—I will not lie to you about such—but the men I struck down were enemies of my father or the lords who owe fealty to him. I fought in skirmishes waged to preserve justice and harmony in these lands, as is expected of me and all the honorable warriors of this realm.”

“I . . . see.”

“Juliana, I did not travel to Waddesford Keep with the intention of killing Veronique and Tye; I came to speak with Lord Ferchante, on my father’s behalf. I did not realize, until too late, that they were at this castle. If I had known, I would not have brought you here to have your wound healed.”

How she ached at the self-condemnation in his words. “Edouard—”

He held up a hand. “Let me finish. I want you to hear it all, Juliana, for Veronique and Tye are my sire’s longtime enemies. My sire has been hunting them for years, because they have sworn to destroy him and take over the lands he has ruled in peace. Tye may or may not be my half brother; that has not been proven. Even if we are related, he is bastard-born, and has no right to inherit. I, however, am my father’s heir. ’Tis one of the reasons Veronique is so eager to keep me hostage and to stop you from helping me. If I do not escape”—he paused, expression stark—“they will kill me.”

“You cannot be certain,” Juliana whispered.

“I am. I have no doubt my death will be painful and in a manner to cause my sire great anguish.” He dropped his head on a weary sigh.

The finality in Edouard’s tone left her cold. She hardly dared to ask, and yet she must. “Do they mean to kill me, too?”

He slowly raised his head. Remorse flickered in his eyes. “I will not lie to you, Juliana. I expect so.”

She crossed her arms and hugged herself tight. An awful sense of disorientation swirled through her. “I do not want to die. Not when I do not even remember who I am!”

“Juliana, listen to me. I will not let them hurt you. I will do all I can to protect you. That is why we must escape, as soon as we can. Whatever treachery they are plotting, we must warn my sire. We must stop them.”

Again Edouard spoke of escape together, as though they were united in their fight against Veronique and Tye. Juliana tried not to dwell upon the conversation in the solar, but the older woman’s warning crept into her thoughts: Beware, Juliana, of thinking kindly about Edouard.

Sensing his attention upon her again, Juliana looked across the chamber, unable to stop her body from trembling.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

He insists he cares for you only because he needs your help.

She shrugged.

“I am sorry you are caught up in this crisis. Please believe I never intended to bring you into danger.”

He is a deceitful bastard, just like his father.

She closed her eyes. Bracing her elbows on her knees, she pressed her palms to her forehead. If only she could calm the chaos in her head, all the reasonings and explanations spinning around that she needed to evaluate.

What was the truth? What wasn’t?

“What else did Veronique tell you about me?” Edouard asked.

Opening her eyes, Juliana tilted her head to look at him. Goosebumps shot down her arms, for his stare bored into her, demanding she divulge the remainder of Veronique’s cryptic words. “She said you will win my trust, and then you will crush it.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Frustration gnawed at Edouard while he held Juliana’s moist gaze. He sensed her turmoil, her confusion as to what she should believe and what was designed to mislead her. She shivered, no doubt from overwrought nerves. How he wished he could go to her, draw her into his arms, and ease her fears with the acknowledgment she wasn’t—and never would be—alone during this tumultuous time.

As their gazes held, the ache inside him became keener. After months of her pointedly avoiding him, of living with the turmoil of his unfortunate betrothal, he was finally facing her again. She might not remember him, but by God, he craved her, for she was even more comely than the maiden in his memories.

What he would give to slide his fingers down her soft cheek, ease her chin up, and smile down at her before he bent his head and kissed her, slowly, thoroughly, skillfully enough to draw from her a pleasured moan. The way he’d longed to kiss her by Sherstowe’s well. He’d imagined that so many times as he lay restless and alone on his pallet at Dominic’s keep.

He shuddered, fighting a stirring of desire.

She said you will win my trust, and then you will crush it.

Still holding her stare, Edouard’s throat tightened. He longed to scorn Veronique’s words. However, they were true. He’d won Juliana’s trust at Sherstowe Keep and shattered it that same day with the bet to win her kiss. He’d destroyed it with his regrettable kiss with Nara.

You are not that same, reckless man any longer; you are a knight, his heart cried. You cannot woo her, since you are honor-bound to wed Nara, but you can fight to earn her respect.

Aye, he would.

“I cannot tell you what to believe,” he said. “I do not blame you for being wary. I wonder, though, what Veronique told you about yourself?”

Juliana’s head raised a notch, causing long, silky hair to tumble around her shoulders. “She told me I once stayed in the solar. And—” She frowned. “’Twas all.”

Edouard couldn’t resist a grin. “I can tell you far more.”

“I would like that. I would especially like to know . . . my full name.”

“Lady Juliana de Greyne.”

“Lady.” A slight frown creased her brow. “I did not realize I was of the noble class.”

He nodded. “You lived here at Waddesford at the invitation of Lady Mayda Ferchante. You were her closest friend and lady-in-waiting.”

When he’d said “Lady Ferchante,” her expression had sharpened with intense concentration. “Do you remember Mayda?” Mayhap her name had prompted a return of memories?

“I thought, for a moment . . .” With a heavy sigh, Juliana shook her head. “You may have told me before, but what is your full name?”

“Edouard, the firstborn son of Geoffrey de Lanceau. My father is lord of all of Moydenshire.”

Awe swept her features. “I see.” She gnawed her bottom lip, as though she considered his words. “You are a valuable captive, then, to Veronique.”

“Until I no longer have a use in her schemes. By the way, your father, who is lord of Sherstowe Keep, is one of my sire’s trusted knights. He has served my father for many years.” He brushed dust from his hose. “Do you remember when you first met my sire?”

Edouard waited, holding his breath, watching the emotions flicker in her eyes. He saw uncertainty, frustration, but not, as he dreaded, remembrance, for if she recalled that day at Sherstowe, they wouldn’t be speaking pleasantly any longer. She’d be banging her fists on the door to be as far away from him as possible.

Juliana fingered hair behind her ear; he tried not to watch the sheer linen tighten across her generous bosom. Shaking her head, she said, “I do not recall your sire. Our families know each other well, then?”

Well enough to have wanted to unite their families through marriage. But he didn’t wish to bring up that matter yet. “Reasonably well.”

A grin curved her mouth. “More than reasonably, I vow.”

The smile softened her features and cast a warm glow in her eyes. He inhaled on a renewed tingle of desire. “Why do you say such?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound witless.

To her astonishment, a blush pinkened her face. She dropped her gaze and looked across the floorboards. “Well . . .”

“Aye?” God’s teeth, but he was intrigued.

“Each time . . . I look at you,” she said with a slight shrug, “I get this . . . feeling in my breast—”

His gaze fell upon her bosom, then snapped away.

“—a sensation so strong, I cannot ignore it.”

“Tell me more.” He barely recognized his own voice.

Her gaze slowly lifted to hold his. “’Tis the most powerful sensation I have ever felt. I do not mean to speak boldly, but I believe we know each other well. Very well.” Her blush deepened. “’Tis the only explanation.”

How beautiful she looked, her expression shy but yearning, her luscious mouth partly opened on an eager breath. Even as he held her urgent gaze, though, his desire plummeted. She felt strongly about him because of the past between them. The sensation wasn’t attraction, but hatred.

How did he explain it, when she’d no recollection of why she despised him?

He searched for a suitable answer. “Juliana . . .”

Her pallet rustled as she scooted toward him on her knees, her chemise brushing the planks. “I know why you must be cautious, Edouard,” she said in a low voice. “If you identify me as your . . . lover, that would put me in greater danger. You are trying to protect me.”

“Protect you,” Edouard murmured, as she came even closer. God’s holy bones, but he couldn’t look away. Sunlight spilled over her, casting her hair and slender body in washes of gold. Her faint, lavender scent wafted to him, and he suddenly remembered she’d smelled of lavender years ago, when he’d almost kissed her by the well, when he’d realized he wanted her kiss.

He drew in a breath, hungry for her essence. She smelled of promise, of possibilities, of freedom, not of the musty straw and old stone of imprisonment.

“’Tis safest for us both if we do not admit our relationship.” She was beside him now, her gaze imploring, face flushed and eager. “’Tis why you have kept our relationship a secret. Tell me I am right.”

As he took in her excitement, anguish kindled inside him. How wretched that he must disappoint her. He owed her the truth, though. He must admit they were naught to each other.

But she was temptingly close. His wicked hands yearned to reach out and slide into her hair, to feel its shiny softness. All his concern for her over the past day suddenly welled up inside him, mingling into sinful yearning. What he would give to hold her close and kiss her on those rose-red lips—at last, have that kiss he’d desired years ago.

Take it, a voice inside him urged. Kiss her! Nara will never know.

He’d know. The dishonor of that act would eat at his conscience. Moreover, ’twould not be fair to let Juliana imagine more between them than there was.

While waiting for his answer, Juliana had clasped her hands and settled back on her heels. Her chemise flowed in a gossamer swath around her. Never had he seen a more alluring woman.

“Edouard?”

Silence, as hideous as a gargoyle, pressed into the quietness between them. He struggled against his inner torment. As his sire always insisted, honorable men told the truth, no matter how difficult that might be.

“I will be honest, Juliana.” Edouard said with care. “You and I were—”

Mumbled voices came from outside the door.

Her smile vanished. Her body tensed, while her gaze flew to her bed. She cringed, the movement clearly too fast with her wound, and she cradled her head in one hand.

“Hurry,” he whispered. “Return to your pallet.”

Dismay shadowed her features. When the key scraped in the lock, though, she nodded and hurried to sit back against the wall, then brushed the dust from the hem of her chemise with a few flicks of one hand.

Edouard sucked in a calming breath, pressed his back to the stonework, and refused to heed the unease churning in his gut. What unpleasantness did Veronique plan for him now? Realizing the pebble lay in plain sight, he snatched it and shoved it under the pallet’s edge.

The door began to open, and he stole a sidelong glance at Juliana. Gone was the smiling, desirous maiden. Wariness defined her features. Did she worry that she’d made a fool of herself with him? Or was she as unnerved about what might happen next as he was?

Tye strode in first, followed by Veronique. A blond-haired woman followed a few steps behind them, carrying a wooden tray. It bore bread, a jug of drink, several cloths, and an earthenware pot.

“Tye,” Veronique said. “Shut the door. Keep watch.”

“Aye, Mother.” He shoved the panel closed, then leaned one arm against it, while his hand rested on his sword hilt.

Veronique’s sharp gaze slid to Juliana, then Edouard.

A lusty chuckle broke from her. “Edouard, you must be growing hungry by now.”

Coming from her lips, those innocent words sounded like an invitation to fornicate right there on the dirty, musty pallet. Trying not to recall her hands on him earlier that day, he scowled. “I have no appetite for what you might offer me.”

Her smile turned sly. “You will not be stubborn and refuse the fare I have generously brought. Will you?”

He fought to hold back a snide retort. Knowing her, she’d tainted the food. He wouldn’t eat one bite.

With the rustle of silk, Veronique approached Juliana. “How are you feeling?”

“All right, th-thank you.” Juliana smiled, but Veronique must have sensed hesitancy in her expression, for her brows quirked.

“I trust Azarel’s potion was helpful?”

Behind Veronique, the young woman stiffened. She appeared to brace herself for a wallop, and Edouard fought a stab of pity. Veronique had a firm hold over Azarel. Her chains were invisible, but they were no less real than his iron fetters. Who or what did Veronique use to keep this poor woman under her will?

“The drink helped me a great deal, I am certain,” Juliana was saying. Her words sounded rushed; she clearly tried to spare the healer from punishment. An admirable kindness.

Veronique smiled. “We all want you to recover and once again have your memories. Is that not right, Edouard?”

Eyes narrowing, she glanced at him. He tried not to acknowledge the disquiet clawing at his innards. What was she about? Was she trying to talk him into some kind of verbal trap? To distort this conversation to suit a purpose he didn’t yet know?

“Of course I want Juliana to recover,” he said.

“Then in this matter we are not enemies, aye? We agree she must eat and drink and regain her strength. That, in turn, will help her memories come back.”

Her words made sense. He had to wonder, though, why she was so interested in Juliana regaining her memories.

Veronique signaled Azarel to step forward. The healer crossed to Juliana, dropped down on her knees, and set the tray beside the pallet. Azarel’s attention remained fixed upon her hands, folded in her lap; she made no attempt to look at Juliana, or steal a glance at Edouard. Had Veronique warned her not to make any contact with them? What cruel threat had she made, to make this woman seem so remote?

“Ah, look, Edouard. The food is beyond your reach,” Veronique murmured, sounding smug. “If you want to eat, you will have to ask Juliana for some fare.”

His mouth flattened. He was forced to be dependent on Juliana for a most basic need: sustenance. No doubt Veronique wanted to reinforce his helplessness. Disillusion him, humiliate him, by forcing him, a lord’s son, to ask for what should be granted him without restrictions.

“I will gladly share,” Juliana said.

Refusing to yield to the annoyance Veronique had roused within him, Edouard shrugged. “I am not hungry.”

“Tsk, tsk, Edouard. If you refuse to eat, you discourage Juliana from doing the same. However, if you partake of the fare, she will follow your example.” Veronique smirked. “You must eat. We are, after all, allies in our wish to see her recover.”

Allies. Edouard almost laughed. How cleverly she had planned this twisted game of hers. He stared her down, funneling all of his hatred for her into his gaze.

She didn’t look away.

“Do as I ask”—Veronique’s eyes sparked with malice—“and you might be alive to see your sire ride through the gates of the keep.”

“Enough,” Edouard growled, still holding her stare. He wouldn’t tolerate goading that involved his father.

“Alive to know he tried to rescue you.”

“Veronique—”

She cackled, the sound shrill with gloating. “Alive to watch him die.”

A roar of pure, hot fury boiled up inside Edouard. His hands shook, for he wanted to lunge to his feet and bellow in her pitiless, painted face. With immense effort, he forced the roar into submission. Yelling at Veronique would accomplish naught, especially when Tye seemed eager to use his sword. Far wiser for Edouard to hold his tongue and use his fury to help him escape.

But in one matter, he would not yield. He wouldn’t be the first to look away.

Veronique grinned, as though deciding she’d won that battle. Then, with a lazy dip of her lashes, she looked at Azarel, still kneeling by Juliana’s pallet with her gaze downcast. “Begin, Azarel,” she said. “Do as I told you. Tye and I will be watching.”

***

When Azarel reached for the pot on the tray, Juliana tried to meet her gaze, but the healer averted her eyes. Disquiet gnawed at Juliana. If only she could find some way to communicate with Azarel; find a way, mayhap, for the healer to send a message to Edouard’s father for help.

“Turn your back to me and look down, milady,” Azarel said in a strong yet compassionate voice. “’Twill be easiest for me to care for your wound.” Lifting the lid off the pot, she released the brisk, herbal scent of the ointment inside.

Azarel was doing no more than tending Juliana as Veronique commanded. However, a curious tension—a stifled sense of anticipation—emanated from the young woman. Taking care not to give away the fact that she was aware of Azarel’s tension, Juliana did as bade. Anchoring her left hand into her hair, she drew it aside to more fully expose the wound.

While she stared down at the pallet’s grubby covering, Juliana heard Tye murmur to Veronique. Words not meant for others to hear. She sensed Veronique’s assessing stare sweep over Azarel and herself, but kept her gaze locked on the pallet.

The healer’s sleeve batted Juliana’s hair as she rose up on her knees and gently probed the lump at Juliana’s nape. Pain and nausea tore through Juliana. Pressing her arm across her stomach, she drew a ragged breath.

“Lady de Greyne,” the healer said, so quietly, Juliana almost didn’t think she’d spoken.

Squinting through the agony, Juliana turned her head a fraction.

“Do not look at me,” the healer whispered. “Focus on your pain. Otherwise, they will be suspicious.”

Juliana rubbed at her aching brow and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Do you remember me?” Azarel asked.

Juliana slowly turned her head to one side, then the other.

The piquant scent of herbs wafted before a feeling of dampness. As Azarel applied the ointment, a fresh flood of agony seared through Juliana’s skull, and she stifled a groan.

“We used to know each other well. I cannot say much more,” the healer said, her voice barely audible, “but I wanted you to know, for when your memories come back—”

Veronique’s voice crested on a muffled laugh.

“The babe is safe, in the village.”

Juliana’s partly inhaled breath froze in her chest. Babe? Whose babe?

Had she given birth to a child? An infant she couldn’t recall? Was that why she sensed such an undeniable connection to Edouard, because he was the father of her son or daughter? If, as she suspected, he was trying to protect her from danger, he wouldn’t have wanted to remind her of the babe; ’twas his way of keeping it safe.

If they’d conceived a child together, though, shouldn’t they be married? More questions filled her pain-fogged mind. If only she could think properly. If only she dared to ask Azarel to share more details.

Shifting the hand holding up her hair, she stole a sidelong glance at the healer. But Azarel was pushing the lid back onto the pot and wiping her fingers on a cloth. Naught in her countenance indicated that she’d spoken to Juliana. Neither did she acknowledge Juliana’s glance.

Frustration urged Juliana to softly whisper, “What babe? Please—”

“How is the wound?” Veronique asked, her voice drowning out Juliana’s.

“’Tis healing well, milady,” Azarel answered.

“Good.”

Juliana swallowed. Had Veronique seen or heard her speak to the healer? Not likely. Still, Juliana must beware. She mustn’t jeopardize Azarel’s safety.

“Thank you for your help, Azarel,” Juliana said loudly enough for all to hear.

Not looking up, the healer nodded once, then set the cloth and pot back on the tray, her movements controlled and efficient. Her hands, though, were shaking.

She rose. Her lashes flicked up, and for the briefest instant, her fearful gaze met Juliana’s, before she looked back at the floorboards and faced Veronique and Tye.

The older woman’s attention fixed on Azarel. “How much longer till Juliana’s memories return?”

“I cannot say, milady.”

Edouard rolled his eyes. “She cannot be expected to know that.”

“Silence, Edouard.” Veronique looked down at Juliana. “Azarel, what can you do to quicken the process for Juliana?” She flexed her misshapen fingers. “How about giving her a stronger potion?”

Juliana’s stomach rebelled at the thought of another vile drink. “I do not think—”

“We do not expect you to think, with a head wound,” Veronique cut in. “Azarel, I expect you to have an answer on the morrow.”

The healer’s shoulders stiffened, but she said, “Aye, milady.”

Chains clanked as Edouard leaned forward, his face set in a frown. “Why are you so interested in Juliana regaining her memories? What does it matter to you?”

A very good question. Hands clasped in her lap, Juliana waited for Veronique’s reply.

The older woman smiled—a sly, secretive turn of her lips—and motioned for Tye to open the door.

***

“What does she want from me?”

Juliana’s voice reached Edouard over the grating of the pebble on the wall. The daylight was fading, casting an intense, orange-red glow into the chamber. He had precious little time left to make progress on their escape.

Wiping perspiration from his nose, he looked at Juliana, sitting on her pallet, with her arms looped around her knees. How forlorn she looked. He fought a renewed pang of guilt that he’d brought her into Veronique’s dangerous realm.

“I do not know what she wants,” he said. “I do know, however, she intends to profit from what you remember.”

“I wonder . . .” Juliana sighed, as though greatly troubled. “Edouard, there is something I must ask you.”

He scraped the pebble again. “Mmm?”

“Do we . . . have a baby?”

Shock jolted through him, almost causing him to fall forward against the wall. Of all the things he’d expected her to ask, that wasn’t among them. Why would she imagine they’d made a child together? His mind raced, rousing an unsettling fascination. Did her feelings for him run so deep, she believed they’d shared the pleasure of their bodies?

Did she . . . desire him? Crave him, even half as much as he craved her?

A tremor rippled through him as he forced the tantalizing thoughts aside. It didn’t matter if Juliana desired him. She was forbidden to him, because of his betrothal to Nara.

While he gathered his wits again, the pebble slid from his fingers, bounced onto the planks, and rattled to a halt a hand’s span from the untouched tray of food.

“Why would you believe we have a child?” He didn’t mean to sound so astounded, but he simply couldn’t help it. As he looked at her, his innards clenched at the bewilderment shimmering in her eyes.

Juliana squared her shoulders; she clearly meant to get the answer she sought. “Azarel whispered to me while she tended me. She said, ‘The babe is safe, in the village.’ Our babe? If not ours, whose?”

Her earnest expression touched at the yearning for her he’d tried to lock away within himself. He longed to sweep his mouth over hers, to promise her all would be well, to offer comfort. Turning away from the wall, he faced her and sat down. He wiped dust from his fingers, then took in a careful breath. “Juliana—”

“’Tis not a foolish question.”

“I agree.” He continued to stare at his hands, scraped in a few places from grazing the wall while using the pebble. Refusing to acknowledge a rising sense of awkwardness, he said, “To create a child, a man and woman must . . .”

“Be in love.”

“Aye. And—”

“Desire to make a child together.”

Oh, aye. Desire certainly helped. Edouard choked down a helpless laugh. Hellfire, he’d just have to say the hot, sweaty, indelicate issue outright. “They must fornicate, Juliana.”

He dared to lift his gaze.

Her face had turned scarlet.

“Oh. Well,” she said, after a long, silent moment. “Does that mean you and I never—?”

“We never fornicated.” Although, of all depravities, he couldn’t help wondering what ’twould be like to lie with her, run his fingers over her naked flesh, and lazily explore all the delicious permutations of that hot, sweaty, indelicate issue before finding shuddering release in each other’s embrace.

His loins warmed. With a silent curse, he willed his lust to dissipate.

Juliana appeared relieved by the fact they’d never coupled, yet somehow also dismayed.

“What child did Azarel speak of, then?” she asked. “Whose babe would be important to me?”

Edouard started to shake his head, until he recalled the embroidered baby blanket he’d brought to Waddesford in his saddlebag. “The Ferchantes’ newborn daughter,” he said. “Azarel came here to assist with her birth. You likely helped Mayda care for her.”

“In the solar.” Juliana’s eyes widened. “That would explain why I felt that chamber was familiar.”

“Aye. Did you see the babe whilst you were there?”

Juliana frowned. “I saw no sign of a child, or truth be told, Lady Ferchante. Veronique told me she is dead.”

’Twas likely true, especially if Mayda had opposed Landon’s affair with Veronique and her growing control of Waddesford. Azarel must have somehow got the babe to safety, before Veronique could slaughter the last of the Ferchante family. Mayhap Veronique kept firm control over Azarel with a threat to snatch and murder the infant.

Grief crushed down upon Edouard. He had to get free of this wretched captivity, had to undermine Veronique’s treachery, before—

The pebble again rattled on the planks. As his gaze focused, he saw it rolling toward him, and Juliana straightening from pushing it his way.

He snatched up the stone, met her gaze, and smiled.

She smiled back, before her lashes dropped in shy hesitation. “There is one more thing I must ask you.”

A strange tension threaded together her words. Was she going to ask him if they’d almost fornicated?

“You didn’t finish explaining our relationship earlier. Edouard, why do I feel such strong emotions for you?” Her voice softened to a plea. “I realize you may be trying to protect me, but I must know. Please. Are you and I lovers?”

Her eyes glistened with the hint of tears. His heart squeezed tight. Fighting the awful pressure in his gut, he said, “Nay, Juliana, we are not lovers. We never can be, for I am betrothed to your sister.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Juliana lay on her right side, her head pillowed on her bent arm, staring into the darkness. She saw the same inkiness when she shut her eyes. Yet for some reason, the pervasive blackness made her all the more aware of Edouard lying a short distance away.

We are not lovers. We never can be, for I am betrothed to your sister.

His words whirled through her exhausted mind. His admission that he was committed to another had shocked the breath from her and left her numb. Shame, too, welled inside her. She might not remember his betrothal to her sister he’d told her was named Nara, but harboring such strong emotions toward him was surely improper.

“I am very happy for you and Nara.” She’d bravely forced out the words, while hating the way her voice wobbled.

He must have noticed, for his lips pressed into a line. Before she could ask when the wedding would take place, he’d turned away to attack the wall with the stone. His ferocious assault suggested he didn’t want to talk about the matter anymore, so she’d let him work in silence. He’d toiled until twilight, without saying another word. While he’d made some headway, he hadn’t yet managed to loosen the bolts, and his brooding silence had left her unsettled and unbearably lonely.

’Twas odd, how intensely she felt Edouard’s presence reaching out of the blackness to her. She sensed his body warmth, heard his rhythmic breathing and the occasional clink of chains, and sensed he, too, was awake and trying to deal with the thoughts racing around in his mind.

Why did she feel this way toward a man who wasn’t her lover?

A breeze slipped over her, coming from the open window. Shivering, she drew the thin blanket about her shoulders. Hoping for sleep. Wanting to escape this cell. Longing to finally recall all there was to know about herself, Lady Juliana de Greyne.

While she and Edouard hadn’t coupled and produced a child, and he was pledged to her sister, something had occurred between them. Her feelings for him wouldn’t be so intense or muddled otherwise.

He sighed. Fighting a pinch of guilt, she imagined the broad muscles of his chest expanding and contracting. The parting of his lips—so beautifully sculpted—as air rushed from them.

“Juliana.” His voice rumbled through the darkness.

She started. Had he sensed her thinking about him? “A-aye, Edouard?”

“I knew you were awake.”

She curled her fingers against the pallet. ’Twas unseemly of her, but she found pleasure in the rich timbre of his voice; it roused within her a comforting blend of reassurance and trust. A thrill raced through her, too, to know that he, somehow, had been so aware of her. Smiling, she asked, “How did you know I was not asleep?”

“A feeling. A kind of . . . sensing.” Metal scraped and she imagined him shifting on his pallet. “’Tis difficult to put into words.”

She knew, though, exactly what he meant. If only she understood what had forged a connection this strong between them.

Another gust swept across the floor, and Juliana shuddered before tugging the blanket all the way up to her chin. The night wind was strengthening.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“A bit cold.” Remorse poked at her, for while she was a captive, she didn’t have iron bands clamped around her wrists and could move about as she wished. He must be uncomfortable, trying to sleep while chained. “You must be chilled, too,” she murmured. “You are close to the window.”

He grunted. “I will manage.”

How nonchalant he sounded; she imagined his shoulder rising in a careless shrug. If she pressed him, he’d probably say he’d spent colder nights sleeping on the ground in midwinter, as part of his warrior training. Yet she discerned he was, indeed, uncomfortable; he likely didn’t want to admit such because that would give Veronique a small victory, and he was a proud man who didn’t yield easily.

“It must be near midnight,” he said.

“Mmm.”

“We should try and sleep. When dawn breaks, I will work again on my chains. Mayhap I will have better luck on the morrow.”

“There must be another way to escape,” she said.

“For you, mayhap. I am here till I break my fetters from the wall or they are unlocked.” He growled a sigh. “If only you knew how much I want to be free.”

“I can hear it in your voice,” she said softly. “I feel your rage and frustration, as if they were my own.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“We are one then, in our discontent.”

We are one. Three little words that sounded wondrous strung together. Juliana closed her eyes and savored the heady glimmer inside her, ignoring her conscience that insisted she shouldn’t indulge such thoughts.

How curious, that she wasn’t as cold as moments ago, or as unsettled. She breathed in and slowly exhaled, allowing her muscles to relax for a moment; the constant ache in her head to dim; her mind to calm . . .

Ooooo . . .

Her limbs jerked with the abruptness of her waking. Her heart pounded.

That cry . . . So haunting.

With a shaking hand, she pushed aside hair that had fallen over her cheek while she dozed. Was Edouard moaning because he was in pain? Mayhap he was asleep, enduring a nightmare. Or had she dreamt the noise?

Ooooo . . .

The sound was akin to someone wailing. Not Edouard, though; the noise emanated from outside.

A chill crawled over her skin and she drew the blanket tighter about her. Might she be hearing a spirit? The ghostly presence of a prisoner who’d died in this chamber?

Chains rattled from the darkness. “Juliana?”

When her mind registered Edouard’s voice, she also heard short, ragged breaths: her own.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“That n-noise.” Her voice emerged no more than a croak.

“’Tis the wind blowing past the tower walls.”

“It sounds like a person c-crying. A baby’s wail . . .” Her teeth chattered. She became aware of cooling wetness on her cheeks: tears.

“’Tis only the wind.” His gentle words were no doubt meant to console her. Somehow, though, the anxiety inside her furrowed deeper.

Ooooo . . .

Edouard was right. The night gusts caused the eerie wail. However, the noise tapped into a place inside her that hurt. Oh, how she ached. Why? What had happened in her past to rouse such a devastating sense of loss?

She squeezed her eyes shut. If only she remembered! She must remember, for the anguish threatened to tear her apart.

“Juliana—”

A sob wrenched from her.

“You are crying.” Surprise, and a hint of dismay, echoed in his voice.

She dried her eyes on the edge of her blanket. “I d-do not know why.” She sniffled. “That s-sound . . .”

Ooooo . . .

Straw crackled in the near darkness. “Come here.”

Blinking hard, she glanced in his direction. Foolish. In the inkiness, she couldn’t see him. Yet the thought of being close to him during this grim night was very tempting.

“Come to me, Juliana.” How tenderly he spoke. “I cannot cross to you.”

A shudder rippled its way through her lower body, while she stifled another sob. “I do n-not think . . . You are b-betrothed.”

“Aye,” he said, his tone strained, “but I can still comfort you.”

What would it be like to be in his embrace? Part of her yearned for it; part of her shrilled that she’d be wiser to avoid temptation and stay where she was. “Edouard . . .”

“I understand your reluctance, but ’tis a cold night. In your weakened state, ’twould be easy for you to succumb to a chill and fall deathly ill.”

“T-true.” She didn’t want to die in this miserable cell.

“You must stay well, Juliana, and heal, so your memories will return. Our fate—indeed, that of all of Moydenshire—may depend upon what you remember.”

He was right. Her qualms were nowhere near as important as her survival. “A-all right. I w-will come to you.” She pushed to a seated position, letting her blanket slide down to her waist. Then she gathered up the blanket and tucked it under one arm.

“Follow my voice,” he said.

Ooooo . . .

Stretching out her hand, she touched the floor. The planks felt as cold as a frozen lake against her palm. Shivering, she tugged her chemise up around her thighs so it wouldn’t hinder her progress—he wouldn’t see her bared legs in the darkness—then crawled forward on her hands and knees. Listening.

“I am here,” Edouard said.

His voice seemed to wash over her, coaxing her on. An unusual excitement flickered within her. How tantalizing, to approach him in this way. To be in total darkness, but for his voice.

Her chemise bunched at her knees. Pushing the fabric aside again, she said, “Speak again.”

“I am here, Juliana.” His tone was huskier than before. She imagined him talking to her that way while his lips brushed her cheek, and she fought a wicked tremor.

Stop it, Juliana. He is to marry Nara, remember?

Another crawl forward. Another.

Her fingers bumped the edge of his pallet.

“Almost here,” he murmured.

She sensed him very near. He didn’t reach for her, or make the slightest move, but his earthy, male scent came from the blackness ahead. Her palms started to sweat. Part of her—the rational, sensible part—screamed, Turn back, while you still can.

Nay. She wouldn’t retreat. She wanted to survive.

Her fingers slipped onto the pallet. As she edged forward, her hand shifted. Touched warm cloth.

“My left leg,” he said.

“Oh.” She drew a steadying breath. “Then the rest of you is—”

Metal clanked. His limb shifted beneath her hand; taut muscles and tendons slid beneath the fabric. Icy fingers nudged her, and then his broad hand settled atop hers.

His touch, while cold, sent warmth coursing through her body. His strength, reassurance, and promise of companionship were as inviting as a steaming mug of mulled wine on a winter evening.

She sighed. His fingers squeezed; heat spread from where their hands touched. Even that small contact was wonderful.

“I cannot move any closer,” he said gently. “You will have to move nearer to me.”

Nearer. Her heart fluttered, as though she were a sparrow perched outside a window, looking in.

“Why do you hesitate?” Edouard’s chains rattled again, and she sensed him leaning closer, seeking her out in the darkness.

A thrill hastened down her spine. How breathless, light-headed, she felt, and not from her wound. “I am . . . a bit unsettled,” she admitted.

“By me?”

She rubbed her lips together. Him, aye. The odd feelings he roused in her. The fact she felt as she did, when he belonged to her sister . . . The wind moaned again, sending frigid air over her, and she shivered.

“You will no longer be cold,” he said softly, “when you are with me.”

His hand shifted. With gentle pressure, he slid his palm underneath hers to entwine their fingers, and then pulled her toward him.

Her stomach swooped. “Edouard—”

“Come to me, Juliana.”

Her arm stretched taut, drawing her torso toward him. Losing her balance, she began to fall toward the pallet. For one panicked moment, she thought to pull away.

With a swift tug, he levered her forward. The breath rushed from her lips as she collided with the broad, solid heat of his chest.

His breath stirred her hair. “You are here,” he said. “At last.”

***

Edouard stilled, waiting for Juliana to gain her balance. Her free hand banged into his jaw.

“Oh! I—”

Her fingers were like icicles. Even as he acknowledged their coldness, her hand skated across his cheek, not a deliberate touch, but an instinctive reaction, no doubt, to her body sliding down against his, guided by his embrace.

Not such a bad way to be with a woman.

Her finger jabbed his right eyeball.

“Ah!” His eyelids clamped shut. Just what he needed, to be half blind as well as chained. Of course, she hadn’t meant to poke him.

“Sorry. Oh, goodness, w-was that—?”

“My eye.” Edouard blinked away moisture.

Her hand bumped against his shoulder. “Did I hurt y-you?”

“Nay.”

“Thank the Saints.” She laughed, a nervous warble. “This close, and I still c-cannot see you.”

Nor I you, his mind answered, while he eased his fingers from hers to allow her to better recline. But I can hear you breathe, feel the softness of your warm chemise, and smell the perfume of your hair. God above, Juliana, how you entice me.

Even as he struggled to squash that thought, his hardened loins swelled further. Damnation. He’d vowed to keep control of his desire. He’d offered Juliana comfort, and he meant to honor his words. Either he regained command of his lust, or he’d spend the entire night in aroused agony.

He concentrated on quelling the fire in his groin. Straw shifted as Juliana settled beside him. He guessed that she was lying on her side, heard the faint rasp of wool as she covered herself with her blanket. When she fell quiet, he sensed she was looking at where she knew him to be.

A silent growl of pleasure unfurled inside him. He still couldn’t see her, but in the small gap separating their bodies, her heat reached out to him like a bonfire beacon in the night. How he longed to bring her flush against him, to feel her supple curves against his hardness . . .

Edouard, you wretched fool! Quit such thoughts, or you will drive yourself mad.

He frowned, determined to conquer his disgraceful weakness. Be gallant, Edouard, and think about her comfort. Sliding his hand up the pallet, he found the chain running between them and pushed it closer to him. She needn’t lie on it and be uncomfortable. Then he tugged his blanket, barely large enough for one, back up over his waist, painfully aware that even the slightest movement caused the chains to make noise.

“Do they hurt?” she asked.

They. Several answers to this question leapt to mind, the most inappropriate rising to the fore. Managing to keep his tone calm, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“The iron bands around your wrists.”

Ah. “A little,” he said. “Fetters are not designed to be pleasant. Are you comfortable enough?”

“Aye, but I am still cold.”

He settled his cheek upon his bent arm, just as her hand moved, mayhap to adjust her blanket. Her fingers knocked his chin; one fingertip touched his lips.

Purely on instinct, he turned his head and sucked that fingertip into his mouth.

Juliana gasped. “Oh!”

Cease, Edouard! You must! Somehow, though, the shock and delight in her voice held his will captive and forced him on.

Grazing her skin with his teeth, he drew in more of her finger, until his upper lip touched the knuckle bone where her finger joined her hand. He twirled his tongue around her flesh, while savoring her shocked shivers.

Her skin tasted sweet. Deliciously so. He inhaled her alluring scent that reminded him of lavender and honey. Mmm . . . Never had he known a woman to smell so good.

“What”—Juliana breathed—“are you doing?”

He stilled, aware of the merciless throbbing of his groin. What was he doing? He certainly wasn’t going to seduce her, although knowing Veronique, ’twas exactly what she’d intended by returning Juliana to the drafty tower after a perfumed bath.

With a wry chuckle, he drew back, releasing her digit. “I was . . . ah . . . warming your finger.”

The air stirred between them as she snatched her hand away. “Well, I—”

“’Tis feeling warmer?”

“Aye, but . . . Do you normally warm fingers that way?”

She peered at him. He knew it. How readily he pictured her face, set in a winsome expression of both fascination and uncertainty.

“Not always.” He smiled into the darkness. Before he could stop the reckless words, he said, “Shall I continue?”

Her startled squawk brought silent laughter welling up inside him.

“Thank you, but nay. For you to heat up all of my fingers would . . . take awhile.” She sighed. “There must be better ways to get warm.”

Ah, but there were. He knew plenty that weren’t just efficient, but highly pleasurable . . .

No more bawdy thoughts. He hadn’t coaxed her over to this pallet to spend a lusty night together, but to offer solace, and thus, persuade her to trust him. Together, they had a better chance of surviving the ordeals ahead and escaping this tower.

The pallet rustled, and he sensed her yanking on her blanket.

“I know of a way for both of us to get warm,” he said.

“I am not sucking on your fingers whilst you do so to mine.”

He chuckled. “Nay. I will put my arm around you and draw you close.”

“Is that wise?” Her voice sounded muffled by her blanket.

Probably not, considering your arousal, his conscience answered. Ignoring the inner warning, he said, “Of course. By sharing our bodies’ heat, we will both become warm. ’Twill grow colder, I vow, before dawn breaks.”

She shuddered. Her teeth were still chattering. He rose on his elbow and set his arm around her, just as she wriggled up against him.

As he lowered his head back down onto his forearm, her breath swept against his throat. Her hair glided over his arm at her back, the softness of her tresses a stark contrast to the bite of his restraints.

Did the iron links trailing across her waist bother her? He hoped not. There wasn’t much he could do about the wretched chain.

“I feel warmer already,” she murmured.

“Good.” Gladness swirled up inside him.

She fitted her body more closely to him, an innocent gesture that, despite the blankets between them, stirred his blood and made his manhood harden all the more. How he wanted. If she realized the physical effect she had upon him, though, she’d likely scramble back to her pallet to spend the rest of the night freezing and alone.

Carefully shifting his weight, he raised his arm, moving the right chain up and away from her, and rolled onto his back. The links settled beside him with a muffled thud; the chain now trailed along his right arm.

Juliana followed his change of position to rest her head on his shoulder. With a breathy sigh, she snuggled against him. More than one of his lovers had lain that way after a satisfying coupling. He abruptly shoved the inappropriate thought aside.

As she settled to stillness, her hand shifted over the front of his tunic; she was likely trying to find a comfortable resting position for her arm. Edouard savored the warmth of her cheek seeping through his tunic to his skin . . . an instant before her fingers flitted over his groin.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

At the feather-light touch, Edouard gasped. Shock whipped through him, and he might have heaved upright, except that Juliana lurched away from him.

Her knees rammed against his leg, while her hand pressed to the center of his chest. He sensed her sitting beside him in the blackness. A groan broke from her, a sound akin to a woman lost in ecstasy.

Before he could clear his mind of astonishment and lust and form a coherent thought, she moaned. “My head. I should not have sat up so quickly, but . . .”

But. Aye. His face burned. Chains clinking, he dragged a hand over his jaw, very glad at that moment of the darkness. Did she realize she’d touched his privates? Or would he have to answer awkward questions about what, exactly, she’d felt hidden beneath his tunic? God’s blood, he’d better have a good explanation as to why he was aroused by her.

“Edouard,” she said softly.

“Aye?” He braced himself for the first question.

“What did I . . . touch?”

“My left thigh.” Edouard, you are a rotten liar!

“Oh. It did not—”

“’Tis a buckled scar,” he said hastily. “A wound I got years ago while practicing swordplay.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. He did have a small scar somewhere on that thigh.

“I did not mean to cause you pain.”

A startled grunt scratched his throat. Is that what she’d assumed from his gasp?

“I was trying to get settled. I clearly touched you where it hurt, and I am sorry.”

He stifled a curse. He hurt all right, but not in the way she imagined. “’Tis all right, Juliana. Lie back down and get warm.”

She didn’t move, probably because of his gruffness. He hadn’t wanted to sound surly, but his discomfort over the situation had seeped into his tone.

“I really am sorry, Edouard. You have been kind to worry about my well-being, and truly I . . . would never intentionally hurt you.” She sounded close to tears, no doubt because of exhaustion.

“Lie down,” he urged, patting her hand flattened to his torso. With a breathy sigh, she nestled against him, taking great care, he noted, not to rest any weight on his left leg.

“You cannot imagine how frustrating ’tis not to remember my life.” Her voice shook. “When I try to think of my past, I see only a void.”

He couldn’t bear it if she wept. “Juliana, listen to me—”

“I want to remember, Edouard.”

“You will.”

She sniffled. “When? I cannot wait to recall every bit of my life. Especially what we were, and are, to one another.”

His stomach twisted. He, too, wanted her to regain her memories. When she did, though, she’d be mortified to remember she’d lain in his arms. She might even accuse him of beguiling her while she suffered a weakened mental state.

Thus, he must be honest with her now. “As I told you before, we were not lovers.”

He felt her posture stiffen. “Close friends, then?”

“Acquaintances.”

“Never! Edouard, my feelings for you . . .”

“There are unresolved matters between us. Important ones you will remember one day.”

She fell silent a moment. “Did you reject my affections for another lady’s?” A pause. “My sister’s?”

The very thought made him want to spit out vile curses. “Nay, Juliana. I never chose Nara over you.” He struggled against a surge of ever-present resentment.

“Did you and I have an argument?” she pressed.

“We had . . . disagreements, for which I am entirely to blame.”

“Surely we are both partly to blame.” Her hand, settled now in the middle of his chest, gently rubbed across his tunic. “And those matters between us? I vow they can be resolved.”

“I truly hope so.” She might feel differently, however, when she remembered all.

“I sense your torment,” she said softly, her words muffled against his garment. “Your body grows tense.”

He rubbed his brow, ignoring the clink and bump of his chain. Tense didn’t encompass what he was feeling now, with shame and remorse churning inside him.

Damnation, but he had to be completely truthful with her. “You hated me, Juliana. ’Tis why you feel strong emotion toward me.”

“I could not hate you.” She sounded dismayed. “Why would you believe that?”

“’Tis difficult for me to speak of.” Purely on instinct, he turned his head toward her. “How I wish—”

Her breath puffed against his lips.

He froze, ensnared by the moment of possibility. Her face was very close. The sweet scent of her skin teased him.

If he turned his head the tiniest bit more, their mouths would meet.

At long last, they’d kiss.

Take the kiss! Claim her mouth, as you have wanted.

Yearning seared through him. How he wanted to taste her. To show her how much he cared for her. To answer the need driving through his whole body; the fiery ache for her, the one woman he wanted, but could never have.

Edouard, you cannot. Do not prove yourself to be a dishonorable knave.

He sensed her readying to nudge forward, to instinctively seal their kiss. With the last shred of his self-control, he jerked his head away.

Juliana’s exhalation blew against his neck.

He swallowed, his throat mercilessly tight. His lips burned, as though they really had kissed and the essence of her stayed on his skin.

Desire and regret pulled at him as he stared up at where the roof trusses would be, listening to the wind scrape past the outside walls. He waited, his muscles taut with strain, expecting her to ask what almost happened between them, but she lay quiet, still, and after a long moment, he decided she must have fallen asleep. He shut his eyes.

“Did you . . . almost kiss me?” Her words were a velvety whisper from the blackness.

Aye, his conscience answered. Admitting that, though, wouldn’t be fair to her.

He drew deep breaths and pretended to be asleep.

***

Sunlight on her face brought Juliana from slumber. She stirred, savoring the divine heat against the side of her face and body. A warmth that . . . snored.

She squinted against the morning sunshine, to find herself staring at Edouard’s chin, easily within reach if she wished to touch him. Lifting her gaze from the stubble-shadowed line of his jaw, she saw his eyes were still closed. Thick, dark-brown lashes brushed the tanned planes of his cheeks and drew her gaze to his well-defined cheekbones. How arrogant he looked even while sleeping.

A muffled snort broke from him again, and her focus dropped to his lips, slightly parted. Her mouth tingled at the memory of his breath upon her cheek last night. His face had been very near to hers, and for one thrilling moment, anticipation had burgeoned inside her . . . before he’d abruptly turned his face away.

Had he thought of kissing her and then decided against it? Had he craved her kiss, but forced himself to rein in his desire? Nay. He was betrothed to Nara; he’d only want such intimacy with his future wife. Juliana fought a sharp twinge of jealousy, for Nara was lucky to have won the love of a man like Edouard.

For a moment, though, lying beside him, Juliana could secretly dream that he had, indeed, pressed his mouth to hers. The thought of his lips sweeping across hers left a strange, dragging sensation in her lower belly, and she couldn’t hold back a shiver.

She indulged her fascination, letting her gaze wander over his muscled physique to the chains snaking along the pallet, and her smile wavered. Last night, she’d hurt him. Accidentally, but his gasp had revealed his discomfort. Now that daylight illuminated the chamber, she’d look for that scar he’d spoken of, so she’d be certain not to touch that spot again.

Juliana dared to let her attention drift lower on his body. His left thigh, he’d said. That was close to his man’s parts . . .

Oh. She hadn’t touched him there last night, had she?

A stinging heat spread across her face. Surely he would have told her. Unless, like a gallant hero, he wished to spare her the embarrassment of knowing she’d touched his groin.

She couldn’t be sure what to believe. Even more mortifying, his left thigh was trapped beneath her left leg that, during the night, had slid from the blanket and draped over Edouard’s legs, likely in her attempts to stay warm.

The sight of their joined limbs stirred a peculiar warmth within her, followed by overwhelming unease. Was she hurting Edouard in the way her leg pressed against him? He didn’t appear to be in pain, but he was also sound asleep.

She’d have to move carefully, so she didn’t wake or hurt him.

As Juliana slowly pushed up to a seated position, sounds carried from outside the chamber door. Veronique, on a morning visit? What might she do if she discovered them lying together like lovers? At the very least, Veronique might accuse Edouard of all kinds of indiscretions; Juliana couldn’t allow that to happen.

She eased her leg from Edouard’s and scrambled to sit up, a bit too quickly. Pain and dizziness made the room spin around her, and she froze, silently begging her mind to settle.

That same instant, she sensed Edouard awaken.

The chamber stopped whirling, and she glanced at him, to find his keen gaze upon her. A molten awareness rushed through her, reviving her blush.

Before she could say a word, the key sounded in the lock.

She scrambled to rise, but her foot tangled in her blanket. The cloth slipped on the wooden floor. With a choked cry, she dropped back to her former position, bumping against Edouard, who’d just sat up.

“Careful.” He steadied her with his hands.

Before she could try to rise again, the door swung inward. Tye walked in, Azarel a few steps behind with a wooden basket on her arm. The door promptly banged shut.

Tye tsked and raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. Slept together, did you?”

Juliana bit her lip.

“We were both cold,” Edouard said. “’Twas the best way to keep warm.”

“Mmm,” Tye said.

“What Edouard said is true.” Juliana raised her chin to meet Tye’s lewd grin.

Azarel, as before, stood silent with her gaze downward, awaiting orders.

Today, might Juliana be able to ask the healer to contact Edouard’s father? Or help them to escape? Juliana would try to speak to her.

“Mother was not able to visit you this morning, as she is seeing to other matters. What will she say, Brother,” Tye mused, “when she hears Juliana spent the night in your arms? What would your betrothed think of it?”

An angry hiss broke from Edouard and stirred Juliana’s hair. “What choice did we have, but to share this miserable chamber? Whether she slept in my arms or alone on her bed, we would have spent the night together.”

Tye grinned. “True.”

“Unlike you,”—Edouard’s voice was almost a snarl—“I am a chivalrous man. Naught inappropriate happened between Juliana and myself. I suffer no shame. Will you, however, force disgrace upon her, by telling tales about us?”

As Edouard spoke, Tye’s gaze flicked over her. He stared as though he saw through her chemise and the blanket wrapped around her, and she fought a tremor. “Bold words, Brother.” Tye’s mouth slid into a lopsided grin. “They make me curious, though. With her loveliness so close to you, were you not once tempted to—”

“Nay,” Edouard growled.

Tye’s laughter rang in the chamber. “You do not even know what I planned to say.”

“I can guess.”

With a last chuckle, Tye gestured to Azarel. The healer hurried forward, her leather shoes making light taps on the floorboards before she dropped down beside Juliana’s pallet. The basket creaked as she rummaged within.

Tye’s stare bored into Juliana. “Return to your pallet, so she can tend you.” His smile hardened. “You might think that because Mother is not here, ’twill be easy to deceive me. Beware, Juliana. My brother might insist he is an honorable man, but I”—he slowly winked—“am an unscrupulous knave.”

***

Tye didn’t, as Edouard had hoped, leave as soon as Azarel had finished seeing to Juliana’s wound. Once the healer had completed her work in silence, she picked up her basket, rose, and faced Tye.

“Her injury is much improved from yesterday,” she said.

“Mother will want to hear of her progress.” Tye crossed to the panel, knocked on it, and stood guard while the door opened and Azarel hurried out. He exchanged a few words with the men outside—instructions Edouard couldn’t make out—then shoved the door closed.

With swaggering strides, he approached Edouard. Leaning back against the nearest wall—beyond Edouard’s reach—Tye crossed his arms over his tunic. For some reason, he wasn’t wearing his sword belt. Had he tumbled out of a maidservant’s bed and hauled his clothes on before coming to the tower, and forgotten his weapons?

A mistake Edouard must try and use to his advantage.

Leather creaked as Tye bent one leg and planted his boot’s sole against the stone, an indolent posture that suggested he meant to stay awhile. Indeed, as long as he liked.

Ugh. Tye likely intended to taunt him further about his sleeping with Juliana.

Daring a glance at her, Edouard saw she’d scooted back on her pallet and curled her legs beneath her. Her wary expression told him she, too, suspected Tye’s intentions.

A smug warmth curled through Edouard; he was glad she disliked the bastard.

Edouard looked back at Tye, to find Tye studying him, his narrowed stare thoughtful.

“What do you want?” Edouard demanded in a tone he used only for the most witless of men. Usually it sent the fools scurrying.

Tye smirked. “Tell me about Father.”

Edouard scowled, the rise of hatred for Tye instantaneous and fierce. “I told you before. Do not call him such.”

Tye’s eyes glinted. “He is my sire. Do I not deserve to know a little about the man who slaked his lust with Mother and fathered me?”

“For all we know,” Edouard shot back, “what Veronique says about your paternity is a lie. She has always been interested in my sire’s riches.”

Tilting his head, Tye smiled. Then he pointed to his face. “Look at me.”

Edouard grimaced. “Must I?”

Tye leaned forward, his gaze bright. “Mother says my features favor our sire. Can you not see the resemblance?”

Edouard clenched his jaw. Tye’s hair was lighter brown than his sire’s, and his skin was more bronzed from the sun. Judging by the shape of Tye’s nose, it had been broken several times. Yet his features were similar to Edouard’s father’s. So was Tye’s muscular build.

“See?” Tye’s tone turned gloating. “You cannot deny I resemble him.”

“Looks are your only proof?” Mayhap if Edouard goaded Tye enough, he’d glean more details on Tye and Veronique’s schemes. Better still, Edouard might lure the conceited bastard into range of the chains. Then they’d see who was the son of Geoffrey de Lanceau.

“There is the timing of my birth,” Tye said. “Mother had no other lover but Geoffrey de Lanceau when she got with child. A fact, I am told, she tried to impress upon him when I was but a young boy, but he refused to believe her.”

“I cannot blame him.”

Tye’s hands slowly curled into fists while he leaned even farther forward. “How many times I have longed to stand before him and demand that he look upon me. Me, the bastard son he wishes was never born.”

A trace of anguish drove through Tye’s words. Edouard steeled himself against any notions of pity. Tye was a clever manipulator, just like his mother. “You will never get close enough to Father for him to look upon you.”

Tye pressed back against the wall. A grating laugh rumbled from him. “The day I kill him, I shall.”

Edouard longed to snarl that that wretched day would never come. However, this was a perfect opportunity to lure details from Tye. “What makes you believe you can murder him?”

“You must be aware of the missives Mother sent to Branton Keep. During our many years living in France, I trained with mercenaries who earned a living fighting for the French and English kings, whichever one offered the most coin to fight in a particular battle. I trained hard and, as my skills grew, won tournament after tournament. I am very good with a broadsword.”

“Father is better.”

“Is he?” Tye grinned. “I look forward to proving you wrong.”

“You will never get near to Branton Keep. His men-at-arms and servants—”

“Are honorable and loyal to the death.” Tye waved a careless hand. “No matter. I will mingle with our sire’s trusted colleagues, find a reason to meet him face to face, and then I will draw my blade.” He swung his arm down, mimicking a swift, killing blow. “Ha!”

Juliana gasped.

Edouard sensed her horror, but didn’t dare look her way, for foreboding stabbed deep inside him. There were very few ways Tye could be accepted into his father’s elite circle. He’d succeed, however, if he wore the gold ring entrusted to Landon.

“How quiet you are, Brother,” Tye said. “I have shocked you.”

Fighting his rising apprehension, Edouard forced an arrogant shrug. He must keep Tye talking. The more he learned, the better he could protect Juliana and destroy the traitorous plans. “I have to say, you are ambitious, but stupid. When, exactly, will you risk this killing?”

“Soon.” Tye examined the nails of his left hand. “When circumstances are right.”

“When you have Landon’s gold ring, you mean.”

Tye’s gaze lifted on an admiring grin. “How clever you are, Brother.”

“That explains why you and Veronique want Juliana to survive. You suspect she knows where Landon hid the ring. You want it badly enough to take care of her until her memories return.”

Juliana gasped again. “Merciful God.”

“You have overlooked a critical point, though,” Edouard said. “Even if she remembers her identity, she may not know the ring’s whereabouts. Landon may never have confided that to her.”

“A risk Mother and I are willing to take.”

“Because she is the only one alive who might know?” A derisive chuckle grated from Edouard. “What if Juliana doesn’t know? Your threat to kill my sire is an idle one, then?”

Edouard held Tye’s blazing gaze, hoping the bastard would rise to the goading.

“’Tis not, at all, an idle threat,” Tye ground out.

“You talk of slaying him face to face. Brave words. Yet I vow you are a coward.” As fury darkened Tye’s gaze, Edouard added, “If you really wished my sire dead, you would have confronted him long before now.”

“Mother and I—”

“Mother and I,” Edouard mocked.

Tye took a step forward, his white-knuckled hands balled at his sides. “Some risks are worth taking; others require money and patience. We will find that ring. When I stand before Father so he can look full upon me, ’twill be with an army of mercenaries to fight at my side.”

Edouard snorted.

“Then he will know he is a dead man. Doomed to be slain by his own flesh-and-blood son he cruelly rejected all those years ago.” Tye chuckled. “What perfect irony.”

God’s teeth. Tye spoke in exactly the same manner as Veronique. How well she’d controlled and prepared her son, so he’d fulfill the murderous ambitions she’d not been able to bring to pass years ago.

Surely, though, as a grown man, Tye had a will of his own.

“Your mother hates my sire because he ended their affair years ago. Why, after so many years, she continues to resent him and plot vengeance against him, only she can explain,” Edouard said. “You must realize, though, that all she has told you of him is but her opinion?”

“’Tis the only one that matters.”

“Have you tried to contact our—my sire—on your own?”

Tye laughed, a sound ripe with bitterness. “Why would I? He has made it very clear he wants naught to do with me. Besides, if I tried to set up a meeting, he would agree only so he could arrest me. Then he would try and use me to capture Mother. As we both know, he has wanted her imprisoned for years for crimes including murder and treason.”

True. Tye might be many things, but he wasn’t stupid.

“On the other hand,”—Tye’s visage hardened—“he might not even bother to arrest me. He might attack. Once I was overpowered, he would run me through with a sword and leave my corpse for the birds to pick clean. He would eliminate me and the threat I pose to him and his heir.” Tye pointed. “You.”

“My father lives by the code of honor—”

“So you say.” Tye’s lip curled. “’Tis your opinion.”

“Look—”

But Tye wasn’t listening. “I eagerly await the confrontation to come. ’Twill be a magnificent day when, at last, I make him acknowledge me. I will slay him, seize all that is his, and make it mine.”

Ruthless, greedy bastard. “You will never defeat him,” Edouard growled, yanking on his chains.

“Spoken like a naïve, loving son.”

“Father is no fool. By now, he likely knows you are here at Waddesford. He will anticipate your attack, while he plans one of his own.”

“We shall see.”

Indeed, you arrogant whoreson, we shall. Edouard drew upon all the rage and frustration seething within him. “I will never let you kill my sire—”

Tye laughed.

“—or let you take control of what, as his heir, is rightfully mine.”

“You? The helpless son in chains?” Tye chortled.

Edouard mentally shoved aside the insult. Use Tye’s ambition to make him angry. Lure him closer, and then you will take the advantage.

“I might be chained,” Edouard said, “but I am worthy of being Geoffrey de Lanceau’s son. You are not.”

Tye sucked in a slow, deliberate breath. He seemed to grow taller and broader.

“Edouard,” Juliana whispered. Fear shone in her eyes as she glanced from him to Tye.

Menace in the slant of his jaw, Tye stepped nearer. “I am not worthy,” he said, “because of my birth?”

Edouard managed a thin smile. Let Tye make of that statement what he wished.

As the silence tautened, Tye bared his teeth. He looked furious enough to pummel Edouard into the floorboards.

Good.

“You have spoken unwisely, Brother.”

“Have I, you bastard?”

Come closer, Tye. Just a little closer. . .

Tye thrust his right fist down in Edouard’s face. “One more insult, and—”

Edouard shoved up on his heels and grabbed Tye’s wrist. With a stab of dismay, Edouard realized he was almost too slow; his movements, acutely honed in the tiltyards, were hampered by the added weight of the chains.

Tye yanked back on his hand. “Hell—”

As Tye stumbled and tried to catch his balance, Edouard tugged him forward, head first toward the pallet.

Twisting as he fell, Tye slammed his left fist into Edouard’s jaw. Pain sprayed through Edouard’s cheek. Smothering a groan, he shook his head and punched back. The blow bounced off Tye’s chest, but on a muffled clank, Edouard’s chain hit Tye’s bent leg. Tye grunted in pain.

With a strong tug, Tye freed his hand. Faster than Edouard expected, another blow flew, this time into his gut.

“Bastard,” Edouard choked out, fighting the need to brace his arm against his stomach. Shaking hair from his eyes, he grabbed his chain. When Tye scrambled to rise, Edouard looped it around Tye’s neck, forcing him down on his knees.

His back to Edouard, Tye clawed at the chain. His chin tipped up at an awkward angle as he tried to ease the chain’s pressure.

Bloodlust pulsed hard in Edouard’s veins. Who was helpless now?

“Edouard.” Juliana’s voice wove into the haze filling Edouard’s vision. “Edouard, stop.”

A choked breath snapped his gaze down to Tye’s face. Tye’s skin was reddening, while his mouth parted on strangled breaths.

“Now,” Edouard said with a smile, “who is the fool?”

Spittle oozed from Tye’s mouth. “Kill me, then.”

“Edouard, nay!” Juliana cried. Daring a glance, he found her standing dangerously near, hands open and pleading. “Murdering Tye will solve naught.”

Tye writhed in Edouard’s grasp. Edouard tightened his hold on the chain. A grisly choke rose from his half-brother.

“You are a man who lives by honor,” Juliana shrilled, “just like your father. ’Tis not your way to—”

“You do not remember me,” Edouard bellowed. “How can you say that?”

Her wide-eyed gaze beseeched him. “From all I have known of you recently, I have guessed your true nature.” Her hands knotted together. “You know I am right.”

He dragged his gaze away from her, lovely and passionate in her desperation. Never had he imagined killing an unarmed opponent, but here, with Tye at his mercy, he had a chance to end Veronique’s merciless plotting against his sire once and for all.

Killing Tye just might save his father’s life.

And yet Juliana’s words gouged into Edouard, running like blood into the parts of him ruled by chivalry between warriors. As much as he hated to admit it, killing Tye in this way held cowardice.

Edouard looked down at his fingers, pale against the taut iron links, and tried to reason with the powerful rage blazing inside him. Glaring down at Tye’s sweat-beaded profile, Edouard snarled, “Call the guards. I want the key to my manacles.”

Digging his fingers into the chain, Tye glared back.

“Call,” Edouard growled. “Now!”

“They will . . . not come. Told them . . . not to . . . heed cries.”

“Do it!”

“Will have . . . to . . . kill me,” Tye rasped.

Edouard stared down into Tye’s red-rimmed eyes. In them, Edouard saw a mirror of his own resolve never to yield. “I ask you,” Edouard bit out, “once again.”

“Please,” Juliana whispered, stepping nearer.

“Stay away,” Edouard snapped.

Tye’s lips quivered into a mocking smile. “Go on. Kill me. If you . . . are man enough.”

The haze of anger nearly blinded Edouard. Man enough?!

“Do not heed his taunts,” Juliana cried.

“Juliana!” Edouard roared.

“Even if you kill him, you will still be chained. How will we defeat the guards outside? How will we escape the keep? We cannot. Please, Edouard,”—her tone hoarsened—“if you will not spare him out of honor, spare him because I ask you to.”

Blowing aside a skein of hair, Edouard stared at her. God help him, but she was right about killing Tye. It gave them no advantage whatsoever. ’Twould only make their situation even more dire.

Tears trailed down her face. Her bosom rose and fell on anxious breaths. In her eyes, he saw disappointment as well as an urgent plea.

Her disappointment in him hurt worst of all. She’d looked at him that way when she’d found him kissing Nara.

Spitting a foul oath, he loosened his hold on the chain. Tye lurched forward and staggered to his feet. Inhaling on a gasp, he raced to the wall.

The chains clinked as they tumbled back onto the pallet to lie like iron snakes.

A wobbly smile lifted Juliana’s lips. “Thank you.”

Edouard looked away, trying to control the tremendous pressure building inside him. Now that he’d attacked Tye, would Veronique exact punishment upon him and Juliana?

The scrape of a boot heel on the planks snapped his focus back to Tye. Sucking air between his teeth, Tye flattened his hand against the wall and straightened to his full height. He ran his other hand over his tunic. “I will not forget what you did, Brother.” His voice cracked.

“Nor will I forget all you have done,” Edouard answered coldly.

“Please,” Juliana said. “No more fighting. ’Twill solve naught.”

Tye’s blazing stare didn’t waver. Edouard refused to look away, to back down from the challenge still crackling between him and his bastard brother.

His mouth set in a sneer, Tye turned toward the doorway. At last, he acknowledged he’d lost and was leav—

Tye spun. Before Edouard could lunge aside, Tye’s foot slammed into Edouard’s chest, a solid blow between the ribs that propelled him back against the wall. Grunting, he doubled over and tried to get air back into his lungs; each short, sharp breath was agonizing. Hellfire, he should have expected such trickery from Tye—

“Stop!” Juliana shrieked. Footfalls pounded on the floorboards. Edouard raised his head to see Juliana standing between him and Tye, her hands fisted, hair a wild tangle down her back. Sunlight poured over her, turning her chemise to the pure white of fresh snow.

Tye’s gaze prowled over her. Edouard gritted his teeth, for he knew the sheerness of her garment. Lit at just the right angle, it might become transparent, baring all her innocent beauty to Tye’s view.

Stubbornly ignoring his pain, Edouard rose.

Tye didn’t cease his lustful inspection that left no doubt what he wanted to do to Juliana. Clearly sensing a physical threat, she raised her fists as though to ward him off.

“Tye,” Edouard croaked. His voice was barely audible to his own ears; he drew more gasped breaths and willed strength to return to his words.

“You want to fight me now, fierce little Juliana?” Tye chuckled like the gutter-born rogue he was.

She didn’t move; not even the slightest flinch. “I want you to leave Edouard alone.”

“Such passionate words.”

“Please,” she said. “Just go.”

How proud Edouard was of Juliana for being so brave. Another part of him, though, resented that she felt she must do battle for him. “Listen to her,” he managed to growl. “Leave.”

With lazy disdain, Tye’s attention shifted from her to Edouard. “This fight between us is not done, Brother.”

“I agree,” Edouard said. “’Tis not.”

Tye smiled. “I vow it has only begun.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As soon as the door slammed behind Tye, Juliana whirled and dashed to Edouard’s side. He leaned back against the wall, sitting with his legs bent and his arms braced on his knees. Leaning his head back against the stone, he shut his eyes.

Tears still wet on her cheeks, she dropped down on her knees at his left side, took his face in both hands, and tilted it to her view.

He winced and his eyes flew open. “Ah—!”

“What?” Lifting her left fingers, she spied the purpling bruise on his jaw. “Oh. Sorry.” Cringing inside, she dropped her hands into her lap. As Edouard carefully flexed his jaw, she asked, “Are you all right?”

“Aye.”

“Do you hurt anywhere else?”

Edouard’s gaze slid away. He looked mutinous, angry, and she sensed him struggling with an inner torment. Most likely, he didn’t want to admit to his other injuries. He doubtless saw himself as a bold, brave warrior, and he’d endure, congratulating himself for suffering in silence.

New tears dampened her eyes while she studied the taut planes of his face. His expression, when he’d held that chain wrapped around Tye’s neck . . . Frightening. Her heart had squeezed so tightly within her rib cage, she couldn’t breathe, for in that instant, she knew he’d kill Tye if circumstances left him no alternative.

There had been a choice, though. Edouard had listened to her. Respected her plea. Spared Tye’s life, and for that, Edouard was all the more noble to her.

Tye’s kicking of Edouard? Unscrupulous. In a fight governed by chivalry, Tye would have been disqualified and sent off in dishonor. Yet ’twas clear he didn’t care about gallantry. He wanted to appear to have won the scuffle, by whatever means he deemed necessary. Another reason why Edouard’s actions were even more admirable.

Still looking at a point beyond her, Edouard swallowed; her attention fell to his Adam’s apple, moving beneath his tanned skin. How she ached to tell him how grateful she was that he hadn’t committed murder. How she wanted to voice the emotions churning inside her: admiration; relief; . . . and something wonderful she couldn’t quite name.

“Edouard,” she whispered, willing him to meet her gaze.

He closed his eyes again. He didn’t answer.

Juliana fought the dismay gnawing at her. He didn’t move, but he was withdrawing from her, taking refuge behind a mental barricade. She shifted on her knees and her breast brushed against his bent knee—an unplanned contact that she felt, with shocking intensity, in places she dared not name.

At her sharp inhalation, his eyes opened. His gaze, smoldering with emotion, settled on her mouth.

Did he want to kiss her, as she’d secretly dreamed? ’Twas shameful that she yearned for the intimacy.

“Edouard,” she murmured, “I—”

“You should not have confronted Tye.”

At last, Edouard spoke to her. Not, however, in the tender manner she’d hoped.

Tamping down a pang of disappointment, she said, “He looked about to kick you again.”

“I can defend myself,” Edouard gritted, each word edged with frustration.

So he suffered from wounded pride, as well as a battered body. Was being rescued by a woman more distressing to him than his other discomforts?

Gentling her tone, she said, “Of course you can defend yourself. But you are at a disadvantage, being chained as you are.”

Edouard’s stare bored into her. Was he angered by her honest words? Did he resent her pointing out his infirmity? “Juliana,” he growled. “The brazen way he looked at you—”

An icy shiver rippled through her. “Aye, but—”

“But all is well?” Edouard threw his arm wide, causing a dissonant clank of the chain. “But he left us alone, so we should simply forget the matter?”

The intensity of Edouard’s gaze snatched her next breath. Did she see fury in his eyes, or an emotion even more startling: jealousy? She struggled to speak calmly. “I did not say—”

“I am glad you did not try. I will not forget that insult to you.”

Tears again moistened her eyes. For him to speak so fiercely . . . To feel so strongly on her behalf. . . . Had any man ever been so passionate about her?

“Tye will answer for his disrespect, along with all his many other crimes.”

She blinked the wetness from her vision, even as a thrill rushed through her to flit like a moth in her stomach. She’d thought Edouard noble before; she now wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him like a giddy fool.

But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Nara, what a fine husband you have found. I can only hope one day to find a man even half as gallant.

Squashing a flare of jealousy, she said, “Thank you, Edouard.”

He nodded once, and then his chains shifted. Before she guessed his intentions, he slid his fingers into her hair and wound a generous fistful around his hand. At the startling, unexpected entrapment, she tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold a fraction. Gently, but firmly, he pulled her head toward his.

“What . . .?”

His narrowed gaze locked with hers. Beneath the fall of his lashes, his blue eyes gleamed as though lit with cold fire, and she caught her breath, wary, yet at the same time, enthralled.

“Do not,” he ground out, “speak so—”

“Edouard—”

“—to Tye again.”

She sucked in a quivery breath and tried to wrest her gaze from his. But she couldn’t. His blazing stare captured her with its heat, commanded her to obey him. In the corners of his gaze, though, she caught traces of his fear for her, and of his wish to protect her.

“I know you are going to disagree,” he said roughly, “but I will not have you come to harm. Not on my behalf.”

Juliana frowned, even as his fingers relaxed their grip on her tresses, for her earlier encounter with Tye had given her an idea. One that might aid their escape.

As she sat back on her heels and smoothed her hair, Edouard muttered, “I was right. I see it in your eyes. You are going to disagree with me.”

“Aye, because you make demands I cannot possibly keep. How can I not speak to Tye? He will grow suspicious if I refuse to acknowledge or answer him.”

Edouard sighed. “Of course you can speak to him. Just do not challenge him.”

“Are you asking me to do that, Edouard, or ordering me?”

Concern darkened his expression. He shook his head. “Look, Juliana—”

“I know Tye is a dangerous man.”

“You cannot imagine. The less you must associate with him, the better, for your own safety. From now on, you will let me—”

“I will not promise to never challenge Tye again, Edouard. That may be our way to get free.”

Edouard’s mouth flattened into an uncompromising line. “What do you mean?”

The enormity of her plan welled up to loom inside her like a grinning specter. However, she wouldn’t lose her courage. Not if it meant she could save Edouard and his noble sire and put a stop to whatever cruelty Tye and Veronique were plotting.

“One of us must get out of this chamber and get the key to your shackles,” she said with surprising calmness. “Also, the more I see of this castle, the better chance I have of my memories returning. Then, when we escape, I will be able to guide us out of the keep to safety.”

Edouard said naught. He was, however, watching her attentively.

She rallied her courage, sensing she walked a precipitous path. “I thought I would try and convince Tye to take me from this room. Only for a short while, of course.”

Edouard exhaled through his teeth.

She threw up a hand to stop any protest from him. “I realize ’tis dangerous, but if we do not escape soon, we may both die here.” Softening her tone, she added, “Nara is waiting for you to return to her. Do you really want to give up your wedding to her?”

His impassioned gaze glowed even brighter than before. His love for Nara must be true and precious. Juliana struggled with a fresh pang of jealousy.

“How, exactly, will you persuade Tye to take you from this chamber?” Edouard demanded.

Dread coursed through her. ”I shall entice him.”

***

“Mother.”

Tye’s voice cut through the clang of swords wielded by two mercenaries dueling in the sun-drenched bailey. What did he want now?

Biting back an oath, Veronique braced her hands on her thighs and rose from squatting before the woolen mantle she’d stretched out on the dirt. The prime spot not only allowed her to accomplish her fortune telling, but watch the fight and decide which mercenary would be most useful to her.

Now that she was standing, the arrangement of bones upon the mantle looked slightly different, but equally uninformative.

Tye halted beside her and frowned. “Why did you bring those outside? Whose garment—?”

“Edouard’s.” Veronique gnawed on her fingernail. “I had hoped, by casting my bones upon a garment belonging to him, that I might gain insight into the coming days.”

“And?”

“The future remains unclear.” She sighed and glanced at the tantalizing display of male prowess close by; her gaze settled on the taller of the bare-chested men, then the stockier one.

Her hand instinctively smoothed over the gown she’d tugged into place a short while ago, after walking, flushed and weak-kneed, out of the stable. Fornicating helped to clear her concentration; she’d insisted upon it before casting her bones. She’d almost torn her skirts in her frantic, gasping, womb-shuddering rut with a young, blond mercenary, a friend of these two warriors who’d given up his turn to fight to lie with her.

Her bodice wasn’t quite straight, but Tye might not notice.

His lips broke into a smile that flashed all of his straight, white teeth. He looked at the mercenaries, then back at her. “Accomplishing two desires at once, I see.”

“Whatever do you mean?” She arched her eyebrows.

The glint in his eyes warned he knew full well what she’d done.

He laughed. “Do not play coy with me, Mother. The glow of sex still warms your face.”

Sometimes she wished he wasn’t quite as wretchedly perceptive, but then again, she’d raised him to be so. He had to be quick-witted to defeat and kill his noble sire, the destiny she expected of him. But that didn’t give him any right whatsoever to remark on her sexual liaisons.

“That is enough, Tye.” With luck, her tone, fit for a disobedient infant, would silence his teasing. However, she silently admitted with a twinge of regret, he was far from a child. His impressive physique proved he was all man; so did the trysts she’d caught him in over the years with serving wenches, courtesans, and even widowed ladies. If he wasn’t her own flesh and blood, she’d have lured him to her bed long ago.

Tye’s attention shifted to the mercenaries, grunting as their swords locked. The weapons slid together with a shriek before the men sprang apart, their faces shiny with sweat. “The question is,” Tye said quietly, “have you had enough? Or are these two next?”

She wrinkled her nose. A fresh tug of lust, though, wove through her. Her son—wicked and clever boy—might well be right.

The sooner she finished with Tye and sent him away, the sooner she could focus on other matters, such as the men at hand.

“What do you need of me, Tye?” she demanded. “Did you come merely to pester me, or do you have news?”

A sly gleam lit his eyes. “I do have news.”

Veronique drew an excited breath. “Juliana’s memories have come back?”

“Not that I know of, Mother.” Clearly anticipating her demand for his information, he raised a staying hand. “However, I found her and Edouard lying together this morning.”

“Did he deflower her? Do you think . . ?”

Tye shook his head. “She did not have that look about her.”

“Mayhap this evening, then,” Veronique said with a wicked cackle.

“That might, indeed, come to pass. You see, Juliana challenged me in the chamber after I kicked Edouard. She clenched her fists and looked about to punch me in the stomach.”

A grin curved Veronique’s lips. “What a brave but foolish girl. Did she not realize you could have knocked her to the floor with one strike?”

“I believe her emotions were so heightened they diminished her sense of caution.”

“Ah. Juliana has developed feelings for Edouard.”

“Aye, Mother.”

“Feelings,” Veronique murmured, caught up in her evolving thoughts, “she must realize are not at all proper, when Edouard is her sister’s betrothed. When I spoke to Azarel earlier, Tye, she did not advise another potion for Juliana. She said Juliana’s memories would likely return when prompted by strong emotional reactions, such as anticipation, or fear—”

“Or desire?”

Sometimes, Tye could be such a bright boy. A smile born from that ingrained, often inconvenient sense of maternal instinct burgeoned inside Veronique. Still, she couldn’t keep herself from bestowing that affection upon her son as she patted his cheek. “Aye.”

Tye smiled back. Mischief glinted in his eyes. “What do you suggest?”

Veronique laughed, a gloating sound that carried across the bailey. The two fighting men paused and looked her way. “We shall tighten our grip on Juliana’s fragile emotions. We must, after all, find Landon’s ring. If what I have in mind works, we will not only revive her memories today, but have her seeking comfort again in Edouard’s arms. You, Tye, are just the man to accomplish what needs to be done.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“What do you see?” Edouard asked, his gaze on Juliana standing before the window, peering out.

The ring of swordplay carried up from the bailey. Not enough noise to signal a rescue, but his men might be attempting an escape. Impatience chafed at Edouard. If only he could see for himself! He hated having even that small freedom denied to him.

“Two men are dueling with swords,” Juliana said. “I do not see much else.”

“Look to the edges of the bailey.” He tried to envision standing before the window’s iron grille, looking down, and using all that his warrior training had taught him to analyze the scene before him. “Who else is there with the fighters? Are other armed men standing around? Is anyone lying on the ground, injured? Do you see saddled horses, or—?”

Juliana flicked a hand at him. “Patience. Please.”

Tenderness softened her voice. He silently groaned, for when her memories returned, she’d realize how much she despised him. Would she resent having trusted him enough to sleep beside him? Embarrassed by the thoughts she’d shared about her feelings for him, she might avoid him for the rest of their living days.

A crushing ache pressed upon Edouard. Her laughter, her beauty, the way his heart soared when she smiled at him . . . He’d never care for Nara the way he loved Juliana. He should have listened to his father’s wise words years ago and insisted on a betrothal to her. Then neither he nor Juliana would be in this wretched mess now.

As Edouard blinked away his regrets and focused again on Juliana, he noted she’d curled her hands around the grille and risen on tiptoes to lean farther into the embrasure. Standing that way, her body looked even more lithe. Her gown clung to her bottom, emphasizing its enticing roundness. He curled his hands into fists, feeling the pinch of his manacles against his wrist veins, as his desire flamed anew.

“Wait!” She pressed her brow to the grille, tension now in her posture. “I see Veronique.”

“What is she doing?”

“Speaking with Tye, who is beside her now.”

Just hearing that bastard’s name, especially when his blood ran hotter, made Edouard want to slam his hand into the wall. A broken wrist, though, would only be a hindrance in an escape.

“What else?” he asked, shifting his stance on the pallet. He rolled his shoulders, more to tamp down his impatience than because he felt the need. “Are Tye and Veronique holding any objects? Are they speaking with any others?”

“Not that I can tell. The men are continuing their swordfight.” She sighed. “I do not believe aught of consequence is happening.”

“When Veronique and Tye are together,” Edouard said, “aught of consequence is most definitely—”

Veronique’s shrill laughter carried up from the bailey.

Juliana glanced his way. “I vow you are right.”

“Whatever they intend, we will defeat them. We must escape, Juliana. Today.”

Juliana faced him, her expression solemn. “I agree.”

“I have tried to think of a sound plan that does not put you in jeopardy, but—”

“There are few options,” she finished for him. “’Tis why I must focus on Tye.”

Edouard exhaled on a frustrated growl. He couldn’t stand to think of her alone with Tye. What he might do to her . . .

“I know you do not like the idea,” Juliana rushed on. “However Tye, like Veronique, depends upon my memories returning to find the gold ring. He will not risk harming me. At least not until he has the information he wants.”

Bitterness gouged Edouard like an invisible knife. He, the trained warrior, should be protecting Juliana, confronting danger to rescue her, not the other way around. “I have another suggestion. Azarel will likely visit you again today to check on your injury. When she does, you will lure her over to me. I will take her hostage.” He regretted using a woman for leverage, especially one who already seemed terrified, but Veronique valued the healer’s skills; for all he knew, Veronique might depend upon them.

Juliana frowned. “Azarel is a kind woman. If she was hurt—”

“She won’t be. I would make sure of it. Never would I harm a woman.”

“You might not, but what of the others?” Juliana rubbed her arms, as though chilled. “We do not know what Veronique might do to prevent you from getting free. She might order Tye or her lackeys to kill Azarel while she is your captive. Then we would have accomplished naught, except the death of a woman devoted to caring for others.”

He loosed a silent groan. Juliana was right.

“My plan is the only choice, Edouard.” Her determined gaze held his. “I must get my memories back, and if I leave this chamber, that might happen. I will look for anything to aid our escape. A weapon. Keys . . .”

Edouard squeezed his eyelids shut, struggling against the battle waging in his heart. He felt her hand upon his arm and opened his eyes to look down at her.

“I can save us,” Juliana whispered. “I want to try.”

“I cannot protect you,” he said hoarsely.

She smiled. “When you are free of your chains, you will rescue us all.”

Her brave words sent anticipation racing through him, rousing anew his rebelliousness. Aye, he would rescue Waddesford Keep. He’d give Veronique and Tye a fight to make his father proud.

Edouard nodded. “All right. Promise me, though, you will be careful. Promise me—”

A muffled exchange of voices came from beyond the door. An instant later, there was the rasp of the key.

Juliana’s posture stiffened. “If ’tis Tye,” she whispered, “I must act now.”

Edouard’s teeth ground together. Sheer luck only that they didn’t break apart in his mouth, but he forced himself to nod.

“’Twill be more convincing”—she darted away—“if you seem reluctant and even . . . jealous.”

Pretend to be jealous? If she only knew what raged inside him.

The chamber door opened. Tye sauntered in, one hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. His other hand clasped what appeared to be a garment, along with a pair of leather shoes.

His gaze fell to Juliana’s vacant pallet, before he quickly glanced about the chamber. When he found her by the window, he grinned. “There you are.”

She didn’t answer. Facing him, she linked her hands together. Sunlight poured in through the window, surrounding her in light.

“Why are you standing there, Juliana?” Tye took a step toward her in that slow, almost predatory way of his.

“I wanted to catch the sun’s warmth.” Her voice held the faintest waver.

“Leave her be,” Edouard snapped, hoping he sounded suitably annoyed.

“I am not speaking to you,” Tye shot back, while he moved closer to Juliana. He clearly meant to trap her against the wall with his body.

Edouard cursed. He couldn’t reach either of them while chained.

As Tye neared her, his focus slid to the sunlight outside. “Not spying on me, love, were you?”

Her mouth pinched, and he chuckled.

“Do not call me such,” she said.

“What?” Tye feigned a gesture of innocent surprise. “Love?”

“Aye. You are not my love. Neither am I yours.”

“Ah, Juliana, but you could be.”

An image of Tye and Juliana lying naked together, his hand trailing over her virginal skin, brought an angry red haze to Edouard’s vision. “Pretend to be jealous,” Juliana had said. Hellfire, he’d show her jealous. “Cease, Tye,” he snarled.

Reaching for her, Tye set his hand upon her shoulder. His fingers trailed down her shoulder blade to the swell of her breast in a slow, purposeful caress.

Her back flattened to the wall, Juliana shuddered.

Blinding rage seared through Edouard. “Do not touch her.” He sounded jealous all right—just as he felt.

A mocking laugh broke from Tye. He glanced at Edouard. “You want to stop me, Brother? Go ahead.” His gaze returned to Juliana and he shoved the garment and shoes at her. “Put these on.”

“Why?”

“You are to come with me. We cannot distract the other men in the keep with your”—his lustful gaze skimmed over her—“state of undress, despite how fetching you look.”

How dare Tye ogle her as though she was intended for his pleasure! Lunging to the end of his chains, Edouard dragged in a shaky breath. “Where are you taking her?”

Tye stepped away from Juliana. “’Tis not your concern, Brother.”

“’Tis indeed my concern. I brought her to Waddesford. Thus I am honor-bound to protect her.”

Edouard caught the pride and resolve in Juliana’s gaze before she dropped the shoes on the floor and shook out the garment, a plain, woolen gown. Turning her back to Tye, she drew the garment over her head and smoothed it down over her chemise.

“Honor-bound?” Tye’s lips curved in a nasty smile. “How pointless, especially when you will soon be dead.”

***

When the door to the tower chamber slammed behind Juliana, she flinched. She squared her shoulders and tried not to heed her thumping pulse.

She met the gazes of the two guards, standing with their swords drawn. Any hopes she had, however remote, of racing down the stairs and escaping Tye fizzled like raindrops on a hot stone.

One of the men stepped behind her and, with the jangle of keys, locked the door. Tye brushed past her, close enough to stir the skirt of the gown he’d given her. The coarse fabric scratched her skin through her chemise, but she’d tolerate the discomfort even if she broke out in a rash; at last, she was out of the chamber.

Tye paused at the entry to the stairwell and studied her, his face rendered an eerie mask of light and darkness by the burning wall torch nearby. “Do not even think about escape, Juliana. If you so much as try—or I believe you are contemplating it—I will haul you back here and you will never leave this chamber alive again. Understand?”

Fear welled inside her, but she forced it aside and nodded.

A hard grin tilted his mouth. “You might think you can trick me, pretend to obey while you’re secretly looking for a way to save yourself and Edouard. I assure you, all of the folk in this keep are loyal to me and Mother. You can trust no one.” His lewd gaze ran over her. “Not even me.”

“I would not be foolish enough to trust you.”

He laughed softly. “So says the willful but innocent little lamb.”

The two guards snickered.

Juliana stiffened. “’Tis in my interest, as well as yours, for me to recall my past. I am eager to see as much of the keep as possible.” Fighting a nagging trepidation, she gestured to the area enclosing them. “I see naught here that I recognize beyond the past day.”

Tye raised his brows. “You have not forgotten your boldness, Juliana.”

“What makes you say such?” she asked, but her words were drowned by the tramp of his boots as he took the first few steps down.

“Come,” he said.

She had no choice but to follow; no other passage led away from the chamber.

Juliana crossed to the stairwell and started to descend, pressing one hand against the stone wall to guide her way. Down into the unknown, her mind whispered

Around and down the stairwell went, like an uncoiling serpent. The musty smells of stale air and ancient rock surrounded her. In the farthest reaches of her mind, the darkness stirred, akin to dense fog shifting in a breeze.

Willing the sensation to gather into a memory, she continued her descent. Hope quickened her pulse. How fervently she hoped her recollections returned. Then she’d finally, completely know who she was.

Some distance down, Tye halted several steps below her and glanced back. “Well?”

“Naught yet,” she said.

He stared at her for a long, grueling moment, as though debating whether she’d lied to him. Then he turned and continued down the stairs.

When some distance along, they came to a passageway opening off the stairwell, Tye waited for her to catch up to him. “You will go ahead of me.” His hand slid along her lower back to nudge her. “That way, I can keep watch upon you.”

You already told me I couldn’t get away, a voice inside her sniped. I know your warning was genuine. She kept silent, though, and did as he bade.

On they went, through the shadowed corridors of the keep, until she saw an iron-banded wooden door on the left.

Somehow, this passageway seemed familiar.

An ominous pressure, very different from the earlier stirring, crawled up from the base of her skull. It slipped into her thoughts and rammed against the void in her mind: a memory, fighting to break free. So strong was the sensation that she stumbled, fingers pressed against her brow.

Closing her eyes, she willed the recollection to materialize.

“What is wrong?” Tye demanded, sounding a distance away.

She thought of lying and saying “naught.” However, if he grew suspicious, he might send her back to the cell without her being able to experience more. “I sensed . . . something.”

Heaving in breaths, she straightened, opened her eyes, and glanced about the corridor, wisped with smoke from the wall torches. Tye stood a few paces away, hands on hips, his hard gaze upon her.

Hot, sharp tension buzzed inside her as she let the emotions of the place sift deeper into her consciousness. A terrible event had happened here. She must remember.

Her head began to pound. “Where are we?” she whispered.

Tye gestured to the door. “The solar.”

The solar. Where she’d wakened yesterday and met Veronique. Where Juliana had previously lived and cared for Mayda’s babe. She would have traveled this passageway often. No wonder her senses had roused. But something—something!—awful had taken place here and left its imprint upon her soul.

“What do you see?” Tye urged.

Tears moistened her eyes. She struggled to probe the void in her mind. Please. She wanted to remember all. She wanted to understand why she felt this way.

“Juliana?” Anger now darkened Tye’s tone.

Frustration broke from her in a sob. “I see naught. I am trying to remember, but . . .” She grimaced. “My head.” She touched her throbbing forehead. “It hurts so fiercely.” She fought a threatening wave of dizziness, determined not to faint. Not when she seemed so close to remembering.

“The torches are giving off lots of smoke,” Tye said. “Mayhap you need fresh air.”

She nodded. ’Twould be good to clear her head.

He crossed to her, took her elbow, and propelled her onward to a narrow stairwell. A draft swept over her ankles, indicating an upper door opened to the outside.

As Tye pushed her into the stairs, fear swirled into the emotions churning inside her. She’d climbed these stone steps before. Around the same time the terrible event had occurred?

Edouard, I am horribly frightened.

Thinking of him, though, of mayhap finding a way to free him, gave Juliana the strength to take the last stairs and push through the doorway to the wall walk.

Sunshine lit the squared merlons and rough hewn walkway before her. An armed sentry farther down looked her way, then resumed his watch on the landscape beyond the keep.

As her gaze traveled the wall walk, a monstrous sense of dread swept through her. Something gruesome had transpired here, too. Panic seared her thoughts, urged her to turn around and flee back down the stairs, but Tye was behind her. If he sensed her memories were returning, he wouldn’t let her past.

What had happened here? Oh, God, what?

Pressing a trembling hand to her forehead, she moved forward. Her inhalation rattled in her throat, for the foreboding pulled at her like a malicious ghost. It dragged her consciousness down, down, as though she were falling into dank, smothering blackness.

Into . . . icy water.

She gasped, eighteen years old again, the well’s coldness swallowing her.

“Juliana.”

Was that Edouard’s voice, as he called down to her from the rim of the well?

Nay, not his voice. Tye’s.

She realized once again that she stood on the wall walk. The breeze stirred her gown and she shivered, hugged herself tight, for she still felt the frigid water sucking her down. The chill seeped into her skin, her heart, her bones . . . Deathly coldness.

Tye was beside her now. “What is wrong, Juliana?”

She held up a hand, staying Tye before he tried to catch her arm. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. With each painful beat, she sensed the onslaught of more insight.

The wind gusted through the space between the nearby merlons; the sound was like a wail.

Like an infant’s cry.

An image flashed into her thoughts. A baby, crying. Struggling in her arms.

Rosemary!

“You look very pale,” Tye said. “Are your memories returning? Do you recall what took place here?”

Beware, Juliana. Tye is a part of what happened.

Rubbing her brow, she forced her lips into a weak smile. “My head aches very badly. ’Tis almost unbearable.”

“I will tell Mother, so Azarel can prepare another potion.”

“Hopefully after I have breathed the morning air awhile, the pain will ease.”

His stare sharpened, as though he suspected she wasn’t being entirely truthful, but then he nodded and glanced away. While she blew out a relieved breath, she became aware of conversation carrying from down the wall walk. The sentry’s head turned as he spoke to someone standing beside him, blocked from Juliana’s view.

Darkness suddenly whirled into Juliana’s mind, rousing the sense of nighttime. Raised voices. Landon and Mayda arguing on the wall walk. Mayda cradling her face, as again they fought.

Juliana swallowed hard. What had she witnessed?

Landon’s fist slammed into Mayda’s head. She fell against the merlon. Tried to get away, but Landon shoved her. She fell, screaming, over the side. To her death.

“Oh, God,” Juliana moaned.

“Juliana,” Tye snapped. “If you are lying to me—”

She clawed her hand into her hair. “My . . . head,” she managed to say, despite the grief and panic swarming inside her. She mustn’t let Tye know she remembered Mayda’s murder. If he guessed her memories were starting to come back, he and Veronique would force her to reveal the location of the gold ring. Then Edouard would die for certain.

She fought to steady her tattered nerves. But then Veronique strolled from behind the sentry, her hair a garish hue in the sunlight.

“Well?” Veronique called. “Has she remembered anything?”

Juliana froze, captured by the memory of moonglow on Veronique’s red locks as she stepped out of the night shadows, applauding Landon’s actions. More memories careened, one after another: Veronique blocking the passageway by the solar so Juliana couldn’t escape with Rosemary; Veronique smiling while the armed thugs seized Juliana; Veronique grabbing the baby from Juliana’s arms and thrusting her at a mercenary to be slaughtered.

Anguish and hatred boiled up inside Juliana. She wanted to scream at Veronique, scratch her painted face, rip out handfuls of red hair. But that would help no one, especially Edouard.

She shook, struggling to keep her emotions from being discovered. She mustn’t fail Mayda, Edouard, everyone she cared about.

“Juliana?” Veronique’s eyes narrowed.

Oh, God, did Veronique guess? Did she know?

“She claims she has a bad headache,” Tye said.

A rasp echoed. The scrape, Juliana vaguely realized, of Tye’s heel, but her mind filled with an image of Landon, his lip curled, his sword aimed at her, while thugs spun her around.

“She is fainting,” Veronique shrieked.

In her darkening mind, Juliana saw Landon’s sword slam into the back of her head.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Juliana,” Edouard said in a gentle voice. Squatting on his pallet, he studied her ashen face, watching for the tiniest response. She lay on her side on her bed, where Tye had left her moments ago.

The sight of her unconscious in Tye’s arms had sent fear lancing through Edouard. From the moment she’d left the cell, he’d worried. Tye and Veronique might use any means to get the information they wanted from her, including threats and the infliction of pain. His imagination had refused to give him a moment’s rest. Unable to focus on digging out the bolts, he’d counted the torturous moments until her return.

When the door had opened and Tye had carried her in, a lethal roar had torn from Edouard. Rising to his feet, he shouted, “What have you done to her?”

“She collapsed,” Tye said, his nonchalance fueling Edouard’s rage another notch.

“Why? What torture did you force upon her?” A vile taste flooded his mouth. “Did you . . . defile her?”

Tye raised his brows and knelt beside Juliana’s pallet. Her body slid down on the mattress, while her gown tangled about her legs. Standing again, Tye said, “Your fury is unwarranted, Brother. While we walked the passageway near the solar, she complained of a headache. I took her up to the wall walk in hopes the clear air would ease her discomfort. Whether pain caused her to swoon, or another reason, we will not know till she wakes.”

“Summon Azarel. She must examine Juliana’s injury again.”

Tye had glowered. “Mother is doing that. I will return shortly with the healer.” He’d stormed out, and the door had slammed and locked behind him.

“Juliana,” Edouard said again, then dragged his hand through his hair. She hadn’t yet stirred. What if she never woke?

He dropped his head into his hands. Guilt squeezed his conscience. If she perished, he was to blame; he couldn’t bear to live with that agony. “Please, bring her back to me.”

A soft inhalation snapped his gaze to her face. Her eyes were still closed, but a frown puckered her brow. A low groan broke from her, and then her eyes flickered open.

“Juliana!”

Her unfocused gaze fixed on him. Her stare sharpened before she pushed up to a seated position, hair falling around her shoulders. Her expression, though, remained filled with uncertainty. Her body shook. She still looked unnaturally pale, and, he realized, she avoided looking at him.

The joy within him dimmed. “Are you hurt? Tye said you had a headache.”

With a shaking hand, she swept fallen hair from her face. “My head feels a little better.”

“Good. Tye will be bringing Azarel here soon to tend you.” Trying to keep the roughness from his voice, Edouard asked, “What happened to you? Did Tye and Veronique catch you trying to find a way to free me?”

“Nay.” Her gaze slid to his pallet, and a blush stained her face. She seemed to be struggling with an inner dilemma, some kind of awkward memory . . .

And then he knew.

“Look at me, Juliana.”

She heaved a breath. Her shoulders stiffened, as though she planned to refuse. Slowly, her head tilted, and her stare met his. In her guarded gaze, he saw the Juliana he’d met long ago.

The woman he’d hurt more than once.

He sensed the turmoil battling inside her: the resentment from their past dealings, versus the need to ally with him to escape and survive. How he hoped he hadn’t lost the trust he’d earned from her in the past days and that she’d still consider him worthy of friendship.

Before he could venture to break the silence between them, she said, “I remembered, Edouard. Tye took me outside to the wall walk, and all of my memories flooded back.”

He managed a smile. “I am glad. I know ’tis what you wanted.”

He’d hoped for a hint of a smile in return. Instead, tears slid down her cheeks. “I, too, thought I would be delighted. What I recalled . . .” A tremor shook her. “’Tis too important to keep to myself. You must hear the truth, Edouard, so you can tell it to your lord father.”

You will live to tell him yourself, Edouard silently vowed, before he said, “You know who wounded you days ago?”

“Aye, but ’tis only part . . . of what I must tell you.”

“Go on,” he coaxed.

“Tye took me to the passageway by the solar. I felt on the verge of remembering something horrendous. ’Tis when the headache started. He took me up to the wall walk. I later realized I had used those same stairs the night I was injured. Outside, my memories began rushing back. I saw again”—she paused, as though rallying her strength—“the treachery I had witnessed nights ago. ’Twas awful, Edouard. The horror, the fear, the sense of danger . . . I knew I couldn’t let Tye see that I had regained my memories, so I pretended my headache was severe. Then Veronique came toward us, and I knew she would see through my ruse. Panic overtook me, and I . . . fainted.”

“Tell me,” Edouard said. “What treachery did you see?”

“Mayda’s murder.”

“God above!” He could only imagine how ghastly it had been for her to see her best friend killed. “I am sorry, Juliana.” As she wiped at her eyes, he added tersely, “’Twas Veronique’s doing, aye?”

Sorrow etched Juliana’s features. “Nay. Landon murdered Mayda.”

“Landon?” Shock forced Edouard to drop down on his pallet. Surely Landon wasn’t corrupt; he’d tried to spare Edouard from Veronique. “How can that be? You and I attended Mayda and Landon’s wedding. They seemed very much in love.”

“I know.” Shaking her head, Juliana said, “Their marriage, happy at first, unraveled over the months. He and Mayda constantly argued. Mayda and I had hoped that the newborn would help to revive their love, but Landon wanted a boy, and Mayda gave birth to a girl. As if that were not unfavorable enough, Landon invited Veronique and Tye to live as guests in the keep. Veronique and Landon soon became lovers.”

“That deceitful bitch,” Edouard muttered.

“Landon and Mayda fought the night she died,” Juliana went on, each word heavy with anguish. “’Twas a terrifying disagreement. When I caught their angry voices coming down from the wall walk, I sensed Mayda was in grave danger. She had feared, since Rosemary’s birth, that Landon might try to harm her and the babe. I thought she was imagining that, but when I heard them fighting, heard him say how he desired Veronique, I knew Mayda had spoken the truth. I hurried up to the wall walk with the baby. I tried to call out to Mayda, to bring her back to the solar to nurse Rosemary. But Mayda did not hear me. Landon struck her again—”

“Nay,” Edouard whispered. Landon had hit his wife more than once? What kind of beast had Landon become, to hurt a woman?

“—and, just as Mayda saw me, Landon hit her hard enough that she fell against a merlon. She tried to regain her balance, to save herself. In his rage, he shoved her again, and she”—Juliana’s voice wobbled—“fell off the battlement. To her death.”

His innards twisted with the pain binding together Juliana’s account. Damnation, how helpless he felt. How he longed to offer her the comfort of his embrace, but she likely wouldn’t accept it. “I am sorry,” he finally said. “Truly sorry.”

Nodding, Juliana said quietly, “I did not know Veronique was also on the wall walk, until she appeared, gloating over Landon’s actions. They had both, however, seen me. In that moment, I realized I was the only other witness to what had befallen Mayda. If I died, the truth about her demise would die, too. So I ran. Oh, Edouard, I tried to keep my promise to Mayda, to keep Rosemary safe”—a moan tore from her—“but Veronique’s thugs trapped me. They grabbed me, and forced me to turn my back to Landon. The last thing I remember of that night is the blow of his sword.”

Edouard scowled. “They thought you were dead. Until I found you in the river, and, fool that I am, brought you right back here.

Self-condemnation darkened Juliana’s expression. “Mayda should never have perished. I should have acted sooner to get her attention. I should have shouted to distract Landon. Anything. I failed her, and now she is dead, and Rosemary will grow up without her mother.”

“Juliana, I vow you did all you could to save Mayda. Veronique obviously wanted Mayda killed and manipulated Landon so he would accomplish the deed for her. If Landon hadn’t succeeded, Veronique would have found another way to have gotten rid of Mayda.”

Juliana dried her eyes on the edge of her sleeve. “She was my best friend. I should have—”

“Should have,” he cut in. “You cannot allow yourself to believe that, Juliana. The guilt will eat at your soul, day after day, if you allow it.”

Her wet lashes flickered. Anger defined the line of her jaw. Did she not believe he knew of what he spoke?

“I know,” he said, drawing on the torment he’d tried to suppress, “because I have lived with guilt ever since that day at Sherstowe, when you fell into the well.”

Her eyes sparked. “When you pushed me in!”

Shaking his head, he sighed. “When you leaned forward, trying to rescue your sketchbook, I grabbed hold of your waist. I meant to pull you out, but Nara kicked my boot and dislodged my balance. My falling against you caused you to tumble in.”

Shock glistened in her gaze. “You dare to blame the mishap on Nara?”

He refused to break her stare. “I do. Kaine witnessed what happened. Ask him, if you do not believe I am telling the truth. Better yet, ask Nara.”

***

Juliana held Edouard’s determined gaze. He didn’t look away. Not the slightest trace of guilt stole into his warrior-tough expression, not even when he blinked, and a sickly sensation wended its way through her.

All these months, she’d despised him for being reckless. She’d believed him wholly responsible for the frightening plunge into the well that had endangered her life.

What if he wasn’t to blame?

“If you knew Nara had caused me to fall in,” she said carefully, “why did you not tell our fathers that day? Why did you choose to keep silent?”

He shrugged and his lips formed a crooked grin. “I dared not cause offense. My sire made it clear to me that he wanted an alliance between our families, for important reasons. ’Twas simplest for me to take the blame, especially when the day ended up a disaster.”

How noble of him—and true to the character of the man she’d grown to know.

’Twas just like selfish Nara to not worry about putting her own sister in jeopardy. She’d likely been trying to win Edouard’s attention.

Fighting rising anger toward her sister, Juliana said, “I truly believed you had put my life in danger. And then, with the bet . . .”

“I would never intentionally put any woman in peril, Juliana. Especially you.”

The unevenness of Edouard’s tone sent a raw pain racing through her. He looked so solemn, and the honest emotion in his words touched deep in her soul, finding all the secret desires she’d harbored for him, along with the anguish of his betrothal to Nara.

“In the end, my sister’s antics came to fruition,” Juliana said quietly, memories of that night at Englestowe filling her thoughts. “She got her wish for a betrothal to you.”

“Aye. ’Tis my duty to marry her.”

He didn’t sound at all pleased; in fact, he sounded as though he disliked the commitment. Did he not want to marry Nara? Before Juliana could ask him about it, though, he said, “I am sorry for all the anguish I have caused you, Juliana. Every moment of it.”

She tried to hold back the blush stealing into her face. Did his apology include almost kissing her? Oh, but she found a secret pleasure in that memory. One to which Nara could never lay claim.

He must have sensed the direction of her thoughts, because he said quietly, “I do not intend to dismiss the issues in our past we have not yet touched upon. However, Azarel and Tye will soon arrive, and there is one vital matter we must discuss.”

She frowned. “What matter?”

“You were right to be afraid to let Tye and Veronique know you had regained your memories. ’Tis crucial that you keep pretending you do not remember the past. You must act no differently than when you left this cell earlier today.”

As Juliana’s gaze instinctively flew to the door, she said, “Veronique may already suspect. The way she looked at me, before I fainted—”

“Then you must convince her otherwise.”

“I know, but—”

“Do you recall when you were in the well, and I called down to you? When I promised to get you out?”

“I do remember.” The warmth of that memory stirred within her. “Your voice was very calm and reassuring.”

He grinned. “I am glad to hear you say that. In truth, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to get you out before you drowned. The danger involved seemed to give me the strength to accomplish what had to be done. Juliana, I know you have endured a great deal,” he said, his voice gentling, “but you are the only one who knows in detail what took place at Waddesford over the past months. You must survive, so that Veronique can be brought to punishment for her part in Mayda’s death and the other atrocities she has committed here. The truth of Landon’s involvement, too, must not be forgotten.”

“You are right.”

He glanced at the door, then back at her, his expression becoming grave. “I realize you may no longer want to be in my arms. However, Tye and Veronique have endeavored to force us together. He will be suspicious if he sees you are not seeking comfort in my embrace.”

Oh, God. To be in Edouard’s arms now, after all she remembered . . . After recalling how intensely she’d craved his kiss . . .

Nay. Survival, for both of them, was far more important than indulging such thoughts.

Faint voices carried from outside the door.

His lips parted, as though to give a warning, but she was already scrambling across the planks. His left arm slid around her, drawing her against his side. She ignored the crush of her breast against him, his enticing scent, and how part of her rejoiced in once again being close to him.

Just as she tried to control the racing of her pulse, the door opened.

***

“You are a fool, Tye. Juliana is trying to deceive us.”

“Are you certain?”

Releasing a furious breath, Veronique came to an abrupt halt in the bailey and glared at her son, who’d been walking at her side. Was he acting witless on purpose? Or had his senses become befuddled by Juliana’s pitiful dramatics earlier?

“I saw the look in her eyes before she fainted,” Veronique muttered. “She was afraid, not overcome by pain. I vow she remembered the night of Mayda’s murder. Once Juliana wakes, I mean to find out.”

Veronique scrutinized the folk working nearby. Where was Azarel? None of the servants she’d sent to find her had returned yet. The healer shouldn’t be hard to locate.

Still sensing Tye’s stare, Veronique scowled at him. He didn’t, as she’d hoped, take his leave.

“Juliana does have a bad wound, Mother. What if she did faint because of a headache? Forcing her memories when she is fragile—”

“Is exactly what I will do. I have been more than patient with her. Now I will keep up the relentless pressure, till she has no choice but to surrender the information we want.”

Impatience chafed at Veronique. After what had transpired on the wall walk, she should be consulting her bones, not wasting moments with Tye. The bones would help reveal what would come to pass with Juliana.

Tye was still standing before her. “What is wrong? Do you no longer want your father’s legacy? Has her beauty weakened you—?”

“Of course not!” He glowered. “You know how much I want to kill Father.”

“Then you will bring Juliana down to the garden, where she and Mayda spent many afternoons together. Once I have found Azarel, she will look at Juliana’s wound there.” Veronique’s gnarled hand curled into a deformed fist. “Tell Juliana that I suspect she remembers all. If she still will not admit it . . .” She smiled, her palm heating with the remembered hardness of a knife hilt. “I will start the killing.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Seated on a stone bench in the garden, Juliana linked her hands together in her lap and tried not to heed the clamminess of her palms. “Why did you bring me here?”

On the opposite bench, Tye sat with his legs parted, elbows braced on his knees, leaning slightly forward. Sunlight bled through the overhead boughs of the apple tree and cast bright splotches over him and the grass stretching like an unruly carpet beneath their feet. His posture, while somewhat relaxed, reminded her of a predator awaiting the right moment to lunge and ensnare. “You spent afternoons here with Mayda,” he said, indicating the area with a flick of his hand. “Does this place not rekindle any memories?”

She fought the sickening misgiving that had rooted within her ever since Tye had returned to the tower and told her to come with him. You must act no differently than when you left this cell earlier today, Edouard had warned. He was right.

Tye had watched her intently as he’d escorted her through the castle, out the forebuilding door to the sunlit bailey beyond, past the stables and kitchens, to this part of the keep. Still, she sensed she was being scrutinized, her gestures analyzed for signs that she had, indeed, regained her memories.

Juliana worked to keep her expression of wary disinterest—an expression he’d expect to see from a captive who couldn’t remember her past—while her pulse became a hard drumming against her ribs. Daring to tuck a wayward skein of hair back behind her ear, she looked about the overgrown garden enclosed by a low, mortared stone wall.

To her right, the dirt space of the bailey blended into grass thickened with weeds. To the left, shadows and sunlight defined straggly beds of flowers, herbs, and vegetables. Her gaze slid farther back to the neglected rose bushes. Mayda had loved to pick the rose blooms and set them in vases about the solar, but toward the end of her difficult pregnancy, she’d been abed more often than not . . .

Beware, Juliana.

Forcing frustration into her sigh, she looked back at Tye. “I wish I did recall this place. ’Tis very peaceful. I can see why I could have come here with Mayda.”

“But you do not recall any of your days spent here? Things you and Mayda may have talked about?”

The urge to quickly look away leapt inside Juliana. She had to stay focused. By keeping Tye fooled, she might be able to find a way to free Edouard. Castle folk were going about their duties in the bailey; if she could convince Tye to walk her through the area on the pretense of jostling her memories, she might be able to make contact with one of the servants she considered a friend. She must try.

Discreetly easing the painfully tight clasp of her hands, she slowly broke Tye’s stare and took another glance about the area. Recollections, tinged with sadness, teased her senses. Mayda had preferred the bench where Tye sat, because she could see the activity in the bailey. Days before Rosemary’s birth, while Mayda rested, Juliana had visited here alone and sketched the empty bench dappled by sunshine. The light had cast a speckled pattern that had complemented the peppery surface of the stone . . .

“Juliana?”

She jumped, a purely instinctive reaction. Had she betrayed herself?

Forcing down the fluttered breath that had leapt to her throat, she shrugged and looked back at him. “For a moment, I thought a memory was surfacing.”

“And?” Suspicion darkened Tye’s voice.

“I tried to make it materialize, but . . . I could not.” She tried to sound disheartened. “Mayhap, if we wait awhile, ’twill arise.”

He shook his head. An unforgiving smile curved his mouth.

Before she could say another word, Tye rose to standing. The air froze in her lungs, and she could only watch as he crossed to her bench and eased down beside her, claiming what small space had separated them.

What was he going to do? Touch her? Force her to accept his lust?

No one would stop him, for he and Veronique ruled Waddesford.

She scooted down the bench, even as his broad hand captured hers. His thumb swept against her left wrist, a movement that chilled rather than warmed her skin.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice unsteady.

“Are you telling me the truth, Juliana?”

Do not let him see the truth! Do not jeopardize Edouard. “I am,” she said firmly.

The breeze shifted the boughs overhead, changing the dappled play of light and underscoring the tense silence between them.

“I have told you all I remember,” she insisted.

“Have you?” Tye’s fingers shifted to entwine with hers, a gesture not of affection, but entrapment. “Mother believes your memories have fully returned.”

Oh, God!

Juliana tried to twist her hand free, but his grip tightened.

Tye’s gaze slid toward the bailey, and then he released a sigh, a sound that stirred dread in the pit of her stomach. “Mother will be here shortly with Azarel. I will be honest with you, Juliana. Mother grows impatient.” He paused, a deliberate emphasis. “She plans to force your memories out of you today, including where to find Landon’s ring. One way or another.”

Juliana’s stomach plummeted. “What do you mean?”

“Do you care for Edouard?”

“O-of course!”

Tye smiled. “Then you will do your best to remember. For his sake.”

“Veronique means to harm him?”

“Oh, aye. She will likely start with a finger or two—”

Juliana’s free hand flew to her mouth. Panic whirled in her mind. “Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I . . .”

Again, Tye glanced toward the bailey. Shouts carried, followed by sounds of a commotion.

“Tye!” Veronique bellowed. “Where is Tye?”

He swiftly rose, drawing Juliana to her feet. “Come.” Without waiting for her reply, he strode forward across the grass, hauling her along after him.

“W-what is happening?” Juliana cried. Was Veronique about to begin her torture? Had she dragged Edouard out of the tower to make Juliana and all the other castle folk watch him suffer? She couldn’t bear to see him maimed.

Stones skidded beneath her feet. She could hardly keep up with Tye, and she stumbled, her fingers scraping the ground—long enough to snatch up a pebble—before she righted. When they left the tree’s shade for the bright bailey, she sensed Tye’s pace quickening.

“There you are!” Veronique advanced on him, shaking out a long garment while holding onto her bag of bones. “How dare you take so long to answer my summons?” Her accusing gaze slammed into Juliana before returning to Tye.

He released Juliana’s hand. “We were in the garden, Mother, as you ordered of me.” He clearly fought for patience. “What is going on?”

“The prisoners in the dungeon are attempting to escape. You are to crush their rebellion.”

Excitement surged inside Juliana. Edouard was safe. Oh, how she hoped the escape attempt succeeded.

“A bloody fight?” Tye grinned. “Gladly, Mother.”

Tye raced off, and Juliana swallowed hard as the poisoned heat of Veronique’s stare fixed upon her. With a sharp thrust of her hand, Veronique signaled over one of the men-at-arms who’d joined the mercenaries gathered outside the dungeon’s entrance.

The man bowed before her. “Aye, milady?”

When he rose, she shoved the garment and bone bag into his arms. “Return Juliana to the tower cell. Then, deliver these to the solar. Lose even one bone, and I will kill you.”

***

Juliana walked ahead of the man-at-arms, his footfalls and noisy breaths echoing off the passageway’s walls. She shifted the pebble in her palm and anticipation fluttered inside her, for on this walk to the tower stairwell, on the return to accursed captivity, she’d decided to escape.

This might be her only opportunity. She’d not let it slip away, especially when Veronique had decided to harm Edouard.

Holding her head high while she walked, Juliana concentrated upon her resolve, coaxing it until it spread like fire within her. Never would Juliana allow Veronique to torture Edouard in order to force her to confess her memories. She’d rather die.

She turned a corner in the passage illuminated by wall torches, and the stairwell leading up to the tower chamber came into view. Eight steps, at most, till they reached it. A nervous jolt ran through her. Soon, very soon, she would act. She steeled herself for just the right moment.

Two careful breaths. One . . .

The guard grunted. “Do not give me trouble now. Up—”

Juliana discreetly tossed the pebble. It clattered away into the shadows.

The man’s strides slowed.

“What was that?” She turned partway to face him, pretending surprise.

Light glinted off his drawn sword. His grizzled face clamped into a scowl.

Ignoring a pang of uncertainty, she peered at the stone floor. “Did you drop something?”

“Nay.” He thrust his sword at the stairwell. “Move.”

She had to distract him. Otherwise, her plan had already failed. “Are you certain the bag of bones is securely tied? If you lost one of them . . .”

He tipped his chin toward the mantle and bag, cradled in his left arm. The bag lay partly concealed in the folded garment. “They are safe.”

“For your sake, I hope you are right. We both know how important those bones are to Veronique. If you did drop one . . .” Juliana raised her hands, a gesture of dismissal. “But you know best. I will not worry.”

The guard leaned closer to her, as though to gauge her expression.

Managing a little smile, she shrugged, turned her back to him, and started toward the stairwell, fighting an awful sense of discouragement. Her ruse hadn’t worked. She must think of another—

“Hold.”

She hesitated, her trembling hands forming fists.

“Turn around.”

Her gown whispered as she obeyed.

Leveling his sword at her chest, he said, “Stand against that wall.” He nudged his elbow at the one nearest, opposite the stairwell’s entrance. “Stand there, where I can see ye.”

A nervous flush warmed her face. She mustn’t appear anxious, or he’d suspect her of trickery. Narrowing her gaze with what she hoped would appear to be mutinous hatred, she stepped back until her bottom bumped the wall.

He nodded once, suggesting he thought her well enough secured. His gaze dropped to the floor.

“I think it fell by the torch.” Juliana gestured farther down the wall.

The lout glanced where she indicated, before his face cinched into a scowl. Then, keeping his sword trained on her, he took two steps sideways for a better look.

How tempting to lunge at him now. His sword, though, looked deadly sharp. She must be patient.

His full attention shifted to the wall’s lowest stones.

“I see it!” she cried. “Right there. ’Tis a bone.”

“What?” His face whitened. Looking away, he dropped into a partial crouch to examine the shadows.

Juliana dashed around the extended sword. As his head swiveled, she rammed her hands into his back and shoved with all her might. Cursing, he pitched toward the wall. He lashed out with his sword. The lethal steel swung near her with a faint whistle.

The man caught his fall by bracing his palm against the wall. Soon he’d straighten and turn on her. She might be quick, but she was no match for an enraged, sword-wielding warrior.

Rallying her strength, she slammed her whole body against him. He loosed a furious roar. Dropping the garment and bone bag, he swung his burly arm back, grabbing for her, almost catching hold of her sleeve.

“Ye will not get away—”

She dodged his swipe, then kicked the inside of his knee, above the rim of his boot. He grimaced, his leg buckled, and his shoulder banged against the wall.

Before he could raise his sword to her, she shoved him again. With a loud thwack, his head hit the stone. He groaned. His knees gave way, and he slumped to the floor, eyes rolling closed. The sword, still in his grasp, settled beside him with a gritty clank.

Triumph raced through Juliana. She’d defeated him! She’d done it.

Stepping back out of his reach, Juliana waited through several agonizing breaths; she must be sure he wasn’t trying to fool her. When not a flicker of cognizance crossed his slack face, she crept to him and pried his fingers from the sword. Then, keeping watch on him in case he roused, she picked up the bag of bones. The contents rattled softly, and she choked down a disgusted moan. She loathed holding such grimness in her hand, but they might be a useful bargaining tool at some point.

Holding the sword—heavier than she expected—she started toward the tower stairwell. She clung tightly to her excitement, refused to listen to the doubts swirling up inside her. She’d subdued one guard; there was at least one more up by the chamber door. Somehow, she’d find a way to defeat him, too.

As Juliana started up the stairs that were raised and uneven in places, cool air swept over her; it made her all the more aware of the sweaty dampness of her hand gripping the sword. Her arm, unused to the weapon’s weight, began to shake. After sliding her hand through the drawstring of the bone bag so it hung from her left wrist, she then pushed the bag down inside her sleeve for safekeeping. Gripping the sword with both hands, she continued on, trying to move as quickly but quietly as possible. If she could surprise the guard—

“Who goes there?” a man called down from above.

Hellfire, as Edouard would say.

Hesitating in the stairwell’s shadows, Juliana mulled what to do next. Should she reply? Was it better to stay silent, so mayhap he’d come down and investigate? He’d be suspicious then, which meant she’d have less chance of catching him unaware.

“Kerr, is that you?” the man shouted. When she didn’t respond, the guard growled, “Answer me! Who goes there?”

With grudging dismay, she realized her current tactic was likely to fail. That meant she must resort to other, more cunning measures.

“Please,” she called back, forcing a wobble into her voice. “Is someone there? Can you help?”

“Help?” From the faint footsteps filtering down to her, she guessed that the guard had walked to the opening to the stairs.

Hoping she sounded terrified and helpless, she said, “The man-at-arms who was escorting me . . . Kerr . . . he . . .” She managed a tremulous sob. “Something is wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“He fell to the floor. He has not moved.”

A tense silence. “Who are you?”

Of all the questions to ask! She certainly wasn’t going to reveal she was the woman he’d guarded in the chamber. Fighting her unease, she said, “A . . . visitor. A friend”—she shuddered at the necessary lie—“of Lady Veronique’s. I arrived a short while ago. Will you help this poor man, or must I go find aid elsewhere?”

“There is no one else about?” The guard sounded doubtful.

“Veronique and the others are busy with a prisoner uprising in the bailey.” She forced out a frightened moan. “If you will not help me, just say so and I will bother you no more. This man, I mean, Kerr’s life is—”

Footsteps carried from above. “Wait there.”

The guard was heading down to her. His boot falls grew louder as he neared.

Tightening her grasp on the sword, she quietly continued up the stairs to meet him. Sweat moistened her brow and the curve between her breasts. What she’d do when she faced him, fighter to fighter, she didn’t quite know, but . . . she’d make that judgment then.

A huff and loud footfalls reached her. The man was very close. She drew back against the wall, a moment before the guard came into view, his sword raised. As soon as he spied her, his eyes widened. “You!”

Before she said a word, his gaze dropped to the blade clutched in her hands. He chuckled, then stepped down to the next stair, no doubt moving in to attack. “Do you mean to fight me?”

His taunting sent a raw tremor running through her. “If I must.” She tried not to let show how much her arm was shaking. “But I was not lying about Kerr. He is hurt.”

“Of course he is.” Only two steps above her now, the guard grinned and shook his head. “’Tis a heavy weapon for a young woman. You will end up getting hurt. Put the sword down on that stair there, and I will be kind.”

What exactly did he mean by “kind?” He wouldn’t beat her senseless—or worse—before he threw her into the chamber and locked the door?

His brutishly large fingers shifted on his sword’s hilt. “Do as I say. You really do not want to battle with me.”

A weak groan came from the bottom of the stairs.

“Kerr,” Juliana said.

Not breaking her gaze, the guard’s expression darkened. “That could be anyone.”

“’Tis Kerr.”

Uncertainty flickered in the guard’s eyes.

“Is he your friend?” she said. “Go and help him.”

“And let you get away?” the guard sneered. “Veronique would gut me alive.”

Juliana tsked, as though he was a fool. “Where can I go? There is only one way in and out of this stairwell. I doubt you will let me leave these stairs.”

“True.” The guard’s mouth tightened. “Move from this spot, and I will kill you myself.”

He edged past her. Turning away, he started descending the stairwell.

He’d taken only three steps, when she rushed down behind him and kicked him in the back. He lurched forward, his foot twisting on an uneven stair. “You wretched—” He swung his sword back in a cutting slash that barely missed her leg.

Before he could catch his balance and attack, she lunged forward and kicked him again. He stumbled. Missed a step. Fell on his arse. His free hand scrambled to break his fall as he tumbled down several more stairs, his sword scraping on the stone. He finally came to a stop, facing the wall.

He groaned. Clutching his head, he tried to sit up.

She couldn’t let him get away or thwart her efforts to free Edouard. “I am sorry,” Juliana said, before she kicked him again. His forehead knocked the wall, and he went limp.

She stooped, grabbed his sword, and hefted the weapon. Edouard would need it once she’d freed him.

Up she climbed toward the tower, hoping she wouldn’t have to face another guard. She softened her steps, listening. When she approached the entry to the small area before the chamber door, she paused.

Over the sputtering of the torches, she caught a muffled scraping sound. It seemed to emanate from near the door.

Groaning inwardly, she tipped her head back against the rough wall. Was there another guard, after all? Summoning her courage—she must rescue Edouard before the two fallen men roused and warned their colleagues—she dared to peek into the space in front of the chamber.

Empty.

As she hurried forward, she wondered what had made the noise. One of the torches, shifting in its metal bracket? A mouse gnawing on the door? Brushing the thoughts aside, she propped one sword against the wall to free her right hand, snatched the key ring from its hook, pushed the key into the lock, and turned. With a prompt click, the lock released.

Juliana eased the door open. Her gaze fell upon the sunlit planks and the pallet just coming into view. “Ed—”

Before the sound fully formed in her mouth, the door was yanked from her grasp. She gasped, while she was spun and thrust against the wall. The sword was knocked from her hold.

With a splintering crash, the door hit the stone beside her.

A strong hand clamped around her throat.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Edouard,” Juliana croaked.

The hand pinning her fell away. She sucked in a breath, her pain and dizziness slowly subsiding.

“Juliana, I am sorry. I thought you were a guard.” Edouard touched her arm, then stepped away to look around the open doorway. His head tilted, as though to catch any sounds from beyond. “Are you alone?”

Rubbing at her neck to ease the discomfort, she nodded.

He frowned. “Where are the guards?”

Juliana couldn’t help but smile. “One is lying injured at the bottom of the stairs. The other is unconscious partway up the stairwell. They will not, however, be subdued for long.”

With each word, Edouard’s eyebrows raised higher. “You defeated two armed men?”

“I did.” When he whistled softly, pride warmed her breast. Bending down, she picked up her sword. “I brought a weapon for you, too. ’Tis leaning against the outside wall.”

Edouard disappeared through the doorway and appeared a moment later holding the sword. Standing in the embrasure, he thrust the weapon and swooped it from side to side, then flexed his fingers to adjust his grip. “Not as fine a weapon as I am used to,” he said, “but ’twill do.”

She shook her head. “The next time I rescue you, I will attack guards with better quality swords.”

Edouard laughed and executed a gallant bow. “Thank you, Juliana, for coming to my rescue.”

His roguish grin, the elegant way he bent at the waist, the forward slide of his hair, reminded her of how he’d kissed her hand at Sherstowe last spring. Stifling her regret, she glanced at the pallet where he’d been restrained. The iron links wove across the mattress; the hinged manacles lay open, like the jaws of metallic snakes.

“How . . ?” she began.

Edouard held up a hairpin. “Azarel visited while you were with Tye.” Holding out his hand, clearly wanting Juliana to cross to him, he added, “The guards sounded reluctant to let her in, I guess because you were not here. She managed to persuade them, though. One of the guards kept watch while she examined my bruised jaw, but she still managed to slip me the hairpin. I sprung the locks on my manacles and was working on the door before you came in.”

That explained the noise Juliana had heard.

She reached his side, and he took her left hand in his. “I did not mean to frighten you earlier or hurt you. The sight of you”—his gaze dropped to her lips—“is indeed very welcome.”

At his whisper-soft words, a tingling ache dragged through her. God above, she must crush this forbidden yearning. Regardless how she felt about him, he belonged to Nara.

“Edouard,” she said, struggling to rein in her emotions, “right now, Kaine and your men are trying to break free from the dungeon. Last I saw of Veronique and Tye, they were going off to quell the attempt.”

Edouard’s eyes glinted. “My men will need my help in that fight.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. As her arm lowered, a muted clatter sounded, and curiosity sharpened his gaze.

“I have Veronique’s coveted bag of finger bones.” Juliana held out her sleeve to show him. “I took them from a guard. They may be useful in our fight against her.”

“As disgusting as those bones are, you may well be right.” Edouard motioned her through the doorway. “Come. We must not delay our escape.”

Without bothering to soften his footfalls, he hurried into the stairwell, his sword at the ready. Either he wasn’t concerned about being attacked or he believed he could best whomever they encountered.

She followed, keeping a tight hold on her weapon. A moment later, she heard the muffled scrape of his boots as he halted. After racing down several more stairs, she came upon him squatting beside the man she’d left lying by the wall.

“He’s still unconscious,” Edouard said. “’Tis an ugly bruise on his head. He will have a rotten headache, and will be looking to get even with you.”

“Then we had best be gone from here.”

Edouard grinned up at her. “My thoughts exactly.” He unfastened the dagger from the guard’s belt and slipped it under his tunic. “Come on.”

With Edouard in the lead, they hurried down the rest of the stairs and out into the passageway. Glancing to the left and right, Edouard said, “Where is the other guard?”

Juliana looked to where she’d felled the sentry. Dread clutched her innards. “He was there,” she pointed to the floor. “I heard him moaning before I attacked the other man.” Looking down the passage, she said, “Do you think he has gone to warn the others?”

“Aye.” Edouard blew out a breath. “We must hurry. Which way?”

“To the right,” Juliana said. “I know of a lesser used stairwell. It leads down to the far corner of the bailey.”

“Good.” He loped forward, and she did her best to keep up with his brisk strides. How keenly she sensed his wish to be free of captivity and do whatever he could to save his sire.

The sword became heavier in her grasp. Her arm muscles ached, but she ignored the discomfort. She wouldn’t slow Edouard down or be a burden to him.

When voices carried from a connecting passage, he threw up a hand and urged her to flatten back against the shadowed wall; three men-at-arms strode past the opening. Edouard quietly confirmed the rest of the directions with her, and then, after glancing both ways to ensure the route was clear, forged on.

At last, they came to the dimly lit stairwell. Cobwebs floated from the stone ceiling, while the stench of burning pitch wafted on the faint breeze coming up from below.

He raised a cautioning hand and listened. His fingers flexed on his sword, suggesting he looked forward to the confrontation to free his men.

“What is your plan, once we reach the bailey?” she asked.

He rolled his shoulders, doubtless to ease tension gathered there. She tried not to notice how his tunic stretched taut over his upper torso.

“Do you know the location of the postern?” he asked.

Most castles had an alternate door in the thick, surrounding wall, a means of escape in case of mutiny or siege. “’Tis in the keep’s back wall,” she said, dropping the tip of her sword to the floor to rest her tired arms.

He glanced back at her, then frowned, as though realizing her discomfort. Reaching under his tunic, he withdrew the dagger he’d taken from the guard and offered it to her. “Leave the sword. Take this knife instead.”

“Thank you.” She set the sword by the wall and unsheathed the dagger.

“Listen well, Juliana. I want you to stay hidden till ’tis safe for you to slip through the postern. Once you are out, I want you to run from here. Find help. Go to Branton Keep. Tell my father, if he does not already know, all that has occurred here.”

His harsh tone made her quake inside. “I will. And you?”

“I will fight to free Kaine and the others. Then, mayhap, we can encourage other folk at this keep to rise up against Veronique and her lackeys.”

Worry pressed against Juliana’s breastbone. “’Tis a risky plan. There are so few of you, while Veronique has many mercenaries working for her.”

“My men are strong and capable.” Edouard headed down into the stairwell. “If we can take Veronique or Tye captive, we will have more of a chance of gaining the castle folk’s help. They may be too afraid to challenge her—unless they have the right leadership.”

“You,” she said, and began to descend the stairs.

Glancing back to meet her gaze, he nodded.

How brave and determined he looked. Yet he could well be killed.

She didn’t dare tell him, the son of a renowned crusading warrior, not to do battle; ’twas Edouard’s destiny. That fighting spirit ran in his blood. Still, she couldn’t quell a rush of bone-deep terror. “I am afraid for you, Edouard,” she said softly.

He shrugged a little too swiftly. “Fear not. If I fail to win control of the keep, Veronique and her mercenaries will not kill me. I am of no use to them dead.”

There were fates worse than death. They might cut his body so badly, he’d long for death. “Edouard, why not come with me to Branton Keep? You will be safe from Veronique and Tye’s wickedness. Without you as a valuable hostage . . .”

He halted, three steps below her, and slowly faced her. “I considered it. But my men need me. The good folk at Waddesford Keep need me. My sire would never run from such a fight. I will not, either.”

How her heart ached with concern for him, but she mustn’t hold him back. She nodded and followed him the last few steps down to the stout oak door.

On the bottom step, he smiled up at her, his gaze bold and determined. “Stay safe, Juliana. I will see you anon.” He depressed the iron handle, shoved open the door, and stepped through to the bailey beyond.

***

While she walked in the keep’s shadows toward the far wall, Juliana forced herself to slow her strides. ’Twas utter torment. Foreboding tightened her limbs, shortened her breath, and raised goose bumps on her arms. The importance of what she must do, and the consequences for Edouard and so many others if she failed, rendered her light-headed.

Her grip tightened on the handle of the dagger, held straight down at her side. By now the guards she’d fought had likely alerted their fellow mercenaries. At any moment, she might hear shouts, running footfalls, and commands to halt.

Get away as fast as you can. Once you have gone through the postern, you must run. Run!

She reached up to smooth her windblown hair, and the bones in the cloth bag clattered. If Veronique discovered that Juliana had stolen her beloved bones . . .

Juliana shoved aside the unfinished musing; she didn’t care to guess what punishment the cruel woman might inflict. Yet trailing after that thought was a glimmer of insight. What might Veronique agree to, if, in desperation, she thought she might never see those bones again? Any advantage must be used in a fight against an enemy as evil as Veronique.

Daring to veer from her original plan, Juliana crossed to the garden. Looking over the tangled mess of herbs before her, she spied several large stones, once arranged as a decorative element in the middle bed. Crossing to them, she crouched, lifted one stone partway using the knife for leverage, dug a small cavity beneath, and set the bag in the hole. She dropped the stone back into place and scattered the extra dirt amongst the plants. After brushing her hands on the grass, she picked up her weapon, rose, and resumed her careful stroll toward the postern.

A shout drew her gaze to the wall walk to her left. Several men-at-arms ran along the battlement. One of them shouted again to a warrior farther down. She strained to hear over her footfalls, but she couldn’t make out what he said.

He could well be relaying word of her and Edouard’s escape.

Get away. Hurry!

She quickened her strides. Not far now. Shutting out the harsh voices floating down to her, she searched the wall a short distance ahead for the gate.

Somewhere behind her, she heard footfalls.

“You will search the entire bailey,” Veronique was saying, her voice growing louder as she neared. “If you fail to find Edouard and Juliana, I will slice off your ballocks. To start!”

Judging by the footsteps, there were at least five men with Veronique. Fear seized Juliana. With a gasp, she broke into a run. Pain, radiating from her wound, lanced through her head, but she kept running.

“There!” Veronique shrieked. “Get her!”

Unable to suppress her panic, Juliana looked back while she raced on. Veronique, her face twisted with fury, pointed a crooked finger at her. Barreling toward Juliana were four burly men, including the guard Juliana had tricked by insisting he’d dropped a bone.

Run, Juliana.

Run!

***

Squinting against the afternoon sunshine, Edouard glanced about to get his bearings. His gaze, drawn by the clash of swords somewhere to his left, slid past the dovecotes, kitchens, and stables, toward the gatehouse. The fight, though, was taking place beyond his range of view.

Castle folk crowded into the bailey to watch the skirmish. Some of the women were dabbing at their eyes. The battle sounds made Edouard’s muscles tauten, caused the blood to pump faster in his veins. He tasted the fight, its essence akin to a strong liquor on his tongue.

Keeping his back to the keep and trying not to draw attention from the onlookers, Edouard kept walking until the fight came into view. As he took in the grisly scene, the discordant ring of steel sharp in his ears, he choked down an agonized roar.

At least ten mercenaries fought with Tye. Two of Edouard’s men—the one he’d sent on ahead to Waddesford Keep to alert them of Juliana’s injury, and the warrior who’d ridden with him and Kaine into the keep—lay bloodied and motionless on the ground. They were dead; he knew by the blankness of their eyes.

Kaine was still fighting. Sweat glistening on his face, he bared his teeth and met a brutal strike from Tye. While Kaine struggled, his strength clearly ebbing, Tye’s motions appeared lazy and effortless, like a smug feline toying with a doomed bird.

Light flashed off Tye’s sword and he lunged, his blade grazing Kaine’s left leg. Gasping, Kaine stumbled back, dodging another close blow from a mercenary. A crimson streak formed on Kaine’s woolen hose.

“Soon enough, you will join your friends in death.” Tye laughed. “You are one man against eleven.”

Several of the mercenaries chortled.

The malevolence in Tye’s grin raised Edouard’s fury to lethal pitch. Raising his sword, Edouard marched from the shadows, dirt crunching beneath his boots. “You, Tye, are the man to die.”

Shock flickered over Kaine’s face. “Edouard!”

Tye suddenly appeared taller, more alert, than a moment ago, as his attention focused on Edouard. “Brother.” He spoke the greeting as though ’twas a curse.

“I am not your brother,” Edouard growled, continuing his relentless pace. Thrusting his sword toward the sky, he shouted: “Hear me, good folk of Waddesford Keep! I am Edouard de Lanceau. I am the loyal son of your liege, Moydenshire’s great lord, Geoffrey de Lanceau.”

A murmur rippled through the throng by the stables.

“All those who hear my name,” Edouard yelled, “stand with me. Fight! Help me rid Waddesford of this scourge.”

“You are a fool,” Tye sneered. “You will not find supporters here.”

“Fight with me, good folk,” Edouard roared. “I command you, on my lord father’s behalf!”

“He speaks true!” Kaine yelled. “He is Lord de Lanceau’s son. Fight!”

Edouard sensed movement behind him. He turned to see two stable hands stepping forward from the crowd, wielding pitch forks. Mercenaries left Tye’s side to intercept them.

“Fight!” Edouard bellowed again. “The rest of you, join me!”

More murmurs. A few more men walked forward in a show of allegiance. Hope flared within Edouard.

“Dead men, all of them.” Tye signaled to the other mercenaries. With wicked grins, all but one stalked toward the crowd. Women screamed.

“Now,”—Tye’s sword glinted as he adjusted his hold—“to deal with you, Brother.” He lunged.

The blade flew toward Edouard, a bright streak of steel. The thrill of the challenge raced through him as he met the assault. Clang. Clang. The force of the blows hammered through his bones and muscles, warning him of Tye’s impressive strength and skill. Damnation, but Tye would not triumph!

Putting all his weight behind his thrust, Edouard struck again, forcing Tye to take two steps back.

“Milord, beware,” Kaine called, before he clashed swords with the mercenary who had remained with Tye.

A shrill cackle drifted from across the bailey: Veronique. Ignoring the bitter rage that sound stirred inside him, Edouard kept his gaze on Tye’s face. If he could overpower Tye, take him hostage with the onlookers witnessing, more folk would likely take up the fight against the traitors.

Poised for attack, Tye blew away a lock of hair trailing into his face. “You cannot win, Brother. The men who tried to join your cause are finished. You are already defeated.”

With a mutinous growl, Edouard lunged.

Tye leapt away, following with a slash that barely missed Edouard’s thigh. He tsked. “I am surprised your skill is so inferior to mine. Did Father not ensure you were properly trained?”

Edouard forced himself to ignore the taunt. He watched for an opportunity to attack. No doubt, he’d fight better with the sword specially designed for him, the one stripped from him days ago. But he’d fight well enough with this blade.

“Lean in a little closer, next time you strike,” Tye goaded, matching Edouard’s wary stance. “You might come close to cutting me then. Or are you not strong enough to put the power behind the steel?”

Edouard scowled. Ah, God, he could not wait to run his blade right through Tye’s gut.

A choked cry carried from somewhere behind him: a woman, suffering intense pain.

Juliana? He ground his teeth. Nay. By now, she’d be safely through the postern.

Tye glanced at a point beyond Edouard, then chuckled. “Brother, I think you had best lower your sword and surrender.”

“Edouard!” Kaine rasped.

Edouard risked a backward glance. And froze.

Two guards held Juliana between them, pinning her arms behind her back.

A cruel smile on her lips, Veronique held a dagger at Juliana’s throat.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Juliana tilted her head against the grimy dungeon wall behind her. When she moved, her cheek brushed her upper arm, bared by her fallen sleeve, and she caught the scent of sunlight still clinging to her garments.

Not a single sliver of sunshine reached into this belowground prison; a few wall torches provided the only light. With her arms stretched above her head, and chains clamped around her wrists and ankles, she awaited the dawn and the grim fate Veronique had promised after the guards had secured Juliana’s shackles. “Come daybreak, you will tell me where that gold ring is hidden. I will kill servants, one by one, till you yield that information.” Veronique had smiled in that depraved way of hers. “Better still, I will use my knife on Edouard.”

Juliana swallowed, her mouth painfully dry. She didn’t want to reveal any secrets to Veronique, but she also didn’t want Edouard or any castle folk to be harmed. Not because of her.

The faint clink of another prisoner’s chains reminded her that Edouard and Kaine were shackled in the same manner as she, and lined up along the wall beside her. The three of them were all that were left of Edouard’s supporters.

Beside her, Edouard blew out a sigh. Her eyes burned. She fought the desperate need to look at him, to know he was still alert and full of fighting spirit.

But she couldn’t meet his gaze. Not yet.

How could she, when she’d failed him? Him, Kaine, Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau, and all the other good people who’d hoped for an end to the treachery at Waddesford.

A silent cry broke within Juliana and she dropped her head back to the wall. She ignored the twinge of discomfort from her wound, for the pain was unimportant compared to the slaughter Veronique would carry out. Somehow, tonight, Juliana must think of another way to save Edouard and Kaine, and give Lord de Lanceau an advantage over the traitors.

One of the torches popped, sending flames licking in a greedy spike, and she flinched. The yellowish light flicked over mortared stone smeared by years of God only knew what. In places, she recognized the spread of gray-black mold; the earthy odor of it thickened the stale air. Closer to the door, where two guards stood talking in lowered voices, grooves in the dirt floor showed where a heavy object had been dragged several yards. A torture rack? A coffin? A shudder crawled up from the soles of her feet, as though the souls of those who had died here had come to warn her of doom.

“Are you all right?” Edouard’s voice seemed unnaturally loud, and she couldn’t stop herself from looking at him.

His blue eyes blazed, a look that reminded her of the fiery torches. “Aye,” she whispered. “I am . . . fine.”

Edouard’s brows rose before he tipped his head toward his chains. “As well as we can be, strung up like puppets on strings.”

Kaine snorted, a dismayed sound.

“Edouard,” Juliana whispered, “I am sorry.”

A sad, wry smile tipped up his mouth. “Do not blame yourself.” Metal clinked as he tried to stretch sideways and catch her hand, but the bindings wouldn’t allow their limbs to touch. As he shifted back to his original position, his chains grated against the stone.

Do not blame yourself, he’d said in a kind voice. How could she not? Edouard was once again a captive; ’twas her fault they were imprisoned. Moreover, if Edouard hadn’t found her lying in the river and resolved to help her, he wouldn’t have ended up in the tower. He’d be free and far away from Waddesford’s danger.

“I do blame myself. I should have run for the postern the moment we stepped into the bailey.”

“Juliana,” Edouard said, more firmly.

“You know I am right.”

He shook his head. “If you had run, the men on the wall walk would have noticed you right away. You would have had little chance of escape.”

His defense of her actions heightened her sense of torment. “I still might have got through the postern.”

“The garrison, alerted to your escape attempt, would have sent riders to catch you.” Edouard’s eyes closed, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Nay, Juliana, the fault is mine. I should have been able to defeat Tye and rally the castle folk to my side. My father would have managed to do so.”

“Edouard!” Tears slipped from her eyes.

“I failed in my duties as my father’s heir. I failed . . . my sire.”

“Edouard,” Kaine cut in. “Do not say such.”

“You were fighting too many enemies at once,” she insisted. “Your father is a great warrior, but I doubt even he—”

“He would have succeeded.”

How she wanted to rail against that statement. Yet as she stared at Edouard’s taut profile, she sensed her words would go unheeded. His loyalty and sense of responsibility to his sire were too thoroughly ingrained.

In truth, though, she’d want no less than absolute allegiance from her lord’s son.

How gallant Edouard looked, emboldened by his belief in his father—a faith that stemmed from his noble family’s honorable right to rule these lands on behalf of the king.

Edouard might be chained once again, but he wasn’t broken or defeated. His conviction was a weapon all its own. It strengthened Edouard’s determination not to fail again. It fueled his hatred for those who stood in his way, and it inspired Juliana to stand with him.

When dawn came, she wouldn’t yield to Veronique. She’d fight back, with words, strength of will, and what she knew Veronique would want: the location of the bag of bones.

As though sensing her stare, Edouard glanced at her. Remorse filled his gaze. “Do not be afraid, Juliana. I promise you, I will get us out of here.”

In hushed tones, Kaine said, “Do you have an idea, Edouard, how to escape?”

“We shall ask for Azarel; she will help us. She can check Juliana’s wound and tend the slash on your leg,” Edouard said quietly. “Then—”

Kaine shook his head. “One of the guards already examined my injury. He told me I did not need to see the healer.”

“Cruel bastard,” Edouard muttered.

Juliana looked over at the guards, still engrossed in whatever they were discussing. “We could distract those men,” she suggested in a low voice. “Offer them a bribe, if they set us free.”

Edouard’s stare sharpened. “You are offering naught to those thugs. Not even the promise of a kiss.”

A flush heated her face. “I never intended to offer myself, but a reward, mayhap a share of the jewels when they are recovered.”

“Ah,” Edouard murmured. “The ones Mayda hid along with Landon’s ring?”

“Aye.” Thinking of Mayda brought a fresh tug of distress. Mayda had intended those riches to support Rosemary and Juliana for years. But if she were alive, she’d readily agree some should be bartered to win Juliana, Edouard, and Kaine’s freedom. Otherwise, Rosemary would never be found and raised as Mayda had asked of Juliana.

“A good idea,” Edouard said, his gaze shifting to the two men. “They may be too afraid of Veronique to consider a bribe, but we must try.”

As Juliana’s thoughts slipped back to Mayda’s frightened account of where she’d put the bag of jewels, she realized in her own way, she was honor-bound to the very same ideals as Edouard. She was the only one who knew where the wealth was hidden; her responsibility, to every living soul in Moydenshire, was to keep Landon’s ring from falling into the wrong hands.

If Juliana were to die before she could recover the jewels, what she knew would be lost forever. Landon’s ring might never be returned to de Lanceau. The riches would remain hidden, to be found, if not by Veronique, than mayhap by another of his lordship’s foes determined to stir up chaos. That must not come to pass.

Even as Edouard cleared his throat, likely about to address the guards, she caught his attention. “Listen,” she said softly. “In case aught should happen to me—”

“Juliana!” he growled. “Do not speak so.”

“You should know where the jewels are,” she rushed on in a whisper, “for your father’s sake. No one else must get hold of those riches. You will not find them unless you follow the steps I tell you.”

Regret flickered in Edouard’s eyes, but he said, “Go on.”

“When you enter the solar—”

The guards abruptly stopped talking.

Juliana pressed her lips together, holding back the rest of her sentence. Had the louts overheard her? Is that why they’d gone silent?

A sudden tension swept through the room. The men straightened. Hands on their sword hilts, expressions wary, they looked toward the confined passage that led down into the dungeon.

Muffled footfalls echoed, and then Veronique appeared, her silk gown rustling as it brushed the steps. Juliana’s breath caught as the older woman’s wicked gaze pinned her, then slid to Edouard and Kaine.

Her crimson lips parted on a gleeful cackle as she strolled in their direction. “Do I see concern in your eyes, stubborn, proud Edouard?” She winked. “I will. For I have the most astonishing news.”

***

Edouard smothered the bitter reply he longed to spit at Veronique. Provoking her wrath, especially when he stood shackled before her and prey to her perverse whims, would solve naught. And, if she thought he’d pose a problem for the guards, she might post more men in the dungeon, and make it even more difficult to escape.

Still, he held Veronique’s bold stare, even when she moved so near her rosewater scent brought a tickle to his throat. He indulged in a noisy cough.

She waited until he’d finished, then said, “You are not interested in what I will tell you?” Her tone resembled a smug purr. Clearly, her news benefited her, not him.

“I vow you will tell me anyway, whether I wish it or not.” He did his best to look bored.

Her painted smile widened. She reached into her cleavage to draw out a crumpled, rolled piece of parchment. Part of a broken wax seal showed beneath her thumb. He couldn’t quite see the impression in the seal, but when he tried to focus on it, she shoved the parchment in his face. “A reply from your loving father.”

Edouard scowled, hoping she sensed the full depth of his hatred for her.

“Shall I read it to you?” She shifted the parchment so it scraped against Edouard’s jaw. “I think his mighty lordship’s words will shock you. What a shame, for me to have to destroy your admirable sense of loyalty to him—”

“Stop it!” Juliana cried, her chains rattling in protest.

Edouard jerked his face from Veronique’s touch. He wouldn’t submit to any more of her toying or heed her hateful words. Regrettably, however, Veronique didn’t move away. With a gloating laugh, she skimmed the document along the side of his neck to the front of his tunic, leaving a smarting trail across his skin.

“Take your hand,” Edouard growled, “away from my neck.”

“Tsk, tsk. If your chains were long enough,”—she fingered aside a sweaty length of his hair—“I vow you would try to strangle me, as you did Tye.”

“I would. Without hesitation.”

Veronique tittered. “How like Tye you are.”

“Never!”

“Indeed, you might come to hate your father as much as Tye does,” she said softly, “if you knew your sire’s answer.”

Edouard glared at her.

“There, now.” Her lustful gaze fell to his mouth. “Save that rage for your father. Because I fear, Edouard, you are all mine.”

“Really?” he ground out.

“Really.” She smiled in a way that left a cold knot in his chest. “My demands were simple. He was to grant all rights to his estates and riches to Tye, and recognize Tye as his heir, in exchange for your life. Your father, however, made it very clear in his missive. He does not intend to save you.”

Juliana’s chains clanked again. “Edouard, do not listen to her. She is trying to mislead you with her lies.”

“Am I, Juliana? You know what the missive says, then?”

“Read it to me,” Edouard said.

“How bluntly you ask.” Veronique ran her fingernail down the parchment. “I do understand, though, being the mother of an equally ambitious son. The anguish of your father’s abandonment is what renders your voice so . . . stark.”

“Juliana is right. You are lying. My father would never abandon me.”

“But he has cast you aside.” She shook her head. “Just as he abandoned Tye long ago, and all the years since then.”

Foreboding mingled with the hot fury churning inside Edouard. What did Veronique mean? No doubt she was trying to undermine his confidence, but he must hold on to his trust and faith in his sire; these would get him through this crisis.

“Read the missive to me.” Edouard couldn’t stop his tone from roughening.

Veronique laughed. “Beg me.”

The guards by the doorway chuckled.

“What?” Edouard choked out.

“You heard me.” Cruelty tightened Veronique’s features. “Beg me. Like the lost, rejected son you are.”

“Merciful God!” Juliana gasped.

Edouard ground his teeth. Veronique obviously wanted him to suffer, in all the ways in her control. To suffer, though, he had to acknowledge she’d conquered him. Hellfire. He wasn’t finished fighting her; he’d resist until the moment he died.

He met her gaze, focused all of his hatred into his stare. “I will not beg.”

“Is that so? Because—”

“Either read me the missive, or leave me be.”

A flash of anger, followed by grudging admiration, brightened Veronique’s eyes.

“If my father has indeed abandoned me, and I am to die your prisoner,” Edouard added with a snarl, “you might as well read me the letter. A last request, if you will.”

Veronique chuckled with genuine pleasure. “All right.” She unfurled the parchment, revealing several sparse lines scribed in black ink. “Veronique,” she read out in a mocking tone. “If the darkest hours of night never gave way to the light of dawn, my answer to your demands would remain the same: never.”

Shock coursed through Edouard. There was no doubt as to his sire’s refusal.

The answer, however, was oddly phrased. He almost didn’t dare to hope . . .

“Show me ’tis what it says,” Edouard said.

Veronique sighed as though losing patience with him. “You do not believe I can read?” She held the parchment up at an angle, close to his face. “Years ago, I could not read one word, but I learned. Lovers are good for a great many things.” She raised her brows. “Well, Edouard?”

He managed a terse nod. “It does, indeed, say such. ’Tis my father’s signature.”

“So, you see, I never lied to you this day. I spoke the truth.”

Edouard fought the eerie coldness washing through him. He sensed Juliana and Kaine’s concerned gazes upon him, but kept his attention firmly fixed upon Veronique. He couldn’t betray his suspicions about the missive. He didn’t dare.

Stepping away, Veronique rolled up the parchment with her misshapen hands. “I have given you much to think about. Thinking, by the way, is all I allow of you tonight. If you try and talk to one another in even the tiniest whisper, or speak to the guards”—she waved a hand at the two men—“they will silence you. I will not have you planning an escape.”

“You are a heartless bitch,” Edouard ground out.

Smirking, Veronique tapped the parchment against her palm. “Beware, Edouard. I no longer have any reason to keep you alive. Another reason why Juliana will give me all the details I want at dawn.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

At the distant sound of a wooden door crashing against stone, Juliana’s head snapped up. She winced at the answering pain lancing down the back of her neck and through her shoulders, stiff from being held immobile by her chains. She could barely feel her hands. When she flexed her numb feet, a sleepy, pained groan welled in her throat.

“Easy,” Edouard whispered, beside her.

Juliana forced her weary eyes open. “I cannot believe I slept.”

“What else was there to do?” Kaine grumbled, rolling his shoulders as best as he could.

Juliana sighed, for Kaine was right. After Veronique had left the dungeon yesterday, Edouard had dared to address the guards. He’d tried to bribe them with a share of the hidden jewels, but without answering, they’d walked over to him and plowed their fists into his stomach. He’d collapsed in his chains, head bowed, gasping for breath, while she’d silently wept.

A draft of fresh air swirled down into the dungeon. Juliana watched the entrance stairs across from her. Dread brought a sickly sweat to her brow. Footsteps carried and, with the rattle of weapons and leather armor, the guards straightened. They stood tall, looking to where faint light touched the upper stairs: the light of dawn.

“Try to stay calm.” Edouard’s soothing tone reminded her of when they’d lain together to stay warm, before she’d recalled his and Nara’s betrothal. “Do not give in to your fear, Juliana. Veronique cannot know for certain that your memories have come back. She will try, though, to make you betray yourself and thus confirm her suspicions. You must keep pretending you do not remember. You must keep a clear mind.”

Juliana shuddered. “I . . . will.” She must stay focused. Good folk, mayhap even Edouard, would die this morning, unless she could successfully bargain with Veronique for the return of her ghastly bones.

“When the guards come to take you,” Edouard added, “do not fight them. Let them take us outside. We have a better chance of defeating them in the bailey, when we are not as well restrained.”

“All right.”

Veronique glided down into the dungeon. Tye and six armed mercenaries followed, but kept back a few steps.

Stay calm. Keep a clear mind, Juliana told herself.

Veronique’s merciless stare settled upon her. “Well? Will you tell me where the ring is hidden?”

“I do not remember.” Juliana trembled, hoping she revealed naught in her gaze.

Veronique’s lips twisted. “You are a poor liar, Juliana.”

“Nay!” Juliana choked. “I promise you.”

Veronique signaled to the mercenaries. A hard grin curved her mouth as she glanced at the approaching thugs, several carrying lengths of rope. “Bind them and take them up to the bailey.”

“What will happen there?” Juliana asked, unable to stop the words racing past her lips.

“What I told you would take place.” Veronique smiled. “The killing shall begin.”

“Until I yield?” Juliana said.

“Until I have the jewels, including Landon’s ring. How many lives will that be, Juliana?” Her cruel gaze raked over Edouard’s body. “Will I have to take his life?”

“Nay.” Juliana’s mind whirled. The bag of bones. She must try to barter with Veronique. “Wait!” she cried, but her plea was lost as the mercenaries closed in.

Men reached for her manacles, their groping hands running over her limbs. Panic made her head swim, threatening to cause her legs to fold, but she focused on the rhythm of her breathing. That she could control. As her wrists fell free of the bindings, her upper body sagged, weakened from the strain of being held upright so long. Slumping forward, she groaned.

More mercenaries hauled her up by her numb arms and then tied her hands in front of her, heedless of the welts on her wrists caused by the manacles. For the barest moment, her gaze locked with Edouard’s. The heat in his stare roused within her a tangled mix of sadness and hope, but then men stepped between them to bind his wrists, blocking her view.

As she concentrated on her breathing, she welcomed the roughness of the rope against her tender skin and the pinpricks of pain shooting through her arms. The sensations reminded her she was alive, and she’d fight to survive.

When the commotion began to clear, she searched for Veronique, but she was no longer in the dungeon; she’d left with the two dungeon guards. Edouard and Kaine, bound and escorted on either side by mercenaries, were hauled up the stairs to the bailey. Then the men at Juliana’s side pulled her toward the stairwell.

“You really will not yield?” Tye said, falling in behind her. “Why not, Juliana? You can save yourself much torment.”

“I do not remember,” Juliana cried, even as she was forced toward the daylight.

Watery sunlight touched her face. When she reached the bailey, she dragged in a grounding breath of clean air. Veronique couldn’t win. She mustn’t.

Juliana became aware of the eerie stillness surrounding her. She glanced about to see a silent crowd filled the bailey. The castle folk were herded into groups by mercenaries with drawn swords.

An open space marked the middle of the bailey. Her captors pulled her to this area and forced her to halt. Edouard and Kaine, mercenaries surrounding them, stood a short distance away. Tye moved to stand near them.

“Keep them there,” Veronique said to Tye and the men watching Edouard and Kaine. “We do not want any foolish heroics, do we?”

A hideous shiver ran through Juliana as she glanced over the throng of men, women, and children, many of whom she recognized. She couldn’t watch any of them die.

Her gaze flew to Edouard. How handsome, proud, and defiant he looked, even in this dreadful moment.

Stay calm. Keep a clear mind . . .

A metallic rasp sounded beside her. Veronique had drawn a knife from its leather sheath. Holding the blade straight out in front of her, she tilted it from left to right, a slow, leisurely examination, as she might admire a coveted new trinket.

“Perfect,” Veronique murmured. “Sharpened just as I asked.” Was she looking forward to the bloodletting? Did causing others to die give her pleasure?

Clearly attuned to Juliana’s horror, Veronique looked up. Her amber gaze sharpened. “I ask one last time, Juliana—”

“Why ask?” Juliana didn’t bother to caution her words any longer. “You do not believe me when I say I do not remember. You want to start murdering innocent folk.”

Shocked cries rippled through the crowd.

“’Tis true,” Edouard yelled, obviously eager to stir up unrest. “You are in danger,”—he winced when one of the mercenaries kicked him—“all of you!”

As screams and frantic shouts broke out in the crowd, Veronique’s stare on Juliana didn’t waver. “The deaths today will be upon your conscience.”

Juliana shook her head. “Not mine. Yours.”

A brutal smile defined Veronique’s lips. “You are trying to delay me.” She whirled, facing the closest group of onlookers, mostly maidservants holding tightly to their children; they recoiled in terror. “Now . . .”

Oh, God! “Do you really believe that your killing will prompt my memories?” Juliana shouted. “Did your wretched bag of bones tell you that?”

Veronique’s whole body stiffened. Slowly, her head turned. “Strange, you should say that. My bones went missing yesterday.”

Juliana raised her chin. Stay calm. Keep a clear mind . . .

“So, too, did Azarel. My men have not yet found her. I thought she had taken them.” Veronique’s eyes snapped into menacing slits. “You know where they are.”

“I do.”

Rage burned in her eyes. “You stole them?”

“I took them from the guard I rendered unconscious and then hid them. I do remember where they are—somewhere you will never find them.”

Veronique hissed. “Why, you—”

“Put down the knife. Let me, Edouard, and Kaine go free. Promise you will not hurt any of these folk. In return, I will tell you where to find your bones.”

Veronique tapped a finger to her chin, a gesture that implied she pondered Juliana’s demands. Then she whirled, her red hair snaking out around her. “A tempting offer. Yet mayhap ’tis time I started a whole new collection—”

“Nay—”

“—of fresh bones, cut from the dead!”

“Nay!” Juliana cried, bile stinging her mouth. “Veronique—!”

Horrified screams arose. Folk scrambled to flee.

Shrieking a laugh, Veronique snatched a young girl, no more than five or six years old, from the throng and dragged her forward. Sobbing, the girl looked back at a crying woman struggling to reach her; a mercenary kept the mother back.

“Let her go,” Juliana pleaded, almost choking on her revulsion.

Veronique anchored her hand into the girl’s long braid and twisted. The girl cried out, her face crumpling with pain, even as Veronique jerked her head back and set the dagger at the girl’s exposed throat.

The terror in the young girl’s tear-filled eyes . . . A girl too young to have really lived or loved . . .

Juliana pressed her arm over her stomach and gasped, fighting to draw breaths into constricted lungs. This girl didn’t deserve to die. Couldn’t die. “Veronique,” Juliana croaked.

“I knew you would give in,” Veronique snarled, spittle at the corners of her mouth. “You pathetic, weak—”

A shout echoed from the wall walk above. “Milady!”

“Be quiet!” Veronique screeched, and pulled the weeping girl’s head back farther.

“Milady! Riders,” another man cried from above. “Approaching fast.”

Veronique glared up at the battlements. “What?”

“How many?” Tye snapped, his hand moving to his sword.

Juliana blinked up at the men on the wall walk, then looked at Edouard. Wariness still defined his posture, but he appeared to be . . . grinning.

Catching her gaze, he winked at her.

Winked!

Her pulse thundered, while the guard on the wall walk shouted down, “Two score riders. Likely more.”

Veronique spat an oath. Her furious gaze snapped to Edouard.

He smiled. “That will be my father.”

***

Edouard laughed, the sound rich and jubilant, as Veronique’s face contorted with shocked outrage. That look alone made his heart leap with pleasure. Knowing she’d believed him left to her depravity made this moment all the sweeter.

Today, his sire would wrest Waddesford from her clutches. At last, his father would see her punished for all the pain and treachery she’d caused not only the de Lanceau’s, but so many others through the years.

Hope shone in Juliana’s eyes. “Are you certain ’tis your sire, Edouard?”

“I am.”

“You knew!” Veronique shrieked, her gaze still upon him. She shoved the young girl from her grasp. The child stumbled, scrambled to her feet, and ran, crying, to her mother.

Edouard shrugged, as well as he could with his wrists bound and mercenaries at his sides. “I had my suspicions.”

The knife shifted in Veronique’s white-knuckled hand. “I see now. The missive was strangely worded. You would understand it held a message.”

“I told you.” Tye stormed to her side, his expression dark with fury. “I warned you last night, Mother. I said ’twas too simple, but you refused to heed me—”

Veronique trembled on a violent curse. She turned on him, the knife flashing in the sunlight. “Cease!”

Easily dodging the errant strike, Tye’s brows raised. “Swear at me all you wish, Mother. However, I do not intend to become my father’s prisoner.”

“Neither do I.” She thrust her hands at the mercenaries amongst the throng, looking uneasily at one another while still keeping the castle folk corralled. “Give all the menservants weapons,” she shouted at them. “They shall fight for us or their families will die. Then you will go to the battlements. Do not let the army get near. Kill anyone who tries to cross the moat. Do you understand?”

The warriors glanced at each other. Some looked disgruntled, an opportunity Edouard mustn’t let slip by.

“Obey Veronique, and you will die,” he called. “You cannot defeat my sire. Lay down your arms and surrender to him.”

“Silence, Edouard,” Veronique shrilled. “Win this battle for me, my mercenaries, and I will pay you thrice what I do now!” She pointed to the warriors guarding Edouard and Kaine. “You, too, shall be so rewarded.”

“Aye, milady,” the mercenaries said, before those in the crowd rushed off to do her bidding.

Veronique gestured to Tye. “Round up the remaining mercenaries. Send them to guard the gatehouse. No one is to enter or leave that way.” She thrust a gnarled finger upward. “Then join me there on the wall walk.”

Tye’s mouth flattened, and his relentless gaze clashed with Edouard’s. Fury raced anew through Edouard. Digging his nails into his bonds, he vowed to get free and ensure his bastard brother never escaped this fight. “What of our hostages?” Tye said. “Shall we chain them back in the dungeon?”

“They are to come to the wall walk with me. There, we will not only survive this battle, but negotiate its bloody end to our benefit.”

“Mother—”

Annoyance flashed in Veronique’s eyes. “Do not make me question your allegiance, Tye. Especially not on the day we will confront your father.”

“Why would you? When have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?”

“Just do as I told you,” Veronique snapped.

Tye growled, then loped away into the crowd.

When Veronique’s attention returned to Edouard, he braced for a struggle. She might think she’d haul him up to the battlements, but he’d fight her. The sooner he got free of his bonds, the sooner he’d open the gatehouse to his sire. And his father would win.

First, though, with Tye no longer close at hand, he had to get Juliana away from Veronique. The older woman looked angry enough to kill Juliana out of spite.

A brittle laugh rippled from Veronique. “You are still thinking of escape, Edouard?” Her brazen gaze slid over him. “A pity you waste your stamina on such useless pursuits. Your life is mine to do with as I please. As”—Veronique turned to face Juliana—“is hers.”

“Run!” Edouard shouted, as the malevolence in the older woman’s expression crested. Just as Juliana attempted to dash into the throng, Veronique grabbed her arm. Screaming, Juliana tried to wrench free, but with a brutal yank, Veronique unbalanced Juliana and she half fell, her skirts dragging across the dirt—enough of a delay for Veronique to shove the knife against Juliana’s side.

Alarm, as biting as the flick of a whip, lashed through Edouard. Juliana slowly rose to her feet, her breathing shaky. Did she feel the pinch of the dagger’s tip through her gown? Was her flawless skin pierced? He should have tried sooner to get her to safety.

“Now,” Veronique said, raising her voice to carry above the growing din of battle preparations. “Juliana and I will proceed”—she tipped her head—“to that stairwell. Edouard and Kaine, you will follow. If you refuse, or try to fight the mercenaries escorting you, I will shove my dagger into Juliana’s flesh. She can still tell me where the jewels are, while she is bleeding to death. I will not repeat my warning.”

Juliana’s face paled, but she held her head high.

Stay strong, a voice inside him said. I will protect you, Juliana. Because I love you.

“Walk,” Veronique ordered.

Juliana started toward the keep, walking as though terrified to misstep.

Edouard scowled. Never again would Juliana suffer at Veronique’s hand. Never!

Without waiting for the mercenaries to prod him, Edouard followed, aware of Kaine’s limping footsteps close behind. While walking, Edouard continued to work his nails into his bonds. He must undo the knot. He could fight with his hands tied, but if he could get them free, he’d be far more lethal.

The dankness of the stairwell closed in on him. He trudged up the narrow steps and, moments later, emerged on the wall walk. He stepped out onto the windblown stone, caught Veronique’s curse, and followed her gaze to the dust cloud churned up by the approaching forces, all the knights and men-at-arms his sire had been able to summon at short notice.

The faint pounding of hooves carried on the wind.

Veronique forced Juliana forward, until she stood almost directly opposite the entrance to the bailey. “Line Edouard and Kaine up alongside her,” Veronique said. “I want de Lanceau to see them when he rides in to give his surrender.”

Edouard loosed a disparaging snort. “My father will never yield. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

Veronique laughed. “Oh, but he will.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The morning breeze stung Juliana’s eyes and tore at her garments as she stood on the battlements, held by two mercenaries. Shouts and the sounds of weapons being readied for the fight carried up from the bailey below. Her thoughts, however, hardly registered the commotion. All her sharpened senses were held hostage by the odors of her guards: a pungent blend of grubby leather and sweat.

The mercenary to her left obviously hadn’t washed in months. Juliana caught her breath and hoped the next wind gust past the castle walls would defray the smell.

Oh, God, ’twas selfish and senseless to focus on the mercenaries’ odors, when she—and of course Edouard and Kaine—faced far greater concerns. In truth, though, the very male smells cut sharper edges into her fear. Rebellion might seethe inside her, but the men restraining her were large, strong, and well trained with their weapons.

If, on Veronique’s orders, they tried to harm Juliana to prove their intentions to de Lanceau, she’d fight as fiercely as she could. The men, though, already had the advantage. The oaf to her left held her arm in a ruthless grip; he also held a dagger at her throat. The man on her right, his grasp equally as bruising, cut circles in the air with his sword, no doubt readying his muscles for the upcoming assault.

A giggle, tinged with hysteria, bubbled inside Juliana. On any day in her life, had she ever imagined herself standing on Waddesford’s battlements as a bound captive, an impending sacrifice to Veronique’s wickedness? Not likely.

Yet here she was.

How Juliana hated the cold touch of the dagger against her neck; despised the grim sense of helplessness; welcomed the anger churning within her, ready to be summoned to the fore. However the morning’s events unfolded, she wouldn’t be used to help bring about Geoffrey de Lanceau’s downfall—or Edouard’s death.

A shout from below drew her gaze through the gap between the closest stone merlons to the bailey. Mercenaries bellowed, ordering servants carrying longbows and arrows to the battlements. Women and children scurried to obey other thugs’ shouted commands. In the shadows of the gatehouse, she saw Tye talking to several men, gesturing as he relayed instructions.

A stifling sense of impending catastrophe seemed to linger in the air. How many people would die today? With so many men at his command, and having traveled many leagues, de Lanceau wouldn’t be denied what he wanted. The thought of the bloodshed to come . . . It made her feel ill.

A grunt sounded beside her, then the crack of a brutal slap.

“Bitch!” Edouard snapped, his focus on Kaine, who’d fallen on one knee. “You know his left leg is injured.” From Edouard’s lethal expression, he looked ready to break free of the mercenaries holding him and wallop Veronique, but one of the thugs pressed the tip of his sword against Edouard’s stomach, forcing him to remain still.

“Kaine will stand,” Veronique said, “or I will slay him now.”

His face white with agony, Kaine straightened. His left leg trembled, even as he forced a lopsided grin. “No need to kill me.”

Juliana offered him a sympathetic smile, for his attempt at humor took a great deal of inner resolve; he was clearly in pain. Edouard exchanged a glance with Kaine, then nodded, before his defiant gaze shifted back to Veronique.

With a smug arch of her eyebrows, she turned her back to him to peer down at the bailey. Standing as she was, the skirts of her dark red gown flapping in the breeze, she resembled a gaudy, deformed bird, waiting to swoop down and snatch unsuspecting victims below.

Juliana shivered and then sensed Edouard’s stare upon her. In his blazing eyes, she saw all her own emotions. While their gazes held, her spirit lightened, drawn to his inner strength. Inspired by the warrior force that was integral to who he was, to his father’s legacy, and to the noble de Lanceaus who’d come before.

In that moment, she wondered how love felt between a man and a woman. Was it as profound as what glowed inside her now? Was it anywhere near as wonderful as her memory of that breathless moment when she lay in the darkness, when she’d thought Edouard would kiss her?

Of all her regrets, she wished she’d experienced love.

With him.

As their stares continued to hold, she blinked away the sting of tears. If she had to die today, she’d make her last moments meaningful. She’d fight for Mayda, for little Rosemary, for all she wished she could have experienced with Edouard. To her very last breath, she’d do all in her ability to ensure Edouard and his sire triumphed.

As though guessing her thoughts, his eyes widened slightly, and then his gaze dropped to his bound hands. A deliberate gesture.

A signal?

He’d been working at the rope knot. She’d tried to dig her nails into hers as they climbed the stairwell, but the knot was too tight.

Had he managed to loosen his bonds?

An excited tingle swept over her skin. She forced herself to stare straight ahead again, not wanting to risk what Edouard had divulged.

The armed riders were near. The approaching group had separated into two lines that spread along the perimeter of the castle wall. Not so close that the riders were in range of the mercenaries, but near enough to make a formidable impression.

Once the riders had reached their intended destination, they halted, horses facing the castle. The distant thud of hoofbeats lessened. Then stopped.

Sudden silence, punctuated only by the whistling of the wind, spread down the wall walk. Even Veronique stood motionless, her attention fixed upon the riders, her hands splayed into the breeze, as though she sought insight from it.

Juliana curled her fingers against her bonds and dug her nails into the knot. If Edouard had loosened his bindings, she’d try, too.

Beyond the castle, a single rider separated from the neat line of warriors. He wore an iron helm that covered all but the lower third of his face, a flowing black cloak, and a surcoat decorated with embroidery that flashed in the sunlight.

“Geoffrey!” Veronique trembled and smoothed a hand over her windblown tresses.

Halting several paces ahead of the others, the rider lifted his head. A moment later, Juliana heard a shout, distorted by the wind. Had he ordered the castle to surrender? If so, battle was only moments away. She had to get free, so she could fight.

“Aim!” a mercenary bellowed, somewhere down the wall walk.

Veronique’s head swiveled. “Wait!” she shrieked. “Let de Lanceau draw closer.” The nearest of the mercenary archers, eyes wide with surprise, shouted her order to the other fighters on the battlements.

Clearly unafraid of the mercenaries watching him, de Lanceau urged his horse to a walk. He rode toward the gatehouse. As he approached the castle, he was blocked from Juliana’s view by the exterior stone wall.

Another shout carried, faint but distinct. “Veronique.” The shout repeated again and again, growing in volume as it blew up on the breeze. Now Juliana heard many men’s voices, calling in unison: “Veronique. Veronique.”

Setting her hands on the curve of her hips, Veronique cackled. “They are calling my name. Glorifying me.”

Juliana choked down a stunned laugh. Glorifying? Nay. The repetition of her name was menacing. A warning.

“Veronique. Veronique.”

Glancing at Edouard, Juliana whispered, “Why are they chanting?”

“I do not know,” he said quietly, his attention on the line of men. “I am sure my father has good reason for ordering it.”

Raised voices and a cry drew Juliana’s gaze again to the bailey. His drawn sword gleaming in the sunlight, Tye brushed through the crowd and looked up at the wall walk where Veronique stood. “Mother!”

“What?” Veronique threw up her hands in obvious annoyance. “I told you what to do. Why must you distract me?”

Tye’s expression hardened. “You said not to let anyone in.”

“Then do not!”

“De Lanceau is at the gate. Alone. He asked to speak with you.”

“What in hellfire?” Edouard muttered.

A gasp burned Juliana’s throat. She’d heard tales of his lordship’s bravery and cleverness. Surely, though, he realized confronting Veronique on his own put his life—and the lives of many others—in jeopardy. Why would he take such a risk? Did he believe that by speaking privately with Veronique—by reminding her of their long-ago liaison—he could negotiate for Edouard’s life?

Alarm whipped through Juliana, for in her mind, the likely sequence of events unfolded. Veronique wouldn’t negotiate. She’d kill de Lanceau and Edouard, relishing the gruesome spectacle before these witnesses. Juliana would remain a captive until she finally yielded the whereabouts of the important gold ring, whereupon she’d be murdered. Tye would use the ring’s influence to quickly seize control of Moydenshire and become ruler.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“Veronique. Veronique.”

Running a hand over her indecently tight bodice, Veronique tittered. “Mayhap, Edouard, your father believes he can save you. He has come to plead with me, to beg forgiveness for the past cruelties he inflicted upon me. To surrender to my demands, in hopes of sparing you, his precious wife, and the daughter he loves so much.”

Edouard snorted. “You truly believe that?”

She shot Edouard a smug glare before she called down to Tye: “You were right to consult me. Lower the drawbridge and let your father in. We will see what he wants.”

Tye frowned. “It could be a trap.”

“Aye. However, he is on his own.”

“Still, Mother—”

“One man, who, rumor has it, is still not recovered from his recent illness.” She cackled, drowning out the rest of Tye’s words of protest. “Weakened as Geoffrey is, he will not have his usual fighting prowess. He will be easily defeated. Once his men learn he is dead—and that Edouard is doomed to die, too—they may not bother to stay and finish the fight.”

Juliana couldn’t stop herself from looking at Edouard. Hatred and suspicion lined his features. How lonely he seemed, doubtless torn between the shock of all he’d heard and the questions whirling in his mind.

If only she could reach out and take his hand. To let him know he wouldn’t face the coming moments alone. She’d be with him, as he’d stayed with her every moment till she was rescued from Sherstowe’s well.

“If I let Father in,” Tye said, his tone gruff, “I want to kill him.”

“As I expected.” Veronique smiled and flicked her hand at Tye, a gesture of dismissal. “Today, the destiny you deserve will be yours.”

***

Edouard blinked against the buffeting wind. Why was his father on his own at the keep’s gates? God’s blood, why?

Such rashness, from his sire, made no sense. His father wasn’t a fool. Before every battle, he strategized, calculated, considered all options, as he must have done before deciding to leave the protection of his men and ride alone to confront Veronique.

His sire would never underestimate Veronique’s malice. What motive, then, could he have for such a dangerous tactic? Did he count on rousing the folk inside the castle walls to fight against her and her mercenaries, while his warriors besieged the fortress? Had he found a way to sneak some of his men-at-arms inside the keep, who would attack when he gave a signal? A dull ache tightened Edouard’s innards as he struggled to figure out the probable course of events.

“Veronique. Veronique,” the men beyond the walls continued to chant. Edouard dug his nails into his bonds again and did his best not to reveal his concern over his sire’s actions. Yet Veronique seemed to know exactly his turmoil.

“Soon, you will watch your father die.” Her face twisted into a grin.

Believe in your father, as he’d expect of you. Prove you will not be swayed by her taunting. Mimicking her grin, Edouard said, “Will I?”

Veronique spread her gnarled hand wide, indicating the surrounding keep. “He thinks to defeat all of us?” She laughed. “Wretched fool.”

“He will destroy you,” Edouard fired back.

“He is arrogant enough to believe he will succeed.” At the grinding squeal of the drawbridge being lowered, Veronique glanced toward the gatehouse. She straightened her gown from breasts to hips, as an eager wench would right her garments before meeting a lover.

“Veronique. Veronique,” continued the riders.

She laughed, obviously reveling in the chant. With an indulgent sway of her hips, she moved closer to the merlons, her hair drifting in the breeze. “The portcullis is rising. Not long now, till I see him again.”

The wood and metal barrier was, indeed, lifting up into the gatehouse. The muffled grating, accompanied by Tye shouting for the crowd in the bailey to stand aside, sent a painful tremor snaking through Edouard.

He forced his stiff fingers into the bonds again.

Father, turn your horse around. Ride back to your men. Protect the future of Moydenshire and the justice in which you believe.

A figure became visible in the murky shadows of the gatehouse. A hush fell over the crowd as Edouard’s father emerged in the bailey. Behind him, on Tye’s shouted instructions, mercenaries ran to block the way out through the gatehouse.

The tall rider paid no heed to the activities intended to entrap him. With his voluminous cloak sweeping from his shoulders, he looked imposing and formidable. When he continued forward, light glinted off his helm and the embroidered image of a flying hawk on his silk surcoat that covered his chain-mail hauberk. Edouard’s mother had embroidered the symbol years ago, conveying her love in each stitch.

What would happen to Edouard’s mother if his sire died today? She’d be overcome by grief. That must never come to pass. Not, Edouard vowed, when his sire was here at Waddesford, risking all, because of him.

“Stand aside,” Tye and several mercenaries yelled, as they hurried to walk in front of the rider, their swords at the ready. Castle folk bowed as Edouard’s sire rode past them. “Make way,” Tye shouted, “for the great Geoffrey de Lanceau, lord of all of Moydenshire.”

Edouard scowled at the contempt in Tye’s voice.

Veronique chortled. “Well done, Tye. Bring your father closer. Bring him to his death.”

At the word “death,” Edouard’s sire raised his head a proud notch. He didn’t rein in his horse, but kept the onward pace, the clip-clop of his destrier’s hoofbeats echoing in the tense silence. With a twinge of surprise, Edouard noted that the animal wasn’t his father’s usual horse. Why had he chosen the bay with a white stripe down its muzzle, and not the fast, spirited black that had become his favorite?

Wait. Was there such a bay in his father’s stable?

As his sire headed to the cleared center of the bailey, in plain view of where Veronique stood, he nodded to castle folk—a gesture of acknowledgment and respect, delivered with a touch of arrogance. Yet something about the dip of his head . . .

Suspicion washed through Edouard. He studied the broadness of his father’s shoulders beneath the cloak, and the shape of his chin, not concealed by the helm.

“Milady,” a mercenary shouted from the wall walk near the rear of the keep. “Mil—!”

“Silence!” Veronique screeched at him.

He thrust a hand toward the ground. “But—”

She pointed to the mercenary closest to the one who’d shouted. “Kill him. I want no more interruptions, or I will kill you as well.”

At that moment, the rider drew in his mount, halting the destrier so he faced Veronique. The horse tossed its head; the bridle chimed, the only sound apart from the steady chanting: “Veronique. Veronique.”

“Good morning to you, Geoffrey.” Veronique’s words of welcome were sharp with gloating.

Edouard waited for the rider to speak. His fingers shifted on his horse’s reins, but he didn’t respond. Not surprising. Edouard’s sire’s hatred for Veronique was well known; he obviously didn’t care to show her even the slightest respect by granting her a reply.

The rider’s helm-covered head turned a fraction, and Edouard sensed him assessing the armed men in the bailey and the castle’s defenses—a far more important task than answering Veronique.

Edouard couldn’t resist a smile.

Tye’s face hardened. He clearly interpreted the insult.

Veronique huffed. “Are you a man without a voice? I demand you acknowledge me, Geoffrey. After all, we know each other well.” Her husky laughter carried down to the bailey. “So very well, my lusty lordship, you got me with child.”

A disgusted snort broke from the rider.

Veronique’s posture stiffened. Anger seemed to swirl about her as she glowered down at him. “Have the years made you a fool? You know you are unwise to taunt me.” She gestured to the mercenaries awaiting her order to fire upon him. “I am the one with all the advantage.”

The rider’s chin lifted another notch, a silent gesture of disagreement.

“Veronique. Veronique,” the men outside the walls chanted.

She moved closer to the gap between the merlons. “Acknowledge me, Geoffrey. Do it now, or I will order a start to the bloodletting. I will begin with your beloved Edouard.”

At her vile taunt, the rider pressed his shoulders back, without the slightest sign of fatigue or discomfort. Could Edouard’s father have recovered from the old-wound aches triggered by the illness? Not likely. The suspicion inside Edouard rose to a full roar.

“Edouard,” his sire grated.

Veronique tittered. “You do speak, after all. Although,” her tone turned thoughtful, “your voice sounds different.”

“’Tis hoarsened, because I have been ill. Or were you unaware?”

Silent laughter bubbled in Edouard’s throat, for that voice was definitely not his father’s. It belonged to Dominic de Terre.

“Oh, I knew of your sickness,” Veronique said.

“Good. Then you will understand why I wish to end this conflict as quickly as possible. To begin, you will send Edouard down to me.”

“How forceful you are,” Veronique said, toying with a strand of her hair. “As demanding as when I spread my legs for you and made you groan—”

“Send Edouard down. Now.”

“I think not.” Veronique’s tone hardened. “You see, his life depends entirely upon you. Do as I command, and he might live. As I said, might. To start, you will acknowledge your other son—your bastard—whom you have spurned for nigh twenty years now.”

“I have but one son.”

How true. Edouard fought not to grin.

“Your other son is beside you.” Veronique gestured to Tye, who stood at the horse’s head, his sword half raised. His pose wasn’t that of a child hoping for a reunion with his father, but of a warrior, readying to strike. Fighting a rush of unease, Edouard worked his fingers again into his bonds, and felt the rope shift against his wrist.

“This man is not my child,” the rider said.

“I believe I am, milord.” Tye’s frosty voice held a determined note.

“He is grown now. Far from the little boy you met at our meeting in the meadow, all those years ago. The day”—Veronique shook with fury—“you so heartlessly rejected him.”

“Did I?”

Tye spat an oath, while Veronique recoiled, as though the rider had reached up and slapped her across the face. “You dare deny that day took place? How very gallant, for a man who vowed to live his life by honor and chivalry.”

As she railed at him, the rider raised his free hand, palm up, a very definite attempt to deflect her accusations. Then he reached for his helm.

With a dramatic flourish, he drew it off. Chestnut brown hair, streaked at the temples with silver gray, fell to his shoulders. A stray wisp brushed the corner of his mouth.

Juliana drew in a breath. “Why, ’tis—”

“Dominic de Terre,” Edouard said with a chuckle. His hopes soared, for his father and most trusted men must be close by.

“Dominic?” Veronique shrieked. “Why, you—”

Tye scowled. “Where in hellfire is de Lanceau?”

“Aye. Where is your father?” Juliana whispered to Edouard, before her gaze darted back to the bailey.

Edouard smiled. “I expect he will present himself soon.”

With a careless grin, Dominic settled his helm on his lap. “For shame, Veronique. You are not delighted to see me? Our acquaintance goes back over twenty years. By the way, I do have a son.”

“Geoffrey!” Veronique spluttered. “I demand—”

Dominic rolled his eyes. “Veronique, you never learn. He would not allow himself to be an easy target for you, which is why I am here. I am surprised you did not guess our ploy long ago.”

Veronique shrieked. “Where is he? If you do not tell me—”

“He hoped to surprise you. I believe he spoke of an alternative way in?” Even as she glanced at the rear battlements, Dominic flicked his hand. “Ah. Here he is now.”

With a startled jolt, Edouard noted the mercenaries crumpled on the far wall walk. One of them must be the man Veronique had ordered murdered moments ago; but what of the others? They must have been killed from a distance. Few men had that remarkable skill. Few, that is, except Aldwin Treynarde, one of his sire’s most respected knights, whose astonishing expertise with a crossbow was still recounted in local chansons.

Brisk footfalls echoed in the bailey below. As the crowd looked at whoever approached, Edouard strained to see.

A group of armed warriors strode into view. In the midst of them he recognized Aldwin, his crossbow cocked. There, too, was his father, his broadsword unsheathed. And, protected on all sides by the warriors, was Azarel. She must have slipped from the castle yesterday and located his father’s forces; she’d probably told him of the postern.

Edouard suddenly realized the men outside had stopped chanting. They no longer needed to. They’d helped Dominic distract Veronique long enough for Edouard’s sire to get inside the keep.

“Well done, Father.” Edouard murmured. Pride burned in him as he watched his sire cross to Dominic. His father wore a chain mail hauberk over a pewter gray tunic and hose, garments that wouldn’t distinguish him as one of England’s most powerful lords. Yet there was no denying the bold authority that defined his strides.

Veronique’s hands twitched. “Geoffrey!”

As Edouard’s sire halted and looked up at her, sunshine struck his face. Sweat shone on his brow and dampened the sides of his graying, wavy brown hair. His skin was ashen, but his gaze held the familiar strength Edouard had always known. And respected.

“I am Geoffrey de Lanceau, Lord of Moydenshire,” he roared, his voice easily carrying across the bailey and up to the battlements. “I demand you surrender this keep to me.”

Veronique laughed.

“Surrender,” he repeated. “Without delay. Or my army will attack.” As though sensing Edouard’s gaze, his sire looked directly up at him. And frowned.

“Are you all right, Son?” he shouted.

“Aye,” Edouard called back, while anchoring his fingernails deeper into his bindings; they loosened a fraction more.

His sire’s attention shifted to Veronique. “’Tis a good thing Edouard is not harmed. If he were—”

“An empty threat,” Veronique said with a sniff. “Now that you are here, Geoffrey,”—she glared at Dominic—“and your senseless little game is finished, you will yield to me.”

“Is that so?”

Edouard sensed his father working to keep his temper under control.

“You will put down your weapons and fall to your knees on the dirt,” Veronique continued, her lips curling. “You, the great lord of Moydenshire, will sign all rights to your estates over to your son.”

Edouard’s sire raised his brows. “Edouard already is my heir. Years from now, when I am dead, he will have all, as is his birthright.”

“Not Edouard,” Veronique said through her teeth. “Tye.”

“A man I do not recognize.”

“You will,” Veronique sneered.

“Will I? You have undeniable evidence that I sired him?”

Fear edged into Edouard’s consciousness. His bastard brother, looking angrier by the moment, stood dangerously close to Dominic and the other men-at-arms. Close enough to lunge in an attack.

Beware, Father, for Tye is ready to run you through with his sword.

“Tye is near you.” Veronique motioned to him. “Seeing you two together, there is no doubt he looks like you, as he has since he was a young boy. Ask anyone here if they can deny a resemblance. That, Geoffrey, is proof enough.”

Edouard’s sire glanced at Tye, whose expression held both anguish and loathing.

An odd look flickered over his father’s features. Surprise? Recognition?

“Hello, Father,” Tye ground out.

Edouard waited for his sire to reply. Silence carried, ominous and strained. Then, without a word, de Lanceau looked back at Veronique. “I told you before, and I will say so again. You have not proven he is my son.”

Tye chuckled, a bitter sound. “We expected your refusal.” From the front of his tunic, he withdrew a rolled parchment, tied with twine, and thrust it forward.

His eyes narrowed in a scowl, Edouard’s sire said, “I will never sign.”

“Never? That is a strong word, Father.”

Beware, Father. Beware!

“My answer is, and always will be, never.”

Come on, come on! Edouard silently pleaded as he worked again on his bonds.

The knot loosened further.

“Your reluctance, too, was anticipated,” Veronique said with a wicked giggle. “I know we will change your mind.” She looked back over her shoulder at Kaine, then Edouard, then, with bright, glittering eyes, Juliana. “Kill her.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Veronique’s words slammed into Juliana’s mind.

She was going to die.

Now.

Before the horror fully bloomed in Juliana’s thoughts, the mercenaries eased aside their weapons to haul her forward, toward the wall walk’s edge.

Juliana dug her heels into the rough stone beneath her feet. She twisted her upper body to and fro, trying to break their punishing hold.

“Nay!” Edouard roared behind her. “Take me instead.”

“Edouard!” Juliana screamed, while she struggled. But the mercenaries were too strong. With brutal tugs, they brought her to the open space between the merlons, giving her an unhindered view of the steep drop to the ground and the shocked crowd below. The mercenary on her left shoved his knife near her face, a reminder of what was to come.

Sickening shudders ran through her. Her breath whistled sharply in her throat. She’d vowed not to yield. What more, though, could she do? How did she break free of these thugs and fulfill her vow to fight?

Tears slipped down her cheeks. Edouard, my chivalrous protector, how I wish we’d never disagreed in the past. How I wish you weren’t betrothed to Nara. How I wish we were both free and could begin anew. I weep, in my very soul, that I never had the chance to love you.

“Release her,” Lord de Lanceau bellowed from below.

“Kill her!” Veronique shrieked.

The mercenary at Juliana’s right, holding his sword at hip level, wrenched her arm and thereby tugged her body sideways as though to better thrust his blade into her belly. Ignoring the dagger close to her cheek—she’d die anyway, unless she got free—she fought the thugs’ hold.

In her mind, she suddenly saw Mayda, poised at the edge of the wall walk, fighting for her life. Mayda, I am sorry. I failed in all you asked of me.

The glint of metal warned her of the moving sword. Her tear-blurred gaze fell to Lord de Lanceau, his grim stare fixed upon her. Even as she struggled, her stomach clenched, preparing to feel the weapon’s sharp bite.

As though the passing moment had somehow slowed, she saw de Lanceau nod, the barest dip of his head.

The blond man beside him, holding a crossbow, aimed his weapon at her. Fired.

The steel-tipped bolt streaked through the air toward her. A merciful death. They’d taken the right to her life from Veronique.

Edouard, I am forever lost—

The sword’s tip touched her stomach.

Blood splattered across her face and torso. It dripped from her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut and awaited agonizing pain.

Through a fog of expectation, Juliana heard the mercenary to her right groan, followed by the clank of metal by her feet.

The mercenary wielding the dagger gasped. Shouts erupted along the battlements. Veronique shrieked, her voice accompanied by the whistle of fired arrows.

Juliana opened one eye to see arrows flying down into the bailey, where servants and warriors had started fighting. The mercenary who’d aimed to plunge his sword into her had crumpled over, clutching at his chest, where the feathered fletching of the bolt poked out. His blood stained her clothes.

Relief and hope raced through her. As the wounded mercenary turned his bloody head to glare at her, and tried to pick up his sword, she brought her leg up and slammed her foot into his thigh. He reeled against the nearby merlon. With a strangled roar, he lost his balance, tripped on uneven stone, and fell over the side, down to the bailey below.

A sharp tug snapped her focus back to the other mercenary. His lips drew back from his blackened teeth, and the knife gleamed as he tilted it, clearly readying to strike. Before she could draw in air to scream, a crossbow bolt spliced through his neck, from throat to nape, with a grisly fwoop and crack of bone. Eyes rolling, he fell backward onto the wall walk, the dagger still in his hand.

She was alive. Alive!

“Get her!” Veronique shrieked.

Dragging in a breath, Juliana dropped to a crouch before the fallen sword and sliced her bonds. Then she snatched up the weapon. Keeping an eye on Veronique and her lackeys, she glanced over the battlement, to thank de Lanceau’s crossbowman who’d saved her. Yet the bailey was a seething battle scene, with castle folk fighting mercenaries, the wounded crying for help, and the dead sprawled on the ground. De Lanceau and the crossbowman were nowhere to be seen.

Neither was Tye.

“Do not let her escape!” Veronique shrieked. Raising the sword, Juliana spun around to face a bald mercenary, one of the men who’d restrained Edouard. A knife flashed in the mercenary’s grasp.

She glared at him. Then, quickly, at Veronique. Juliana focused all her hatred and resolve into her stare; never would she let the murderous woman who’d caused so much grief at the castle win this battle.

Veronique’s stare sharpened. “I was right. You remember.”

“I do. Everything.”

“Get that sword from her,” Veronique snapped to the mercenary. “I want her as my hostage. Now!”

The mercenary lunged forward, and Juliana darted back several steps. She dared a glance at Edouard. Pride shone in his gaze, and he winked.

Juliana’s pulse fluttered—oh, how she savored that wink—even as she guessed he wanted her to keep this lout distracted. Her arms, though, had started to tremble from the weight of the weapon.

The mercenary grinned. “’Ow long, lovey, till ye ’ave ta put the sword down?”

She scowled, for Veronique was edging in toward her. She would not be Veronique’s captive again. At least this time, when facing Veronique, Juliana had a weapon.

A pained grunt, then the clang of falling metal came from behind the bald mercenary. As he spun, knife at the ready, Juliana saw Edouard had thrown aside his bonds. His remaining guard stood with one arm crossed over his belly, his dagger on the stones several yards away.

“Well done, milord!” Kaine struggled against his two captors.

His face dark with fury, Edouard’s guard staggered back, then reached into his boot, no doubt for another knife.

Edouard snatched up the fallen dagger and looked at Juliana. “Bring me the sword.”

As the bald mercenary swung back to face her, she dashed past him, keeping her blade aimed at his gut. He muttered, then advanced on her.

Another backward step, and she bumped into Edouard. The touch of their bodies sent bittersweet longing racing through her, but she didn’t dare meet his gaze. Not when the battle against Veronique had yet to be won.

Edouard’s fingers brushed hers as he exchanged the dagger for her sword.

“What now?” Holding the knife at the ready, she fixed her gaze on the mercenary, who obviously waited for a favorable moment to attack.

“Juliana, head for the doorway into the stairwell.”

He spoke calmly, as though he’d asked her to fetch a couple of pints of ale.

“Why—?”

“Find a safe place to hide. Stay there until the fighting is done.”

An awful tightness filled her breast; he was sending her away. “I am not leaving—”

“You are an important witness to what happened at Waddesford in the past days. I want you out of danger.” As though sensing her rising protest, he sighed, a sound of impatience. “Please, do not argue. ’Tis my duty, as my father’s son, to protect you and to fight for his cause. For this castle.”

“Moments ago, I almost died.” Juliana glared at Veronique, edging in alongside the mercenary. “To think I might never”—look upon your handsome face again—“draw another breath . . .” She shook her head. “Thanks to your father’s crossbowman, I have been given another chance to live. I will not waste it.”

“Juliana—”

“I shall fight. For my dearest friend who was murdered. For Rosemary, who lost her mother. For all the folk who have suffered or died at this keep because of Veronique.”

A chuckle interrupted her last words. “What lovely sentiments,” Veronique said, so close that Juliana caught her rosewater scent. “However, you should have done as Edouard asked.”

Over the gusting wind, Juliana caught sounds of a commotion, emanating from the stairwell. Shouts. Clashing swords. Pounding footfalls.

“Too late, Juliana.” Veronique’s words dissolved into a wicked cackle. “Too late!”

The mercenary lunged. Edouard stepped forward, his sword glinting in a well-executed strike. As the weapons collided, Juliana risked glancing at the stairwell.

Moving backward, his sword slicing the air with a deadly fwhoop, Tye emerged from the stairwell. Lord de Lanceau followed, with three of his men-at-arms a few steps behind. Sweat streamed down his lordship’s face. His sword was poised to attack, his expression stony as he pursued Tye.

More clanging rang out behind Juliana, reminders of Edouard’s ongoing fight, while Tye growled and swung his sword down, aiming for de Lanceau’s chest. With a metallic crash, their weapons met. The two men glared at each other, their swords locked.

Tye spun away.

At the same moment, Dominic hurried out of the stairwell.

“Go, Juliana!” Edouard shouted. “Now!”

“I am not leaving you!” She whirled to face the mercenary and Veronique, to see that Edouard had driven the bald fighter several yards back down the wall walk.

And Veronique?

Again, Juliana caught the sweetish tang of rosewater. Fear crawled up Juliana’s nape into her scalp. Just as she whirled around, Veronique grabbed her forearm in a crushing grip.

“Too late,” the older woman taunted. “Now, tell me where to find the jewels, or—”

Gasping, Juliana twisted her trapped arm which held the knife. She tried to slash with the dagger. Veronique’s bruising hold curtailed her movements. As the older woman dug the nails of her free hand into Juliana’s flesh, forcing her to let go of the weapon, Juliana kicked out at Veronique. The older woman twisted aside, avoiding the brunt of the blow.

With a triumphant grunt, Veronique snatched the dagger. Her painted lips formed a grin, and she released her grasp.

Juliana heard footfalls thundering toward her.

“Juliana!” Edouard bellowed. “Look—”

Someone slammed into her. A cry broke from her, as she pitched toward a stone merlon. She threw up a hand, desperate to thwart the imminent contact, when a muscled arm locked around her waist. She was hauled back against a broad man who smelled of sweat and hatred.

Tye.

His breaths seared her temple. The sharp blade of a sword came into her sight.

“Do not come any closer, Father,” Tye growled, his voice rumbling next to her ear, “or I will slice her from ribs to belly.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

At the sight of Juliana pinned in Tye’s arms, Edouard’s fury heightened to a dangerous pitch. She’d endured so much already; more than a lady of her grace and loveliness should ever have to face. This . . . this was the last. It ended here. Now.

Rage scorched through his body, firing renewed strength into his tired arms. The bald mercenary lunged again, and Edouard thrust up his sword. The blades met, tension jarred through Edouard’s torso, and then he pushed with all his strength against the joined swords.

When the mercenary staggered back a step, Edouard lunged forward and swung the blade in a wide arc. The steel sliced the mercenary’s upper arm. Blood shot in a crimson streak across the man’s leather hauberk.

The mercenary screamed.

“Yield,” Edouard said between his teeth, “or I will kill you.”

The man’s anguished gaze shifted from Edouard to a point near Tye before he pressed his free hand over the wound, spun on his heel, and hurried away.

“—I will not ask again. Release her,” Edouard’s sire was saying, as Edouard dried his sweaty brow with his sleeve and faced the others.

“Why should Tye heed you, when you do not even respect his birthright?” Veronique’s tone darkened. “Do you have the parchment, Tye?”

“I do.”

“Geoffrey, you will sign it. Or Juliana dies.”

Edouard marched forward. His boots thundered on the stone. As Juliana’s sorrowful gaze met his, her eyes widened. Did she sense the lethal edge to his fury? By God, he’d cut Tye to bleeding pieces and—

“Edouard,” his sire said.

Blinking through the haze of rage, Edouard glanced at his sire, flanked by three men-at-arms. His father’s face was turned to Edouard in profile. Not looking at Edouard, he said, “I have this matter in hand. Free Kaine. Secure this section of wall walk.”

His father’s tone was brusque, yet Edouard was glad of the harshness. It reminded him of what he’d learned from his sire: he must keep firm control of his emotions. In this deadly battle, which his father must win, he couldn’t make one mistake. Not when Juliana’s life was in peril, and the lives of many others.

“Aye, Father.”

Before Edouard could turn to locate Kaine, Veronique clucked her tongue. “How very obedient. Is that how you prefer your sons, Geoffrey? Raised to do your bidding, without question? Like loyal hounds?”

Veronique likened him to a trained dog? Edouard’s hand tightened on his sword to the point of pain. How he longed to run her through!

“Edouard does as I ask,” his sire replied, “because he has been raised with honor and respect. Values that define all that is noble and just.”

“Listen to you,” Veronique sneered. “Rambling like—”

“A lord who is proud of his legacy? Of his respected family? I am.”

“Those values you prize so highly have brought you here, to this grim moment. You have no choice left but to yield to my demands—or be responsible for Juliana’s death.”

“As I told you before, I will never yield to you.”

Veronique smiled. “A shame. Did you know Edouard cares for Juliana? They even lay in each others’ arms.”

“Stop!” Juliana choked.

A muscle leapt in Edouard’s father’s cheek. “Is this true, Edouard?”

Veronique, you malicious bitch! Hatred for her seethed inside Edouard. After all she had done to him, she’d try and dishonor him and Juliana in front of his father. Veronique knew his sire would be furious if he believed Edouard had forsaken his commitment to Nara.

Yet as Edouard stood aware of the many expectant gazes upon him, he welcomed the conviction in his soul, the emotion that had settled there, he realized, the first time he’d seen Juliana. No longer would he ignore it. He’d be speaking with his sire as soon as this battle was over.

“Father,” he said, his voice strong and determined, “since Juliana and I were forced to share a cold cell, we had no choice but to sleep together for warmth. However, we were never intimate, as Veronique cruelly implied. I never once acted with dishonor.”

“He speaks the truth,” Juliana cried. “I swear it, upon my mother’s grave.”

Edouard’s gaze met hers. “’Tis also true that I care for Juliana.”

Her eyes glistening with tears, she braved a smile.

What he would give to be able to sweep her into his arms now and kiss her, to make her his.

“What a shame, Edouard, that you were promised to Juliana’s sister,” Veronique went on, sounding on the verge of laughter. “Denied your true feelings for Juliana, right till your death.”

“Enough,” he growled.

Veronique chuckled, then reached out and smoothed her fingers through Juliana’s hair. As Juliana jerked her head away, her cheek pressing against Tye’s tunic, Veronique murmured, “You must hate your father, Edouard, for not caring to spare her life. A kind of abandonment, is it not? ’Tis a small taste of the anguish Tye has endured all these years.”

Squaring his shoulders, Edouard turned his back on Veronique and Tye. He had to shut her out, to deny her the sordid pleasure of squeezing his emotions until they bled.

He’d promised to obey his sire; he’d do his duty.

As he forced himself to stride away, he sensed Juliana’s gaze upon him. His heart ached. Walking away, after all he’d admitted, and when her expression held such gut-wrenching fear, felt akin to betrayal. Yet if his father insisted the matter was under control, then Edouard must trust ’twas so.

He looked to where he’d last seen Kaine, flanked by his guards. They’d moved a short distance down the wall walk. When Edouard drew near, he realized only one mercenary remained with his sword pointed at Kaine, who stood favoring his hurt leg. The other guard, head lolling, collapsed against a merlon. Shaking out his right fist, Dominic stepped away from him.

Switching his sword to his right hand, Dominic eyed the mercenary beside Kaine. “Now, ’tis your turn.”

Sneering, the man adjusted his grip on his weapon, readying to attack.

Edouard strode to Dominic’s side. “Allow me.” As the mercenary lunged, Edouard swung his blade in a brutal arc. With a clash of metal, his sword met the mercenary’s, whose weapon tilted close to Kaine’s stomach.

“Oy! Careful!” Kaine hobbled backward. “I hoped you were rescuing me.”

Before Veronique’s thug could recover his hold on his weapon, Edouard set the tip of his blade against the man’s neck.

“Drop the sword,” he growled.

Dominic whistled. “Best do as he says. He looks more than ready to slaughter you.”

The mercenary’s eyes narrowed. Then, with a loud clank, the sword landed by his boots.

“A wise decision.” Dominic flexed his fingers. “I do apologize for what I must do now.” Drawing his arm back, he slammed his fist into the man’s jaw. The oaf fell to his knees, then to his side on the stones.

“A bit dishonorable, that,” Dominic said with a wry shrug. “We cannot have these louts sneaking up on us, though, while we tend to other matters.” Sympathy crept into his gaze. “Not when we have a fair damsel to rescue.”

A flush warmed Edouard’s face, and he looked at Kaine. “Are you all right?”

“Apart from my leg.” He grimaced. “It hurts like hellfire. I am not certain how much use I will be in the battle.”

“You can guard these mercenaries,” Dominic said, bending down to pick up the fallen sword and handing it to Kaine.

“If they wake,” Edouard added, “wallop them again.”

Kaine grinned. “That, I will be more than pleased to do.”

Edouard glanced back at Juliana, his pulse lurching to see her still trapped against Tye. He’d pulled her closer to the battlement’s edge, nearer to Veronique.

Juliana’s frantic stare locked with Edouard’s, and concern, heightened by anger, blazed within him. Stay brave, Juliana. We will rescue you. This I vow, upon my very soul.

“Good luck,” Edouard said to Kaine, before he pivoted on his heel and headed back to his father, aware of Dominic striding close behind.

When Edouard reached his father’s side, he could barely control the rage crackling inside him. Tye had his arm pressed up under Juliana’s bosom, a far too intimate hold for Edouard’s liking. Moreover, Tye stood with a merlon at his back, and far enough away from the battlement’s edge that he couldn’t be hit by the archers below—a sign that Tye had noted Aldwin’s abilities.

“At last, you have rejoined us.” Veronique adjusted her grip on the knife. “We waited for you, before killing her.”

A sigh shivered from Juliana.

Edouard clenched his teeth. “Father?”

“She wanted you to see Juliana perish,” his sire said, “although I assured her that would not happen.”

Edouard barely choked down a shocked roar. Had his father not promised he had this situation under control? Why, then, was Juliana’s life still endangered? Why had his sire not ordered his men-at-arms, standing motionless behind him, to attack Tye and save her?

“Poor Edouard. I see your disappointment.” Veronique sneered. “Your beloved father has failed you.”

“Nay, Veronique. Look below,” Edouard’s sire said. “My men-at-arms are winning the battle.”

She snorted a laugh. “Geoffrey—”

“My loyal knights and men-at-arms were ordered to take control of this keep, level by level. They will. They are loyal to me, because I earned their respect. Your mercenaries do not care about loyalty. They swore allegiance to you only for the coins you paid them.”

“Enough. Tye—”

“They have realized your cause is lost,” Edouard’s sire continued, “and are escaping while they still can.” He waved to the space between the merlons. “See for yourself. The drawbridge is crowded with people fleeing.”

Tye’s expression darkened. “Mother?”

Veronique glared at her son. “Your father lies. How like him, to try and undermine us.”

“Release Juliana,” Edouard’s sire commanded. “There is no advantage to killing her.”

Tye’s gaze narrowed. His fingers tightened on his sword.

“Your lives are all you have left,” Edouard’s sire said. His gaze slid for the briefest moment to Dominic, standing at his left side. “If you wish to leave this wall walk alive . . .”

Realization hummed through Edouard. Left. A secret command.

“He is right. Do you not agree, Edouard?” Dominic added.

Tye scowled. For the barest moment, his gaze flicked toward the gap in the stones.

“Go!” his lordship roared.

Raising his sword, Edouard lunged for Tye’s right side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dominic racing for Tye’s left.

Veronique shrieked and slashed with her dagger, even as Edouard heard brisk footfalls. His sire and the men-at-arms were closing in on her.

Cursing, Tye tried to position his sword, but Dominic shoved his blade’s tip against Tye’s shoulder blade. “Do not be a fool.”

His weapon at the ready, Edouard halted before Tye, near enough to reach out and touch Juliana. The sword Tye still held hovered, a physical barrier separating them. Tears streamed from her eyes. He caught her sweet fragrance, blended with the essence of fear, and his gut twisted. “Let her go,” he said quietly.

Tye glowered. “You will kill me, if I refuse?”

“If I must.”

“Attack me, and she and I will both die.”

“Not necessarily,” Edouard said with a growl.

Juliana’s mouth quivered.

“She means so much to you, Brother?”

“Aye.” The acknowledgment came easily. From his heart.

“Edouard,” she whispered.

Tye’s face contorted. The bastard was beaten, but still he meant to hurt her? Edouard should have expected no less. Tye had been raised by Veronique.

Edouard loosed a furious cry and brought his sword up.

Tye’s arm fell from Juliana’s waist.

She raced to Edouard, her soft warmth pressing against him. He kept a firm grip on his sword, while his other arm wrapped around her.

Through a giddy rush of relief, he caught Dominic’s grunt of pain.

Heard the arcing swish of a sword.

Sensed Tye’s attack.

***

Juliana clung to Edouard. Her body shook with terror and exhaustion, but joy sang like a bright melody within her. Tye had let her go; there was some sense of honor in his treacherous soul, after all.

“Juliana,” Edouard gasped.

Then she sensed it: movement, behind her.

She whirled, at the same instant Edouard shoved her away. Tye, his face twisted with bitterness, slashed his sword down toward Edouard’s chest.

Clang. Clang.

Steel sparked, marking the fury of their blows. Her hand pressed to her throat, Juliana didn’t dare look away. The two brothers struck at each other. Again. And again.

“Bastard!” Edouard snarled.

“Kill me now,” Tye mocked. “Do it.”

They were only five paces from Veronique. She stood at the edge of the wall walk between two merlons, silk gown flapping in the wind, her knife lost. Her fingers were raised like claws against de Lanceau and the men-at-arms who’d trapped her.

“Surrender, Veronique,” de Lanceau shouted.

“Surrender?” She arched her brows. “I would rather die than be your prisoner.”

“You have nowhere left to go,” his lordship said. “You cannot defeat us. You cannot run.”

Veronique’s crimson lips parted on raucous laughter.

“Veronique!” de Lanceau bellowed. “Surrender! If you refuse, I will—”

She spun to look down at the bailey. “Good-bye, Geoffrey.”

“Nay—!” De Lanceau grabbed for her.

She jumped.

“God’s teeth!” Dominic gasped. Juliana raced with him to the side of the battlement, where de Lanceau peered down, shaking his head.

Far down in the bailey, Veronique tried to rise from where she’d fallen onto several dead servants. Grimacing, her movements slow and her left arm listing at an odd angle, she pushed to her knees.

“She cannot get away,” de Lanceau growled and gestured to two of his men-at-arms.

The men ran for the stairwell.

Steel clashed close by, and Juliana again looked at the two brothers, still fighting. Sweat dripped from their faces. Had Edouard suffered any wounds? She hoped not.

“Yield, Tye,” de Lanceau yelled. “The battle is over.” He signaled to Edouard. Reluctance tautened Edouard’s features, but he stepped away from Tye, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. He did not, however, lower his sword.

Juliana forced herself to remain still, although she longed to throw herself into Edouard’s arms.

Tye’s gaze sharpened as he looked at Dominic, de Lanceau, and the man-at-arms, then at the empty space where Veronique had stood moments before. “Where—?”

“Your mother leapt over the side,” de Lanceau said. “She abandoned you.”

“What?” Edging sideways, his sword ready to deflect any assault, he approached the gap. Bracing his left hand on the merlon beside him, he leaned slightly backward over the edge to glance down; he clearly didn’t want to turn his back to his foes. Juliana sensed the moment he saw Veronique. His lips flattened.

“She is wounded,” de Lanceau said. “She cannot get far. My men will take her prisoner.”

“And?” Tye dared another look at the bailey. The awkward position forced him to strain his body backward. If he lost his balance . . .

“She will be imprisoned in my dungeon. I will see her brought to trial—”

A strangled sound, akin to a curse, broke from Tye. His body wavered, as though buffeted by a breeze, and then his sword pitched downward. Even as Juliana wondered why, she realized he’d lost his grip on the merlon.

“Tye!” she and Dominic called in unison. She ran to the wall walk’s edge, aware of the man-at-arms following close behind.

Tye’s sword clattered on the stone near them.

With a guttural cry, he dropped from view.

“Oh, God,” Juliana cried, peering over the edge. Muttering under his breath, de Lanceau elbowed aside the man-at-arms and stood in the windblown gap.

“Tye!” His roar spread down over the bailey.

As Juliana’s gaze slid toward the ground, movement and a choked breath snared her attention. She barely held back a horrified moan. Just a short reach away, Tye dangled from the wall walk by one hand.

“Father!” Edouard shouted.

“I see him.” Boots scraped as de Lanceau knelt and reached down. “Give me your hand, Tye,” he said roughly. He sounded as though he fought intense emotion.

Sweat streamed from Tye’s face. His lips pulled away from his teeth as he said, “Why?”

“I will save you.”

A sob jammed in Juliana’s throat. Take the offer of help, Tye. Take it!

Tye’s weight-bearing arm began to tremble. Bitterness contorted his features into a mask of anguish. “Why bother to rescue me? I am naught to you. You wish I had never been born. What do you care, Father, if I fall and die?”

An expression close to pain flickered across his lordship’s features, before it disappeared behind stern resolve. “Take my hand. I will pull you up.”

Do not be a stubborn fool, Tye. Accept his help!

Tye’s throat moved with a swallow. “You want to save me because . . . I am your son?”

Torment darkened de Lanceau’s eyes. His jaw hardened. “I save you because there is honor even between enemies.”

Tye’s white-knuckled fingers began to slip from the stone.

“Hurry!” de Lanceau yelled. “For God’s sake!”

Tye grinned, a hateful, almost sad twist of his lips, and plummeted toward the ground.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Tye survived the fall,” Edouard said, just as his father exhaled a sigh and rose.

“He is injured.” Juliana’s voice cracked, implying she hated to see Tye hurt. Edouard struggled to control a flare of jealousy and dismay.

Pain contorted Tye’s features as he pushed up from the dirt. He stumbled to his feet, wavering for a moment like a drunkard. Even as Edouard acknowledged his bastard brother’s survival, a sense of relief rushed through him. ’Twas ridiculous, since he despised Tye. But he couldn’t deny that the haunted look in Tye’s eyes, in the tense moments before he’d fallen, had affected him.

“Tye and Veronique will try and escape,” his sire said, his tone rough. “I will not allow it. Dominic.”

“Aye, milord?”

“I want both of them captured, bound, and well guarded. Tell the other men fighting in the bailey. I will join you there in a moment.”

Dominic nodded, then ran to the stairwell and disappeared inside.

Flexing his hand on his sword, Edouard tried to tamp down a rising sense of misgiving. He should follow Dominic and help secure the bailey; ’tis what was expected of him as a future heir, especially when the din rising from below indicated that the battle, while less frenzied than before, was still ongoing.

Heading to the bailey, though, would mean Juliana was out of his sight. He’d almost lost her a short while ago. Watching her confront death had nearly ripped his soul from his chest. He couldn’t leave her, not with Veronique and Tye still to be captured. Not when he’d come to realize how much he loved her.

“Father,” he began, “I—”

His sire, wiping his brow, swayed, as though about to topple over.

“Lord de Lanceau!” Juliana cried.

Lunging forward at the same time as the man-at-arms, Edouard readied to grab his sire’s arm and prop him upright if need be. “Father, what is wrong? Were you wounded?”

Refusing assistance with a wave of his hand, de Lanceau steadied himself and drew in a few strong breaths. “I am not injured. I am not fully recovered from my illness, ’tis all.”

“You should sit for a moment. Regain your strength.”

His sire grunted. “Edouard, you sound just like your mother.”

“She is a clever woman. And always right.” Edouard couldn’t resist a grin.

His sire’s lips tilted in a grudging smile before he glanced down into the bailey. Frowning, he shook his head. “I will not rest. Not before Tye and Veronique are my prisoners. Not before this keep is secured to my satisfaction.”

Protest welled inside Edouard. His sire looked exhausted. His reactions could be impeded; he might make a grave error during the fighting and be injured or killed. But even as the words gathered on Edouard’s tongue, he forced them to silence. His father was a proud man and far too stubborn to yield to any infirmity. Moreover, his warrior’s sense of duty was too tightly woven into his nature, his hatred for Veronique too ingrained, for him to consider quitting the battle now.

How well Edouard knew his father’s reasons, for those would be his reasons, too, if he were in his parent’s place.

“I will gladly fight alongside you and Dominic, Father,” Edouard said. He looked at Juliana. “But there is an important matter I vow should be attended to first.”

“What matter?” While his sire spoke, he tightened his grip on his broadsword. A muscle jumped in his cheek, a sign he was eager to join the fight.

“Landon Ferchante’s gold ring—the one you entrusted to him—is hidden in the solar. Veronique and Tye wanted to get hold of that ring and use it to gain admittance to your court and then murder you.”

His sire’s gaze sharpened. “You were right to mention this to me.”

“Juliana is the only one who knows where the jewels are hidden,” Edouard said.

“Mayda told me days before she died, milord,” Juliana said. “Before her lord husband pushed her off the wall walk and killed her.”

“Landon? God’s blood! Are you sure?”

She nodded, grief in her gaze. “I witnessed her murder, milord. That is why I was hit about the head and left for dead in the river.”

“What of the newborn? Is she here? Safe?”

“Veronique ordered Rosemary killed. Azarel managed to get her to safety in the village. Milord, there is a great deal more I must tell you, especially concerning Landon’s affair with Veronique and her influence at the keep.”

“Veronique murdered Landon,” Edouard added. “He tried to contact you, Father, after I was taken captive, and she found out.”

His sire clenched his free hand into a fist. “Azarel mentioned Landon’s killing to me. ’Tis yet another crime for which Veronique will be punished. Once this fight is won, I want full accounts from both of you. What you say will be documented, for the day she is brought to trial. Meanwhile, Juliana, I want you to go to the solar.” He pointed to the remaining man-at-arms. “He will escort you, and I will send more warriors to stand guard with him outside the chamber. Lock the door. Do not recover the jewels. Do not open the door, either, till you hear three knocks and either my voice or Edouard’s beyond.”

“Aye, milord.” She dipped in a curtsey.

“Thank you, Lady de Greyne, for all your help,” Edouard’s father said. Looking over at Kaine, he said, “I will send reinforcements to help you defend the wall walk. Edouard, come with me.”

When his sire strode for the stairwell, Edouard loped after him. The thrill of battle licked like greedy fire in his blood, tempered, though, by worry for Juliana. Soon she’d be gone from his sight.

As he brushed past her, he slowed, touched her arm. “Be careful. Promise me.” There is so much I will say to you, Juliana, once this is over.

Her eyes bright, she whispered, “I promise.”

***

Juliana hurried into the stairwell’s shadows. With the man-at-arms leading the way, they proceeded to the solar with the same caution Edouard had taken when they’d escaped from the tower.

How eerily quiet the passageways seemed, almost as though the keep had been abandoned. A good sign, she decided, as they neared the corridor leading to the solar. Most of the castle folk must be in the bailey, fighting to save Waddesford.

After halting before the iron-banded door of the solar, the man-at-arms leaned close to it and listened. Apart from her own breathing, Juliana heard only the crackle of the passageway torches.

The man thrust up a staying hand, and she nodded, recognizing his order to stay still and silent. They must be careful. Veronique, realizing she was defeated, could have ordered her thugs to gather her belongings and steal whatever else in the chamber was of value. The thick door might be muffling the sounds inside, and thus Juliana would be walking into danger.

Inhaling a steadying breath, she pondered how Edouard would enter the solar. The image of him striding out of the shadowed far stairwell into the sunlit bailey—bold, determined, and without the slightest trace of fear—filled her mind. He wouldn’t hesitate to barge through the doorway. This warrior would likely do the same.

The man-at-arms pushed down the iron handle and shoved the door open. It swung wide and, with the jarred squeak of hinges, slammed against the wall. Keeping his back to the panel, his hands on his sword, he darted inside, then returned a few moments later and bowed to her. “’Tis deserted, milady.”

Deserted except for the scent of Veronique’s rosewater. “Thank you,” Juliana said. She strode in, pushed the door shut, and locked it, as Lord de Lanceau had commanded.

The stillness of the chamber settled around her like a weighty cloak as she glanced about. Mayda’s musical laughter, soothing murmurs, and anguished sobs lingered in the shadows along with Rosemary’s hungry cries. The essence of these memories was intensely poignant. Was it only days ago that Mayda had died?

Eyes stinging, Juliana looked at the rumpled sheets on the bed, silk garments heaped on the floor, and numerous pots and grooming items strewn across the trestle table. Her mouth tightened on a painful flare of rage. How thoroughly Veronique had claimed the space that belonged to the lady of the keep.

“No longer,” she said firmly. “Never. Again.”

For Mayda, for Rosemary, she’d vanquish every trace of Veronique’s presence here.

Juliana crossed to the bed, grabbed a feather pillow, and yanked off the linen case. Her hands itched to smash into it all those precious pots of creams Veronique coveted, to snap the comb into tiny pieces, to destroy every tool of seduction Veronique had used to manipulate Landon and many other men to her will.

As Juliana turned to the trestle table, faint sounds of battle carried from the shuttered window. She moved to it and threw the shutters open, letting in a breeze. While she couldn’t see much of the fighting, shouts, hoarse cries, and clashes of metal rose to her. Somewhere, down in the chaos, Edouard was fighting with his sire.

Oh, Edouard. Please stay safe. I cannot wait to see you again.

Her worry for him grew, and she took herself away from the torment of the cacophony. She must keep busy, do what she could here to restore peace and order to the castle, and get rid of Veronique’s influence.

Juliana crossed to the table, opened the pillowcase, and began to stuff items inside. Soon, the case bulged, and she fetched another from the bed. Once the tabletop was cleared, she walked about the solar, snatching up any items she didn’t recognize as belonging to Landon or Mayda.

Later, she must pack up their belongings, as well as her own. The task would have to be done anyway, since a new lord would shortly be appointed to rule Waddesford Keep and he’d be moving into the chamber.

Some moments later, she removed the dirty bedding and dumped it by the door, then dropped the filled pillowcases with the linens. When the battle was over, she’d see all of Veronique’s items destroyed. Every last one.

Savoring a heady sense of satisfaction, she walked to the center of the room, set her hands on her hips, and looked about to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. As her gaze traveled over the bed, a small object glinted behind one of the rear legs. She went to the bed, stooped, and, with a strangled gasp, picked up the silver baby rattle.

Hands shaking, she stood and looked up at the shadowed ceiling. “As soon as I can, I will find Rosemary, Mayda,” she whispered. “Wherever we end up living, she will be well cared for. I swear it.”

A breeze whispered in through the window. Juliana stilled. She no longer heard the noises of battle.

Hope soared within her. Did that mean . . ?

Three brisk knocks sounded on the door.

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

With a brutal roar, Edouard plunged his sword into the mercenary’s gut. He recognized the thug who’d helped drag him up to the tower and force him into chains. Moments ago, the fool had tried to sneak up and stab him in the back. A deceitful attack.

Grunting in pain, the mercenary tried to lash at Edouard with his dagger, but the blade skated on the chain mail hauberk Edouard had stripped from one of his sire’s fallen knights and donned earlier in the battle. Standing firm, his breath rasping through his teeth, Edouard held the mercenary’s murderous, dulling stare until the thug slid sideways to the ground, dead.

Yanking his sword free of the corpse, Edouard spun on his heel and assessed the fighting around him. Before this mercenary had become separated from his cohorts, he’d been among a protective group encircling Tye and Veronique. Despite her abandonment of Tye on the wall walk, they seemed to have decided that fighting together was their only hope of escape.

A futile hope. They were clearly defeated.

Edouard’s father, Dominic, and at least twenty knights surrounded the villains, their swords flashing in furious strokes as they fought the mercenaries of the group who remained alive. Tye also wielded a sword he must have taken from one of the dead. His face white with pain, he hobbled on an injured leg, while he slashed the blade at the advancing warriors. He wouldn’t be able to keep up his fight for long.

Step by step, the warriors edged forward, tightening the entrapment while forcing the villains back against the bailey wall.

Capturing them, Edouard noted, appeared all that was left before his sire claimed victory. Bodies were scattered across the ground and, in places, slumped over the edge of the wall walk. Near the entrance to the dungeon, prisoners, mainly mercenaries, were being bound and kept in order by Aldwin and more men-at-arms. The drawbridge and entrance to the forebuilding were heavily guarded; Tye and Veronique couldn’t get in or out of the castle even if, by remote chance, they escaped the attacking warriors.

“Fight harder, idiots,” Veronique shrieked over the din of colliding swords. Agony distorting her features, hair a snarled mess, she cradled her broken arm against her bosom. “Think of the gold I will pay you!”

“Surrender,” Edouard’s father yelled back. “You cannot escape.”

“He lies!” Spittle glistened on Veronique’s smeared lips.

“Heed me well,” de Lanceau bellowed, his words carrying across the bailey. “My knights control every way in and out of this keep. Lay down your weapons. Yield to my men. Refuse, and you will die.”

“Fight!” Veronique screamed.

With a grisly cry, another of her mercenaries collapsed to the dirt.

Edouard glowered at her, focusing all of his hatred of the past days upon her. You will yield, Veronique, as my father commanded. On my honor, as a knight, I will see it done. Adjusting his grip on his sword, he crossed the blood-soaked ground to join the fight.

Anticipation humming in his blood, his gaze locked with Tye’s. Rage and loathing blazed in Tye’s eyes. He spun away, swiftly deflecting a blow from a man-at-arms.

Edouard’s sire stepped back from the fray and wiped his brow. His chest rising and falling with exertion, he glanced at Edouard, clearly sensing his approach.

“I have come to fight,” Edouard said.

“No need, Son. This battle is already won.”

Edouard struggled against his rising frustration. “I want to fight them, Father. After all they have done to me, Juliana, and so many others, I want to see them vanquished. I need to know they can no longer inflict their evil.” Especially upon Juliana.

“I feel the same way about those two.” A bitter smile curved his sire’s mouth as his gaze fixed on Veronique. “How many years I have waited to capture her. Finally, she will stand trial and be condemned for the crimes she has committed. Finally,”—his voice shook—“I will have peace from her madness.”

A pained scream rang out, and Edouard dared a glance at the fight. Another mercenary careened to the ground, narrowly missing Veronique as he fell.

“You have fought well for me today, Son,” his sire went on, wiping his sweaty face again. “While you may want to see this fight brought to its end, I ask another duty of you. One I would prefer not to assign to anyone else.”

Surprise, sharpened by a glimmer of pride, ran through Edouard. “What duty?”

“Take five men-at-arms with you to the solar. They will join the others in standing guard outside while Juliana retrieves the hidden jewels. Bring the riches to me.”

Edouard nodded and turned on his heel.

“When you return,”—his sire added, an odd tension in his voice—“there is a very important matter we must discuss.”

***

“You lied to me, Mother.”

Snapping her attention from the burly mercenaries shielding her from de Lanceau’s men, Veronique glared at Tye. How dare he address her with such contempt, especially in front of their enemies? Fury raged as intensely as the agonizing pain from her broken arm.

Grinding her teeth, she struggled to think beyond her physical distress, to focus on her loathing of Geoffrey that had helped her evade capture in the past and kept her alive.

“Lied?” she demanded, the word drowned by the crash of swords as her mercenaries thwarted a fierce attack. “About your chance to kill your father and seize all from him? Is that what you mean?”

Tye’s wan face was slick with sweat. Limping, he lunged at a man-at-arms, deflecting a strike, and his whole body stiffened at the resulting collision. Tye was in great pain. Regret, born from maternal instincts she couldn’t seem to suppress, lanced through her; she forced it aside.

A grisly choking noise, accompanied by spraying blood, warned her that one of the mercenaries was mortally wounded. She took an instinctive step back, groaning as she misstepped on the stony ground and jostled her arm. “You will defeat your father—”

“Another lie. We are surrounded. Backed against a stone wall.” Each of Tye’s words shot from his lips like bits of ice. “Why should I believe another word from you, when you lied to me about Father?”

Astonishment plowed through Veronique, turning her innards cold. Anguish underscored his voice, a pain that ran deeper than any physical injury he had received today.

“You left me on the wall walk,” Tye went on. “You thought only of saving yourself. You did not care whether I was slain or escaped.”

Wretched boy! “You are a champion warrior!” she shrieked. “You can defend yourself.”

Tye’s burning gaze slammed into her. “Tell me, Mother, why Father tried to save me from falling from the battlement. He offered me his hand. He wanted to save me!”

Veronique swallowed an ugly flare of disquiet. She’d spent years cultivating Tye’s hatred and forging him into the brutal warrior she expected him to be. Geoffrey had shown him kindness? ’Twas a complication she’d crush like a beetle, for she aimed to keep her hold upon Tye. She must, in order to escape.

“Why did he try to rescue me?” Tye demanded. “Why?”

Did he think there was fatherly generosity behind Geoffrey’s gesture? Did Tye presume he might get his sire’s acceptance? Fury boiled inside her that Geoffrey had found and preyed upon this weakness in Tye. Geoffrey intended to turn their son against her. “Your father tried to save you so he could imprison and interrogate you. If you died in the fall, he would never be able to wrest information from you.”

“I do not know. In his eyes, I saw—”

“What he wanted you to see,” she sneered. “No doubt your sire gilded his offer with false words about his chivalrous intentions. He did not act out of honor; he hoped to manipulate you so you’d be easier to capture. How right you were to refuse his trickery and risk the fall. Our injuries will heal and soon—”

Tye brought his sword arcing down toward a man-at-arms.

A gurgle erupted close by. As a warrior crumpled in her direction, eyes rolling back into his bleeding head, she took another backward step. She sensed the wall looming behind her, less than a hand’s span away.

“Listen to me, Tye,” she said, her words muffled by the din of fighting. “For years, I have protected you from your sire. Even now, I have not failed you. Remember when you told me that you believed the missive from Geoffrey was a trick?”

“Mother—”

“Listen!” she hissed. “I thought well about what you said. The mercenaries your father claimed were fleeing the keep today? Not all of them left because they feared being conquered.”

Tye glanced at her, his gaze filled with suspicion.

“I dare not say too much, except that during our trysts, Landon confided secrets that will be of interest to King John. I paid a mercenary to deliver a message for me if Geoffrey decided to attack Waddesford.” She indulged in a laugh, but grimaced as her arm throbbed. “The king will be most eager to hear what I have to say.”

“You will tell him,” Tye said with a mirthless grin, “in exchange for our freedom?”

She grinned back. “You will get that opportunity to cut down your sire, Tye.” As the last mercenary fell and de Lanceau’s men-at-arms swarmed in, she said, “We are not vanquished. That is most certain.”

***

At the raps on the solar door, Juliana started.

Three knocks. The signal Lord de Lanceau had described, if accompanied by—

“Juliana,” Edouard called from outside.

Unable to hold back a delighted cry, she set the rattle on the table, rushed to the door, and unlocked it. Drawing it open, she saw him standing beyond, grinning, his sword sheathed at his side. The chain mail he wore, though, was spattered with blood.

“You are alive!” Before she could think better of it, she threw herself into his arms. Only then did she remember de Lanceau’s armed men in the passageway, who exchanged bemused glances.

Her body collided with Edouard’s, and he grunted. “Of course I am alive.” His broad arms wrapped around her, embracing her with the scents of sun-warmed metal, fresh air, and sweaty male. A truly pleasing blend of smells, because he was alive! She’d remember his scent always, even when he was gone from Waddesford.

Refusing to acknowledge the sadness chasing that thought, she stepped out of his embrace and smiled at him. “Is the fight won?”

“Aye. Veronique and Tye are trapped in the bailey. My father will soon have them as his prisoners. Their treachery ends today.”

“Good. Are you all right?” Her gaze dropped to the blood on his armor. “Were you wounded?”

“A few nicks, but naught of concern.” Signaling the men who’d accompanied him to wait outside, he brushed past her into the solar. Once she’d followed him inside, he shut the door.

A wicked thrill shivered through her that she and Edouard were once again alone. ’Tis a senseless thrill, her conscience answered. With Veronique’s tyrannical grip on the keep destroyed, Edouard would be returning to his duties for his father. He’d be marrying Nara.

Juliana’s stomach twisted, for on the wall walk he’d admitted he cared for her. Could that make any difference, though, since he was pledged to Nara? How did Juliana manage to say that she believed she loved him? That none of the disagreements between them mattered anymore? That if, by some chance, he cared enough to want to marry her instead of her sister, she’d say “aye” without the slightest delay? She couldn’t let him leave the keep without telling him that truth.

His cool, steady, captivating gaze locked with hers. Again, she felt that wondrous surge of joy and anticipation. Could he see in her eyes how she felt? Oh, God, could he see?

He looked away, swallowing hard, obviously fighting a tempest churning within himself. He turned his back to her, his hands clenching and unclenching. Her gaze skimmed over him, memorizing the curves, lines, and angles of his masculine beauty as she would before sketching him.

In her mind, she made him hers forever.

Before she could venture to break the silence, he muttered, “I smell rosewater.”

“Not for much longer,” she managed to say. When he glanced at her, she gestured to the heap by the door. “These are Veronique’s belongings. I plan to throw them over the wall walk. I will smash them on the rocks, break them, rip them into tiny, worthless pieces . . .”

“I will gladly help.” Edouard lips formed a tight smile. “I cannot wait to rid this castle of all remnants of Veronique.”

“Most of them, anyway,” Juliana said. They couldn’t change the events of the past few days. The memories they both had of Veronique would be with them for the rest of their lives. Her cruel grip on this keep, though, was gone.

Edouard dragged a hand through his mussed hair and faced her, his expression solemn. “Juliana, I know you and I have a great deal to discuss. But I am afraid that conversation must wait. Father wants us to retrieve the jewels and bring them to him.”

A great deal to discuss, her mind echoed. Anxiety snaked its way through her. Did Edouard plan to tell her that whatever he’d said on the wall walk, they could never be together? That he’d never meant to raise her hopes?

She pushed the agonizing thoughts aside. Lord de Lanceau had given important orders. They must be obeyed.

“One moment,” she said, before hurrying into the antechamber. Reaching beneath her pallet, she pulled out the sketchbook—still, thankfully, where she’d left it—and opened it to one of her drawings of Mayda. The most important one, she silently acknowledged.

When she started toward the trestle table, she sensed Edouard’s gaze traveling over her. Not a cursory glance; an intense stare that assessed her from head to toe. A look she might mistake as . . . possessiveness. A wanton excitement raced through her, and she bit down on her lip, using the discomfort to help her refocus on her task.

Edouard’s boots thudded on the planks. As she reached the table, he came to stand beside her. She ignored the inconvenient warmth pooling within her, set the sketchbook flat on the table, and smoothed the pages.

“’Tis a good likeness of Mayda.” Edouard studied the drawing of her ladyship standing before the trestle table, the fingers of her right hand touching the table top just above one of the three large drawers.

“After Mayda told me of the hidden jewels,” Juliana said, glad of her steady voice, “I drew this picture of her, to help me remember her words.” Lifting up the hem of her skirts, she settled on her knees before the table.

“Juliana.” Edouard made a small sound, akin to a groan; he obviously couldn’t believe she was down on the dusty floor. “Why—?”

“You will see.” She patted the planks next to her.

He dropped to a crouch, his boots creaking with the movement.

“This table was a gift from Mayda’s parents,” Juliana said. “Part of her dowry. Now, if I remember what Mayda told me . . .” She pulled open the closest drawer. It slid easily, as though frequently used. Inside were sheaves of parchment, beeswax candles, a few quills, and sections of twine.

With a brisk tug, Juliana removed the drawer and set it aside. Then, peering into the empty space, she felt around the plain, rough-hewn back panel. “This table was specially commissioned by Mayda’s parents,” Juliana said, while her fingers explored the wood. “Her father suspected a traitor in their household, so he had this table built. From underneath, the framework all looks the same, but Mayda said there is . . . Ah.” A slight shifting of the panel told Juliana she’d found the right spot. She pressed. With a muffled scrape, the wood fell away, revealing a concealed section.

Reaching in, she drew out a cloth bag. The contents inside shifted with a musical clink.

Edouard chuckled. “The ring was within Veronique’s reach all along. Judging by the sound, many other jewels, too.”

Juliana nodded, doing her best not to reveal how her stomach swooped at his velvety, roguish laughter. “Thankfully, Veronique did not suspect—”

“Wait. There is something else.” Edouard brushed against Juliana as he reached inside; the mere drag of his garments against hers caused her to catch her breath. When he straightened, he held out a rolled parchment bound with twine.

“Read it,” he said softly. “I suspect ’tis for you. You were the only one, besides Mayda, who knew of this hiding place.”

Sudden dread trailed through Juliana as she handed him the jewels, then unfastened the parchment’s twine. Metal chimed. Glancing at Edouard, she saw that he’d tipped the bag’s contents into his palm and was fingering through the items, no doubt to make sure Landon’s gold ring was there.

“Good,” he said under his breath. He must have found it.

The missive unfurled, and Juliana recognized Mayda’s elegant handwriting. A shocked cry warbled from her.

“Edouard,” she whispered. “Oh, God—”

His broad hand cupped hers. “If you would rather read it later—”

She shook her head. “It may be important.” Swallowing hard, she began to read.

My dearest Juliana,

If you are reading this missive, then I am dead. I do not leave this letter to place blame or bemoan the life I might have lived, if circumstances were different. I ask only that you remember me kindly, for you were, to me, the one joy in days that became increasingly bleak. Your loyalty, kindness, and companionship, my dear friend, were more precious to me than all the gold in the bag you likely now hold.

As I vowed before, I give these jewels to you, to care for little Rosemary and to live a life that, I trust, will be filled with happiness. For true love, I realize now, is a most miraculous gift—one that was never mine, but that I wish, with all my heart, for you.

With love,

Mayda

A sob broke from Juliana. As she pressed a hand to her mouth, she caught Edouard’s muffled oath. He shifted on the floor beside her, and then his arms were around her, drawing her close. How good it felt to have his strong warmth surrounding her.

“Oh, Mayda,” Juliana sobbed.

“May I read the letter?” Edouard’s voice rumbled next to her ear. She nodded, and he carefully took the parchment from her fingers. A moment later, he sighed against her hair. “’Tis clear she cared for you very much.”

“When the battle is over, I must find Rosemary,” Juliana whispered.

“We know she is being well cared for,” he soothed. “When ’tis safe to do so, we will find her.”

We. Juliana pressed her lips together, fighting the onslaught of emotion carried by that tiny word. What she would give for Mayda’s wish for true love to come true. For Edouard to be her true love.

“Come.” He gently eased her away, then coaxed her to her feet. “My father awaits.”

A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Edouard led Juliana through the keep to the bailey, the armed men following a few paces behind. With every step, the relentless pressure inside Edouard intensified, for he guessed the matter his sire wished to discuss was the wedding to Nara.

As Edouard entered the forebuilding descending to the bailey, his senses seemed even more attuned, somehow, to Juliana a few steps behind him: the lighter tap of her shoes on the stone; the whisper of her gown; the feeling of her gaze upon him. He’d never felt this acute sense of knowing for a woman before, but truth be told, he’d never met one as remarkable as Juliana. He longed to know her in all the honest, tender, pleasurable ways a man could know a woman.

As he descended the last steps, he remembered the fetching pinkish hue that had warmed her face in the solar. Had she sensed the desire he’d barely managed to keep under control? Had she realized how hard he fought not to shove aside his irksome honor, draw her into his arms, and kiss her until she swooned?

Just thinking about such a lusty kiss made his manhood swell.

He silently groaned. No way in hellfire could he spend his life married to Juliana’s sister. If it took every bit of his willpower, he must tell his sire he wasn’t following through with the betrothal. He couldn’t bear to think about his father’s displeasure or the dishonor he’d bring to his family, but breaking his commitment to Nara was the only way he could kiss, touch, and love Juliana.

They stepped into the daylight, and he heard her draw a sharp breath. She wasn’t used to seeing the gruesome aftermath of battle. Catching her hand, he gently squeezed it, then led her to the large crowd of men-at-arms guarding Veronique and Tye. The two stood with swords aimed at their throats, their backs against the wall. Several warriors held lengths of rope, clearly preparing to bind them.

“Seeing them captured is a wondrous sight,” Juliana said.

“I agree.”

As though hearing Edouard’s voice, Veronique’s gaze shifted. Her hard stare locked with his, and shock jolted through him. The cruel bitch didn’t appear humbled or distressed. Triumph and resolve blazed in her eyes. Did she hold some kind of absurd hope of escaping? His sire would ensure that never happened. So would he.

Edouard scowled at Veronique and looked for his father, who stood with Dominic and several men-at-arms. Judging by his gestures, he was relaying instructions. Still holding Juliana’s hand, Edouard drew her forward.

His sire turned, as though alerted to Edouard’s approach, and smiled. Then his gaze slid to their entwined hands, and a frown knit his brow.

Edouard felt Juliana tremble as he brought her before his father. Discreetly wriggling her fingers free, she dropped into a curtsey.

“Father,” Edouard said, then noticed Dominic pressing a hand over a wound on his arm bandaged with a strip of cloth. “Are you all right?”

“Tye managed to cut me before we grabbed his weapon and subdued him,” Dominic said. “I am glad I am not dead. He is an impressive swordsman. He could easily have slashed my ribs instead of my forearm.”

Ignoring the unwelcome praise of Tye, Edouard asked, “Are you badly wounded?” Of all his father’s friends, he held the greatest respect for Dominic, who’d always treated him like a son.

“I shall live.” Dominic waggled his eyebrows. “I am sure my lovely wife will take excellent care of me whilst I recover.”

Edouard chuckled, while Dominic’s attention slid to Juliana. His gaze lit with a curious sparkle—one that hinted of news Edouard did not yet know. Was it related to the matter his sire wished to discuss?

Impatience gnawed at Edouard, and he settled his gaze on his father. “As you ordered, we found Landon’s ring.” He held the gold band out to his sire. “Juliana has the other jewels.”

“Good.” His sire took the ring and slid it onto his finger.

“Mayda left her jewelry to Juliana. She wanted Juliana to sell the jewels to support her and the Ferchantes’ babe, if ill befell Mayda.”

“I see.” His sire frowned again. “Juliana, you witnessed Mayda’s killing. It seems she anticipated her husband’s murderous rage. Did she sense that she might need to also protect her child’s life?”

“Aye, milord,” Juliana said. “When she gave birth to a daughter, not a son, she was terrified of Landon rejecting the babe.”

Edouard’s sire exhaled a sigh tinged with disbelief. “As the parent of a beautiful, intelligent daughter, I cannot imagine. Landon clearly became someone other than the lord I believed I knew and could trust.” His somber gaze locked with Edouard’s. “I am sorry for sending you into a trap. If I had known—”

“Father, I understand.”

Relief crept into his sire’s features. Then he asked, “What of the duty I asked you to conduct?”

Edouard knew his father spoke of the secret meeting to ask Landon to join their rebellion against King John. No doubt his sire wanted to know if Landon might have told Veronique and Tye about it. “I was unable to fulfill what you asked of me. I was taken captive upon riding into the bailey. ’Tis the only time I saw Landon alive.”

His sire nodded, and Edouard sensed his gladness that their ambitions against the king hadn’t been revealed. “In coming days, Son, there will be a need for meetings like the one I asked you to conduct with Landon, if you are willing.”

“I am.”

A smile softened his father’s features. “Good. I regret that you and Lady de Greyne endured such appalling treatment here. I am pleased, though, that in the end, you are unharmed and all has resolved well.”

“If I may, milord,” Juliana said, her voice wavering, “Rosemary still has to be found. Azarel knows where she is. With your permission, I would like to ride to the village and bring her home.”

Shouts carried from where Veronique and Tye were surrounded, and his lordship glanced at them. Appearing satisfied that all was in order, he looked back at Juliana. “With prisoners still to be dealt with in the bailey, I cannot spare men to ready your horse and escort you on that journey. However, I will speak to Azarel about Rosemary’s whereabouts.”

Disappointment glinted in Juliana’s eyes, but she merely smiled. “Thank you, Lord de Lanceau.”

Reaching out, Edouard caught her hand. Her fingers were cool and clammy, and he wished he could take her in his arms and give her a comforting hug.

“Geoffrey,” Dominic muttered. “For God’s sake. Tell him.”

Edouard frowned. “Tell me what?”

With a polite but dismissive smile, his sire turned to Juliana. “Will you excuse us a moment, Lady de Greyne?”

“Of course.” She curtsied, then strolled in the direction of the forebuilding, where Azarel was stitching the arm of a wounded knight. The way the sunlight played upon Juliana, accenting her willowy body . . . Edouard silently groaned. He had to address the issue of his unwanted betrothal.

Looking back at his sire, he said, “What must you tell me?”

His father, expression grim, shook his head. “I fear there is no easy way to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Nara is . . . with child.”

All of the air whooshed out of Edouard’s lungs. A merciless knot formed in his stomach. “Wait a moment.” He hauled in a strangled breath. “I did not . . . Nara and I did not . . . We never—”

“I know. Dominic has confirmed you were living at his keep, fighting to protect his lands, and as celibate as a monk around the time Nara’s babe was conceived.”

A stunned chuckle broke from Edouard.

“’Tis a great dishonor,” his father went on, “for her to have betrayed you in this way.”

The odd warmth in his sire’s voice made Edouard pause. “Honor is the reason I was forced into a betrothal to her.”

“Aye. Lord de Greyne is most embarrassed about the situation and furious with Nara. As you are aware, he and I desired a blood alliance between our families. We have decided, however, she will marry the father of her babe, who is a man-at-arms in her sire’s garrison. You are no longer bound to your betrothal.”

Relief rushed up inside Edouard, breaking from him in a roar. “’Tis wondrous news!”

Raising his eyebrows, his sire said, “I am glad you are not too upset.”

Heat warmed Edouard’s face. Now was the right moment. There couldn’t be a better one to talk about Juliana. Refusing to break his sire’s perceptive stare, he said, “I ask your permission, Father—”

“Permission?” His sire’s gaze slid to Dominic.

“I wish to marry Juliana.”

“Ah. The sister that I believed might be well suited to you?”

Was that teasing mirth in his parent’s eyes? Edouard said, “Aye.”

His sire studied him a long moment. Sweat slid down Edouard’s spine. Did his father expect him to explain why? Divulge what qualities made her the right lady to be his wife? Admit that the thought of spending even one day without her left him empty inside?

“I love her,” Edouard finally said. “I want no other woman.”

“Well, you will need her father’s approval—”

“I will ask it at my first opportunity—”

“—as well, but since a betrothal between you was favored before . . .”

As well. Edouard barely held down a triumphant whoop.

“Do you agree then, Father?” He waited, holding his breath.

“I do.”

Edouard loosed an elated shout.

“With Juliana entrusted with caring for Rosemary, though, you will not just become a husband, but a father. These are great responsibilities. Are you ready for them?”

His sire spoke true. The thought of raising a babe was indeed daunting, but Juliana would teach Edouard what he needed to know. Stronger than the uncertainty niggling at him was a tremendous sense of excitement, a knowing that he’d face each day’s challenges with her. Together.

“I am ready.”

Admiration sparkled in his sire’s eyes. “You are. I am proud of you, Son.”

“As am I.” Dominic smiled.

“Waddesford Keep needs a new lord,” his sire went on, “a nobleman who knows his responsibilities. The folk here will support and no doubt welcome you, especially if you marry Juliana.”

“You mean . . .” Shock made Edouard’s head reel. “I am to be appointed lord of this keep?”

His sire grinned. “An early wedding gift. That is, if you want this fortress?”

“Aye!” He glanced to where Juliana stood beside Azarel, chatting and smiling while helping to fasten a bandage.

“Does she know you will propose marriage?” Dominic asked.

“Not yet. I feel certain, though, she wants to wed, too.”

“And you did not even have to push her into a well to convince her.”

“Dominic,” Edouard’s sire muttered, with a hint of laughter.

“Sorry. I could not resist.” Wincing as he moved, Dominic shook Edouard’s hand. “I am pleased for you. I trust you and Juliana will be very happy together.”

“Thank you.” Edouard glanced again at Juliana. Love, pride, and excitement coalesced within him like a bright fire.

Go to her. Don’t wait another moment to make her yours.

Grinning, he said, “I must speak to Juliana. Before I do, Father, may I request a favor of you?”

***

“Why have you brought me to the garden, Edouard? Azarel needs my help to tend the wounded.” Unable to quell her restlessness, Juliana glanced at the bailey. Edouard had waited for her while she’d helped Azarel care for a wounded knight, but there were many injured. She wanted to be useful, especially when she couldn’t leave for the village to get Rosemary.

Seated beside her on the stone bench beneath the tree, Edouard said, “Azarel has quite a few servants helping her. I vow she can manage without you for a few moments. And”—his tone softened—“what I must tell you is too important to wait.”

Her heart fluttered. Judging by his expression, his sire had told him something momentous, no doubt related to Nara. Juliana braced herself for unfavorable news. “Go on,” she said.

His attention fell to her hands, clenched in her lap. Turning so that his knees bumped her legs, he leaned over and took both of her hands in his. The brush of his warm skin, slightly damp with sweat, was almost more than she could bear.

“Edouard—” she pleaded.

“There is . . . something I must say. But I must say it the right way.”

Before she could try and guess his intentions, he released her hands and dropped to one knee on the grass. Light spilled through the overhead boughs onto him as he took her right hand. He suddenly looked nervous.

Her heart thundered in her breast. Mayhap she’d heard too many romantic chansons, but surely he wouldn’t be down on one knee unless . . .

Shaking his head, he set her hand back into her lap. “’Tis not right at all.”

“Edouard! What . . ?”

He reached under the bench and snapped a long blade of grass, then picked up her hand again. Lifting her ring finger, he looped the grass around it several times. Then he tied the ends to form a makeshift ring.

Her eyes filling with tears, she stared at him. “How can this be? You are betrothed to Nara.”

“Not any longer. She is with child. Not my child.” Edouard’s eyes sparkled. “Another man’s.”

Shock rushed through Juliana. “I did not know.”

“I vow ’tis not yet common knowledge. My sire informed me a short while ago. Because of the circumstances, I am no longer bound to marry Nara.”

Juliana’s indrawn breath froze in her lungs. “Really?”

“Really.” Edouard kissed the grass ring he’d made her. Then he lifted his head to meet her gaze. “Will you be my wife, Juliana?”

Joy raced through her.

“I asked my father for his permission. He agreed.” Looking at his makeshift ring, Edouard said, “’Tis not an appropriate ring for a betrothal, but if you agree . . .”

“Aye.”

His gaze flew up. “Aye . . . As in . . ?”

Turning her hand to weave her fingers through his, she said, “I will be honored to be your wife.”

He swallowed, the happiness in his features tinged with anxiety. “You must know . . . I am not asking just . . . because I am no longer betrothed to Nara.” He kissed their joined hands. “I love you, Juliana. I believe I have loved you since you told me ‘goodbye’ at Sherstowe.”

Surprise fluttered through her. “Why then?”

Grudging laughter rumbled from him. “You made me acknowledge my flaws. Because of you, I came to realize that even a wealthy lord’s son must earn respect—and his lady’s love.”

How earnestly he spoke. Yet his honest words buoyed the elation inside her. Unable to restrain her gladness any longer, she smiled. “I love you, Edouard de Lanceau, my soon-to-be husband.”

He grinned. “Soon-to-be husband and . . .”

The glint in his eyes hinted at astounding news. “And?” she echoed.

“Lord of Waddesford Keep.”

“Edouard! Oh—!”

“’Tis all right with you? I know this keep holds many ‘ghosts’ for both of us.”

“Together, we shall bring love and happiness to this castle. In Mayda’s honor. If ’tis all right with you?”

“Aye.” Edouard smiled and rose to stand before her, tall and beautiful and . . . hers.

The thought left a delicious, tingling burn in her belly as he drew her to her feet and slid his arms around her waist, drawing her in close. She fell gently against him, her bosom pressed to the front of his hauberk. Love for him soared inside her as she embraced him, washed in shadow and sunlight.

“I am glad you are happy, Lady de Greyne, my soon-to-be wife and lady of this keep.”

“I would be even happier,” she murmured, hardly recognizing her throaty voice, “if you kissed me.”

Desire gleamed in his eyes. “A kiss with meaning?” he said, his mouth tantalizingly close.

An excited shudder raced through Juliana, for he’d remembered her impassioned words from long ago.

“A kiss that proves the love between us?” he added huskily, his eyes glowing with that thrilling blue fire. A roguish grin kicked up his mouth.

“A kiss that proves we were destined to be together,” she whispered, while her breath mingled with his.

“We were,” he whispered back. His arms shifted, squeezing her hips even tighter against his.

She slid up on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

A ravenous growl broke from him. She inhaled on a gasp as his mouth swept against hers. So tenderly. As though she was extremely precious to him.

Over and over and over their lips met. Tender kisses. Rougher ones. He groaned and his tongue slid into her mouth, deepening the shocking, breathless, wondrous contact. Oh, God. Oh. God.

The burn within her intensified until every tiny part of her body seemed ablaze with hunger.

Drawing back, she shivered through a gasp. “I never imagined a kiss could be so . . . magnificent.”

Edouard winked. “Shall we indulge in another?”

A sound intruded into her bliss: footfalls, drawing near.

Still in Edouard’s embrace, Juliana looked to see who approached. Azarel strode into the garden, a baby cradled in her arms.

“Rosemary!” Juliana cried.

Smiling, Azarel nodded. “Lord de Lanceau sent one of his warriors to the village to collect her. A favor, I am told, for his son.”

“Edouard, thank you,” Juliana cried, stepping from his hold to take Rosemary into her arms. “She has grown.” The little girl warbled. Eyes wide, she stared up at Juliana.

Juliana smiled. How complete she felt. How very, very loved.

Beside her, Edouard chuckled. He slid an arm around her waist and kissed her flushed cheek. “Are you happy, Juliana?”

“I am.”

“Good. I mean to keep you happy for the rest of your living days.” He kissed her again, a slow, passionate mingling of their mouths.

“That was wonderful,” she breathed.

He growled against her ear, a low, lusty sound that told her he’d not only kiss her in that way again, but that he’d share many more sensual delights with her. “I promise you, ’tis only the beginning of my persuasion.”

—The End—

ABOUT CATHERINE KEAN

Bestselling, award-winning novelist Catherine Kean is a Kindle Unlimited All-Star author of medieval romances. Her love of history began with visits to England during summer vacations, when her British father took her to crumbling medieval castles, dusty museums filled with fascinating artifacts, and historic churches. Her love of the awe-inspiring past stuck with her as she completed a B.A.(Double Major, First Class) in English and History. She completed a year-long Post Graduate course with Sotheby’s auctioneers in London, England, and worked for several years in Canada as an antiques and fine art appraiser.

After she married a tall, handsome, and charming Brit and moved to Florida, she started writing novels, her lifelong dream. She wrote her first medieval romance, A Knight’s Vengeance, while her baby daughter was napping. Catherine’s books were originally published in paperback and several were released in Czech, German, and Thai foreign editions. She has won numerous awards for her stories, including the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence. Her novels also finaled in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards and the National Readers’ Choice Awards.

When not working on her next book, Catherine enjoys cooking, baking, browsing antique shops, shopping with her daughter, and gardening. She lives in Florida with her husband, daughter, and two spoiled rescue cats. Visit her website at http://www.catherinekean.com

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

THE MONTBRYCE LEGACY BOOK 4

ANNA MARKLAND

TITLES BY

ANNA MARKLAND

MONTBRYCE LEGACY

Conquering Passion—Ram and Mabelle, Rhodri and Rhonwen

If Love Dares Enough—Hugh and Devona, Antoine and Sybilla

Defiant Passion-Rhodri and Rhonwen

A Man of Value—Caedmon and Agneta

Dark Irish Knight—Ronan and Rhoni

Haunted Knights—Adam and Rosamunda, Denis and Paulina

Passion in the Blood—Robert and Dorianne, Baudoin and Carys

Dark and Bright—Rhys and Annalise

The Winds of the Heavens—Rhun and Glain, Rhydderch and Isolda

Dance of Love—Izzy and Farah

Carried Away—Blythe and Dieter

Sweet Taste of Love—Aidan and Nolana

Wild Viking Princess—Ragna and Reider

Hearts and Crowns—Gallien and Peridotte

Fatal Truths—Alex and Elayne

Sinful Passions—Bronson and Grace; Rodrick and Swan

VIKINGS

The Rover Bold—Bryk and Cathryn

The Rover Defiant—Torstein and Sonja

The Rover Betrayed—Magnus and Judith

NOVELLAS

Maknab’s Revenge—Ingram and Ruby

Passion’s Fire—Matthieu and Brigandine (2016)

Banished—Sigmar and Audra (2016) in Sirens of the Northern Seas

CALEDONIA CHRONICLES

Book I Pride of the Clan—Rheade and Margaret

Book II Highland Tides—Braden and Charlotte

Book 2.5 Highland Dawn—Keith and Aurora (a Kindle Worlds book)

Book III Roses Among the Heather—Blair & Susanna, Craig & Timothea

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER ONE

Ellesmere, England

August 2nd 1100

Robert de Montbryce had never seen his brother so animated. Though born and raised together in Ellesmere Castle in England, he and Baudoin saw each other infrequently. Robert now lived in Normandie, having assumed responsibility, as the eldest son, for the ancestral castle at Montbryce. He loved Normandie. Montbryce Castle was where he belonged, but he enjoyed visiting his parents in England. He missed his family.

Robert had to admit his brother had grown up in his shadow, but Baudoin’s calm exterior belied his deeply held convictions. Robert could certainly see that passion now.

They were often mistaken for twins. As the only male offspring, the onus on them to provide heirs to carry on the Montbryce name was heavy, and they were reminded of it more and more frequently nowadays. Robert had never been in love, but he suspected Baudoin was enamored with Carys, the castle’s Welsh healer. He chuckled inwardly at the thought of the hornet’s nest that might unleash. The Earl of Ellesmere’s son in love with the daughter of the Earl’s nemesis, Welsh rebel chieftain Rhodri ap Owain! He would not want to be in Baudoin’s boots when their parents found out!

Most noblemen of his acquaintance would scoff at the idea of loving their wives, but Robert wanted what his parents had—a deep, passionate love.

He sometimes despaired of ever finding a lifemate, a woman who would make a good Comtesse when he inherited his father’s Norman title, especially now, given the volatile political situation in Normandie.

This was the topic that had Baudoin holding forth animatedly as they relaxed in the Hall after a heavy midday meal. The air was still redolent with the aroma of spit-roasted venison. Their parents had left for their solar as soon as they had finished eating, making an excuse. Did they believe their children were fooled? They knew full well Ram and Mabelle de Montbryce would wile away the afternoon in their chamber. Their passion had never waned over thirty years.

Rhoni and her husband Ronan, visiting from Ireland, had shared her brothers’ amusement and then gone off to their solar.

Robert chuckled. “Rhoni laughs with us, but she and Ronan cannot keep their hands off each other either.”

Baudoin startled him by banging his fist on the wooden table. “Papa is right. We’d be much better off with one ruler for Normandie and England. Serving two masters is intolerable, like walking a tightrope. What’s the sentiment in Normandie?”

Things said within the confines of Ellesmere might be considered treason by many, but Montbryces never betrayed each other. Family loyalty was paramount. Though they could hear the distant chatter of servants in the kitchens, Robert felt comfortable they were too far away to overhear. “Most of the Norman barons favor Curthose.”

Baudoin snorted. “Ah! Your namesake! The misbegotten Duke of the Normans for the past thirteen years. They’re afraid he’ll confiscate their lands if they don’t support him.”

Robert had been slouching in his chair, legs outstretched. Now he tensed and sat up. “Listen, I don’t support him because I was named for him. We in Normandie have to be mindful he has the power to take our lands.”

Baudoin nodded his understanding. “You’re right, but most Norman barons own lands in England as well, and here we have to please King William Rufus.”

Robert threw up his hands. “Who knows what the Conqueror had in mind when he divided up his empire the way he did? Normandie for Curthose, England for Rufus and gold for the scholarly Henry, who’ll no doubt be a bishop one day. If only they could get along as a family, like the Montbryces!”

Baudoin slapped his thigh and laughed at his brother’s jest. “Oui. At least you and I have never emptied chamberpots on each other’s head!”

They enjoyed the humor, remembering their parents’ disgust when news of the royal prank had reached Ellesmere years ago. Their laughter died when their father unexpectedly entered the Hall, clad only in his bed robe, his face ashen. Steward Bonhomme accompanied him, jaw clenched.

Robert and Baudoin came to their feet immediately. Both spoke at once. “What’s amiss, Papa?”

Ram clutched a parchment which he thrust at Robert. “The King is dead.”

Baudoin read the message over his brother’s shoulder. His face betrayed his shock. “William Rufus?”

Robert gasped and made the Sign of the Cross. “I can’t believe this.”

Their father swore. “Believe it! As you see, he was killed yesterday in a hunting accident in the New Forest. Your mother and I were—well, never mind. Steward Bonhomme brought the message to me as soon as it arrived. The rider insisted we get the news immediately. Since he was from the court—”

He cinched his bed robe more tightly and sat down wearily in a chair near the hearth, rubbing his knees.

Robert rolled the parchment and gave it back to his father. “We should go to the Map Room to discuss this. Too many people come in and out of here. We need to make some decisions.”

Baudoin strode to the door. “I’ll fetch Rhoni and Ronan.”

Bonhomme held up his hand. “I can see to that, milord Baudoin.”

~~~

For as long as he lived Ram, Comte de Montbryce and Earl of Ellesmere, would remember that when news of the cataclysmic event was brought to him he was making sweet love with his beautiful wife, Mabelle. They had enjoyed each other for more than thirty years, and the passion and love they shared had never diminished. Rheumatism slowed him down a bit these days, but they still experienced dizzying heights of rapture when they lay together, their bodies joined in bliss.

They were spending the later years of their lives in Ellesmere, the comfortable castle they had built together, and had fallen into the habit of wiling away pleasant afternoons playing with each other’s bodies. It was one of these passion filled trysts that had been rudely interrupted by loud insistent banging on the outer door of their chambers.

“A moment!” Ram had risen reluctantly from his bed and donned his robe, hoping it might adequately conceal his erection. “Wait for me”, he had whispered to Mabelle, inhaling the scent of her. “This will take but a few minutes, I hope.”

She had smiled and curled up in the linens. “Don’t be long.”

Ram’s hopes were cruelly dashed when he read the terse message handed to him by his steward. He had gone immediately to find his sons without bothering to dress.

As they made their way now to the Map Room, his mind was in turmoil. His thoughts went back to the first time he had seen this castle, a reward granted him by William the Conqueror in the year of our Lord One Thousand and Sixty-Six, thirty and four years before.

He had fallen to his knees in dismay at the dilapidated condition of the crude Saxon earthwork. It had taken him and his family the intervening years to build the castle and the town and its environs into a prosperous and vibrant community. He was proud of his achievement.

He recalled happy scenes of Robert, Baudoin and Hylda Rhonwen growing up there, and the bitter memory of the lonely torture of his months-long separation from his family, kidnapped by the notorious Welsh rebel Rhodri ap Owain. How elated they had been to return home after their ransom.

Now, here was a danger that might destroy everything his family had worked for. They could lose everything in England and Normandie. He again sought the chair nearest the hearth. “I’ve never had any great love for Rufus, as you know, but this could jeopardise Ellesmere, and your earldom, Baudoin.”

The color drained from Baudoin’s face.

“Your inheritance in Normandie may also be at risk, Robert.”

Both sons stood in silence, contemplating the notion of the unthinkable possibility of losing Montbryce.

Robert spoke first. “I need to get back to Normandie. I’ll get a message to them when we leave here. Once we’ve made some decisions.”

Ram rubbed his knees. “I didn’t support Rufus as the third son of the Conqueror when he first came to the English throne, believing the eldest son, Curthose, should inherit. But the news of his sudden death means trouble ahead. Curthose and Henry will both want the throne of England.”

Baudoin joined his father by the hearth and sat with his forearms on his thighs, gazing into the flames. “William Rufus ruled by bad faith and brutality rather than by skill and diplomacy. But his death brings to the fore again the underlying problem for Anglo-Normans—we have a ruler over our lands in Normandie, Duke Curthose, and a ruler in England, King William Rufus, which has resulted in Normans serving two masters. Robert and I were just now discussing that very problem.”

Ram stood, flexing his knees. “Exactement! You have described the problem exactly. What I and others have tried and failed to achieve over the years is one ruler for both, otherwise there’s too much instability.”

Baudoin sank back into his chair. “When Duke Robert decided to raise a Crusading army and virtually pawned Normandie to William Rufus for ten thousand marks, it defused the problem for a while, but now he’s on his way back from the Crusade, a richer man.”

They were silent for a while before Ram spoke again. “The King’s death will leave the Anglo-Norman nobility in a position of having to choose whom to support. I chose the wrong side before in supporting Curthose, and almost fell out of favor. He failed then to come to England to rally his supporters, and I switched my allegiance in the nick of time and held on to our lands and titles.”

Baudoin stood. “We’ll have to make some decisions. I’ll get a message to Caedmon at Shelfhoc Hall, asking him to come as soon as possible. It’s fortuitous he’s in Ruyton and not at home in Northumbria.”

Ram was proud to see his youngest son act decisively and thankful his sons had been accepting of their half-brother, Caedmon, Ram’s illegitimate son. “You’re right. Henry will move quickly to be crowned.”

~~~

When Ram did not return to their tryst, Mabelle knew it must be a matter of importance. She dressed and went in search of him, bumping into Baudoin as he hastened from the Map Room.

“What’s happened?” she asked, a sense of foreboding washing over her when she saw Ram’s harried expression.

He rose and motioned her to sit by the fire. “King William Rufus is dead. He was accidentally shot. He might have survived had he not fallen from his horse and impaled the arrow more deeply.”

She made the Sign of the Cross. “May God have mercy on him,” she whispered. “He didn’t have a chance to confess his sins. What will happen now?”

Ram exhaled. “Henry will claim the throne, but so will Curthose. Interestingly enough, according to the message I received, Henry was also in the New Forest yesterday and became aware of what had happened immediately, giving him a head start. No doubt he’s already been to Winchester to take over the Treasury.”

“Who shot the King?” Mabelle asked, sure whoever it was must be a dead man by now.

Ram snorted. “This is where it gets interesting. Tirel of Poix. Again this is according to the message. The same Tirel who is well known as one of England’s best bowmen. He rarely misses a shot.”

The implications for her family suddenly struck Mabelle. “What must we do now?”

Robert answered. “Baudoin is arranging for a messenger to Caedmon and Agneta.”

Mabelle looked at her husband and smiled. Of course he would want to make sure his illegitimate son was protected, and part of the plan of action.

Ram was blunt. “We must gather information in the next few days and decide which claimant we’ll support. Our lives and all we hold dear may depend on the correct choice.”

He turned to greet his son as he re-entered the room. “Baudoin, contact our man at Court. We need to know what’s happening, what’s rumor and what’s fact.”

“Already done, mon père,” Baudoin replied. “And Rhoni and Ronan are on their way.”

Mabelle and Ram exchanged a look of pride in their youngest son as their daughter Rhoni and her Irish husband came hurriedly into the room.

Mabelle clasped Rhoni’s hands and gave a reassuring squeeze. She looked fondly at the young woman, always amused at her insistence on Rhoni, instead of Hylda Rhonwen. Mabelle had wanted to honor her late mother, Hylda—a woman she barely remembered. As long as Rhonwen was aware Mabelle’s daughter had been named for her—that was the important thing.

Her gaze moved to her two handsome sons—Robert, the future Comte de Montbryce, and Baudoin, who had already taken over a great deal of the responsibility of Ellesmere. Then she looked sadly at Ram. Though they had spent most of their lives in England, their hearts lay in Normandie, at the castle de Montbryce where Ram had grown up. Now a lifetime of sacrifice and devotion to the furtherance of Norman interests in England could be put in jeopardy by the death of King William Rufus.

~~~

After days of terrible uncertainty, Mabelle entered the Map Room where she found Ram, Baudoin, and Caedmon, newly arrived from Ruyton. Her men were enjoying a tankard of ale. Robert and Rhoni’s husband had already left for Normandie, Ronan insisting his wife remain in England.

She embraced Caedmon, kissing him on each cheek. “It’s fortunate you and your family were visiting your mother instead of at home in Northumbria. Whenever I see you three handsome men together, I’m always taken aback at how alike you are. How is Agneta with this latest pregnancy, Caedmon?”

“She’s well,” he replied with a smile. “Though she wasn’t happy about my leaving her and my mother with three children, and Edwin only two years old.”

Mabelle shook her head. “I can’t believe it. It seems only yesterday Agneta birthed your twins here in Ellesmere.”

Caedmon reddened, still regretful he had been off on the Crusade when his twins, Blythe and Aidan had been born.

Mabelle gave him a reassuring smile. “Do we know yet what’s happening?” she asked.

Caedmon FitzRam returned the smile. He admired his step mother. Despite being a woman, she had always taken an active role in matters affecting her family’s future, and his father valued her opinions. Ram was fond of telling people he was that most unusual of things, a nobleman in love with his intelligent wife.

It had not always been thus. His father had confided in him that when he and Mabelle first met they had clashed frequently, Ram firm in the belief women should be seen and not heard. But the long separation of the kidnapping had convinced them it was their destiny to be together, to enjoy an all-conquering passion.

Baudoin answered his mother’s query after wiping his hand across his mouth, savoring the dark ale. “According to our contacts at Court, the king was eating while making preparations for the hunt. He was laughing and jesting and pulling on his boots when a smith arrived and offered him six arrows. He took them eagerly, praising the workmanship. He kept four and gave two to Walter Tirel. Ironically he told his fellow hunters it was only fitting the sharpest arrows should be given to the man who was the deadliest shot.”

Mabelle sat down in the chair next to Ram’s. “What happened then?”

“They galloped off into the woods. Tirel and the king were stationed with a few companions, on the alert, waiting for their prey, their weapons ready. A beast suddenly ran between them. The king drew back from his place, and Tirel let fly an arrow. It struck the king, who fell from his horse, driving the arrow deeper.”

Mabelle’s hands went to her mouth. “What’s become of Tirel?”

Baudoin shrugged. “According to one rumor, he denies firing the shot. According to another he was not in that part of the forest, and yet another says he was not in the forest at all. There was apparently much confusion after the event and no one is sure what happened.”

Mabelle shook her head. “I can imagine. What have they done with the body?”

Her son completed the tale. “It’s said he was loaded on to a cart and taken to the cathedral at Winchester where his body was committed to the ground within the tower.”

His father took up the story, running a hand through his hair. “Rufus won’t be missed by the people. Everything hateful to God and to righteous men was the daily practice during his reign. But that doesn’t solve our problem.

“Henry was crowned at Westminster two days ago. He’s issued a Charter of Liberties promising good government. Many of the supporters of William Rufus will support him. Curthose is back from the Crusades and is laying plans to invade England. If we know as much, you can be sure Henry does too and will prepare.”

He paused for several minutes, staring into his tankard. Then, in a solemn tone, he announced, “I hope I’ve made the right decision for this family.”

All eyes turned to him. “I told the others before they left for Normandie, I’ve decided we’ll support Henry. I believe he’ll be the better monarch in the long term. Curthose has failed his supporters time and again. It’s crucial Robert prepare for war. He’s not happy with my decision. You know, Caedmon, your brother was named for the Conqueror’s son, and he’s more inclined to support his Duke, his namesake.”

“I know, mon père,” Caedmon answered, always surprised he could comfortably call Ram his father after the disastrous beginning of their relationship when Caedmon had refused to accept he was the son of a Norman. He had grown up believing he was the son of a Saxon war hero killed at Hastings. Full of self loathing when he discovered the truth, he had abandoned his wife Agneta and gone off on the People’s Crusade. His dire experiences during the Crusade had convinced him beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing good comes from hatred and vengeance.

Ram cleared his throat, and drank the last of his ale. He put the empty tankard down on the table. “Now, Caedmon, we must speak of the risks to you and your family of my decision. The threat to Montbryce lands here in England is slight. We could lose Ellesmere in the event Henry doesn’t win, but I doubt it. Curthose will recognise my past loyalty to him, and to Normandie, and also the importance of keeping a strong proven presence here in the Marches.”

Baudoin smirked. “He’d be hard pressed to control this region without our help.”

Ram chuckled. “Quite so. Rhodri ap Owain would recommence his raids in this area if we weren’t here. Your ancestral estate at Shelfhoc should be safe, Caedmon, as well as the three lucrative Sussex manors I’ve already transferred to you. However, any English lands I’ve willed to you may be forfeit if Curthose succeeds. Kirkthwaite Hall is your wife’s inheritance, and as such is safe.

“The most important thing is to secure the Montbryce lands in Normandie. Robert will strengthen the castle itself. Ronan will garrison Alensonne. My brothers, Hugh and Antoine, and their sons, will fortify Belisle and Domfort. I wish Robert would get on with finding a wife who will bring him strong allies. We may need them.”

Caedmon braced his legs and squared his shoulders. “You are my liege lord, Father, and I’ll serve you whatever your decision,” he replied, rejoicing in his heart he already had a beautiful wife who loved him despite his shortcomings. He hoped his half brother would find a woman he loved, and not have to marry for the sake of an alliance.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWO

Giroux Castle, Normandie

Dorianne de Giroux had grown up in the bosom of a family filled with hatred and the desire for vengeance. Before she was born, her late grandfather had been blinded and mutilated by another baron, Guillaume de Valtesse, after a bitter argument over territory.

Sitting with her father and brother in the gallery, she concentrated on her embroidery, but once again, her father, François, wanted to relive the nightmare.

“Your grandfather sank into madness after his blinding and made life a living hell for his sons, Phillippe, Georges, and me. Yet it was we who had captured the Valtesse castle at Alensonne in retaliation. With the help of Valtesse’s bastard, Arnulf, we cast Guillaume out and exiled him, along with his daughter, Mabelle. Curses on fate that Arnulf would die and Valtesse regain his castle.”

Dorianne had heard this story a thousand times and knew what came next. Her uncle Phillippe had been consumed with hatred for the Valtesse family. He had gone to England and plotted against Mabelle’s husband, the Comte de Montbryce. News had eventually reached them Phillippe had been killed in Wales.

“Papa,” she ventured. “Can we not talk of other things?”

François glared at her as if she was speaking Greek and then carried on. “I’m not a violent man, but I can never forget the torments I suffered at the hands of my mad father.”

It worried Dorianne that her older brother, Pierre, seemed to hang on their father’s every word, encouraging his preoccupation. “Well, Papa, you almost had one of the Montbryces convicted of adultery by the King’s court in Caen.”

François smirked. “Much good that did. The Montbryces were in the Conqueror’s pocket. Had I succeeded in getting Hugh de Montbryce condemned, Phillippe might never have embarked on his plan to aid the Welsh kidnappers who captured Rambaud de Montbryce’s wife and her brats.”

Her father rarely showed affection for his children, and she had looked to Pierre for love and kindness. Their mother loved them, but she was a timid woman who wilted under the gaze of her husband and did his bidding in all things. Elenor now sat with her head bowed, as she did every evening, immersed in her sewing, contributing nothing to the conversation.

Dorianne dreaded the day her father would find her a husband. Having led a secluded existence in the Giroux castle, she had no friends, only her brother. A year older than she, Pierre was allowed more freedom and often travelled with their father through their lands or to other barons’ demesnes.

She harangued her brother for details of his travels upon his return, anxious to hear about the outside world. Pierre trained with the men-at-arms of the castle, and Dorianne often stole up to the parapets to watch secretly as the men practised their skills. Her Maman and Papa would be horrified if they were aware she’d seen men bared to the waist, sweating.

Young noblewomen of eighteen were not supposed to know of such things.

Sometimes seigneurs from neighboring lands would visit, often bringing their sons. This was part of the game to get her a husband, but none of the young men took her fancy. However, she would have no say in the matter. Her father was already irritated she was past the age when most young noblewomen married. The only family her father would never betroth her to was that of the Comte de Montbryce, their hated enemy, whose lands were but a day’s ride away.

~~~

A few days later, her father took her by surprise at supper in the Hall. “Dorianne, two days hence you’ll accompany Pierre and me to the castle of the Comte d’Avranches.”

“Two days?” she parroted, stunned she was being allowed to leave the castle, but suspecting more would be revealed and that it would concern a betrothal. She waited, noticing Pierre’s nod of approval.

She grew more apprehensive and toyed with her food, watching her father chew leisurely on a chicken leg and then take a long swig of ale. Noisily sucking food out of his teeth, he confirmed, “We’ll meet with the Comte to discuss your betrothal to his son, Otuel d’Avranches. He maybe a bastard son, but your marriage to him will bring us strong allies in the coming war with Henry of England. The Comte plans to host a Grand Council to discuss the political situation, and we’ll be his guests. It’s a perfect opportunity for them to meet my beautiful daughter.”

Her eyes widened. This might turn out to be a good thing, but a bastard? Encouraged by her father’s unusual warmth, she ventured to ask, “What’s the Comte’s son like?”

He cast her an indignant look. “I know not, daughter, I haven’t met him. He’s never attended any of the tournaments. He’s but a boy of ten.”

Her heart plummeted. “Ten! But father—”

Her father held up his hands. “Enough of this, Dorianne. He’s a d’Avranches. That’s the important thing.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts, slid down in her chair and sulked for a while, then something else her father had said came to mind. “Coming war? There’s to be a war?”

Pierre looked at her as though she was stupid. “Don’t you know anything? There’ll be war over the throne of England.”

She gritted her teeth and hissed back at him. “How am I supposed to know what’s going on when I’m a prisoner here?”

Her father got up and left. Elenor packed up her sewing and dutifully followed him, venturing a strange smile at her daughter. Dorianne slumped back into her chair.

“What’s wrong with you?” Pierre asked belligerently.

Dorianne was not sure that sharing her feelings with him was a good idea. “In my wildest imaginings of my future husband I never dreamt he’d be a boy much younger than me.”

Pierre shrugged as he came to his feet. “Dori, it’s father’s decision. You’ll have to make the best of it. Be grateful he’s not sending you to a nunnery.”

Dorianne sat bolt upright. “Why would he do that?”

Pierre left without another word, whistling. The future did not look promising.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER THREE

Robert de Montbryce was deeply uncomfortable with his father’s decision to support King Henry in the battle for control of Normandie. As a loyal Norman he felt they should fight for his namesake, Duke Robert Curthose. The now dead William Rufus and Curthose had made an agreement naming each other heir presumptive. Henry had usurped the throne as far as Robert was concerned. He needed to know the allegiances of the other noble families in Normandie. Who would fight on which side?

He had received an invitation to the Grand Council being summoned by the Comte d’Avranches, a Marcher Lord like his father. He told Steward Bonhomme, “This Grand Council will be an excellent chance to sound out the other families, most of whom also have lands in England. My uncles Antoine and Hugh will attend to represent the family’s other holdings and it will be an opportunity to formulate a unified plan for the Montbryce lands. I expect at least some of my cousins will be there too.”

Bonhomme made the preparations and Robert completed the two day ride with his knights to Avranches. He was welcomed warmly by the Comte who had grown so fat he walked with the aid of the heavy staff now leaning against the massive chair in which he sat.

“How is my old friend, the Earl of Ellesmere?” d’Avranches asked. “I haven’t seen him for a while. I hear good things concerning his area of the Marches though. Your father seems to have solved many of the problems of the Welsh there. My earldom is still plagued by those infernal rebels, Rhun and Rhydderch ap Rhodri.”

Robert’s chest swelled at the well-deserved praise for his father. He smiled inwardly, privy to information about Rhodri ap Owain and his family d’Avranches did not know. Though the troubles with the Welsh were still ongoing in the border Marches, his father’s holdings had been relatively free of trouble after the marriage of the rebellious Rhodri and Rhonwen, who was like a daughter to his mother, Mabelle.

Robert’s own sister, Rhoni, had been born in the Welsh chieftain’s fortress during their captivity. Though a child at the time of the kidnapping, Robert had taken a liking to the fearsome Welshman who had taught him how to fight and defend himself, and, more importantly, how to ride a Welsh mountain pony.

But he shared none of this with d’Avranches. “He’s well, milord, apart from his rheumatism. He and my mother are both well.”

D’Avranches slapped him on the back. “And I suppose your mother is as beautiful as ever?”

“She is,” Robert answered with a grin.

The Comte had not removed his arm from Robert’s shoulders. “Your uncles and cousins arrived earlier. Your chambers are satisfactory?”

Robert was aware he had been allotted one of the better chambers this magnificent castle had to offer. “Excellent. Merci.”

The Comte smiled. “Tonight we’ll hold a feast in the Great Hall to welcome everyone. I look forward to seeing you there, my boy,” he said warmly. “We may have a keg or two of the wonderful apple brandy you Montbryces are famous for!”

“Then I won’t fail to be there, milord.”

~~~

Dorianne relished the journey to the castle at Avranches. She was a caged bird set free. She rejoiced in the beauty of the great forests, listened to the chirping of birds, craned her neck to catch a glimpse of them in the trees. She heard the distant voices of laborers in the green fields they traversed.

At home she was allowed to ride with a chaperone, if she was within sight of the castle. Now she savored the movement of the mare beneath her as the animal too seemed to enjoy the freedom of the open road.

They had been on their way almost a day when her father became agitated. Far off to the west she could see an imposing castle, built on a promontory, flanked by apple orchards.

“Whose castle is that, mon père?” she asked innocently

“Montbryce!” her father spat the name.

They continued their journey in silence. Dorianne was drawn to look back at the impressive edifice again as they rode away from it, but dared not, fearing her father’s wrath.

When they arrived at Avranches they were greeted civilly, shown to their chambers and informed of the evening’s festivities. It was the first time Dorianne had slept in a chamber other than her own. She went to the window and inhaled the smell of the sea, wishing she had been worthy of a chamber on the side facing it. It would have been a splendid adventure, were she not preoccupied with the unpleasant idea of marriage to a ten year old boy.

A maid was assigned to her. Why not try to discover something of Otuel d’Avranches? While the girl combed her hair, she remarked casually, “I’m anxious to meet the Comte’s son.”

The maid eyed her strangely. “Which one, milady?”

Dorianne cleared her throat, trying not to let her voice betray her emotions. “Otuel.”

The maid faltered in her combing, then recovered and shrugged. “The bastard? He’s a boy.”

Dorianne waited, fiddling with a ribbon. “What kind of boy?”

She winced as the maid pulled her hair tightly into the braid. “Otuel d’Avranches is a boy with older sisters who tease him mercilessly. He hates girls.”

This was not good news and Dorianne’s dismay deepened as the maid finished her tasks in silence. She dismissed the girl once she was ready, pleased with her dress of maroon red velvet. It showed off her slender figure, with the right amount of décolletage for a young maiden. The wimple was short enough that an appropriate glimpse of her dark braid could be seen. But her joy was fleeting.  These things were of no importance. She was to be married to a child.

She sat on the bed waiting for her father and brother to collect her, determined to speak to her father about the betrothal. She became aware she was biting her nails.

Stop that!

When the men arrived, François de Giroux was indignant they had not been given a warmer welcome. “We’re not one of the great Norman families, and we’ve had our troubles in the past, but d’Avranches could at least have had his son there to greet us. We’re supposed to be discussing a betrothal.”

“Papa, he’s probably more preoccupied at the moment with the Grand Council,” Pierre offered. “Perhaps Dorianne will have a chance to meet the Comte’s son in the Hall during the feast? I believe my sister is ready. We should go. We don’t want to be late.”

When they came to the door of the Hall, d’Avranches greeted them. A pouting, pudgy boy stood at the side of the Comte’s chair, fidgeting. “Ah, Giroux. Welcome. You’ve brought your son and your beautiful daughter.”

François affected a bow. “Oui, milord d’Avranches, may I present to you my son, Pierre, and my daughter, Dorianne,” he said, pushing his daughter forward. She curtseyed as she had been shown to do a thousand times by her mother.

“Welcome to you all,” the Comte went on, taking Dorianne’s hand. “And I present to you my son, Otuel.”

He transferred her hand into that of the fat child. She curtseyed to the scowling lad. His hand was sweaty and he barely came up to her shoulders, his eyes on a level with her breasts. For some reason this struck her as amusing and she tittered.

Otuel glowered, his lips tightly drawn. Her father was clearly not pleased with her behavior. The Comte seemed not to have noticed anything amiss. He turned to greet other arrivals, passing them off to the steward for seating.

The cavernous Hall was crowded, filled with loud conversation and laughter, the air redolent with appetizing aromas. Embroidered banners wafted high in the beams. Tapestries warmed the white walls.

François was unhappy about where they were seated. “We should be closer to the salt.”

Dorianne rolled her eyes and under her breath said to Pierre, “Why can’t he enjoy the experience? This is wondrous.”

Pierre gave her a look similar to the one she had received from Otuel d’Avranches. “Respect is important, Dori. Remember that.”

He strode off, tagging behind her father who was evidently intent on engaging some other baron in conversation. She fidgeted with her wimple for a few minutes, then tucked her hands under her thighs. She risked a glance around the Hall, eyeing the nobles and ladies in their finery. She had never seen such a gathering and felt conspicuously alone at the table.

What had become of her father and brother? She glanced over to one of the entrances. Her mouth fell open. A tall knight stood there, easily the most striking man in the whole assembly. His handsome face was gentle, and his lively eyes searched the chamber. His long dark hair, tanned complexion and self-assured stance bespoke a man it would not be wise to challenge. Various people greeted him and he acknowledged each with a nod. He was the epitome of everything she had ever dreamed of in a handsome knight.

Beside him, striking a similar pose, stood a dwarf. The contrast in height between the two might cause many to smile, yet the diminutive man exuded the same vitality, the same aura of power. He pointed to someone in the Hall and spoke to his companion.

Dorianne looked back at the tall man and her heart missed a beat. His gaze bore into her. She could not look away, suddenly unable to breathe. His sensuous lips curled into a smile, and he moved his hips slightly. His eyes widened and she dragged her gaze away to stare at the table, a chill sweeping across her nape.

What are you thinking? Such men aren’t interested in girls like you.

She fidgeted with the edge of her wimple, startling when someone stayed her hand.

“Demoiselle?”

Dorianne looked up into ice blue eyes. She felt the heat of his hand, and struggled to her feet, longing, for some inexplicable reason, to place his warm hand on her breast. Pray God she had not bitten her nails so badly they were rough on his skin. She felt flushed. His masculine beauty took her breath away. Wetness pooled between her legs. What was wrong with her? Had the journey made her ill?

“Milord,” she managed to say, but further speech eluded her. She could not take her eyes off his thick black hair.

The knight kissed the hand he held. “You are a beautiful woman, ma chère,” he drawled. “I haven’t seen you before.”

His deep voice echoed through her bones. He had called her a woman. “Non, milord,” she said, finding her voice. “It’s the first time my father has allowed me to leave our castle.”

He laughed. “I’m glad of that. Such treasures shouldn’t be hidden away. You’re a ray of sunshine in this place. Permit me to introduce myself, I am Robert de—”

“Montbryce!” It was her father, rushing across the room, Pierre in tow, shouting at the top of his voice and glowering at the man who held her hand, his own on the hilt of his half-drawn sword. “Take your hands off my daughter.”

Dieu, he’s a Montbryce.

It was as if the oaken beams had crashed down on her head.

~~~

When he entered the Hall with his half cousin, Denis de Sancerre in search of his uncles and their sons, Robert de Montbryce’s attention was drawn to a lovely young woman in a red dress seated at a trestle table. His shaft reacted pleasantly. The end of her dark braid peeking out from beneath the wimple added to her uncommon beauty. Who was she?

She blushed when she noticed him staring at her, obviously uncomfortable sitting alone amid the noise and hubbub. He went over to take her hand and introduce himself. After all, his parents insisted he find a wife. This girl certainly had no trouble arousing his sexual interest, though she was probably too young for him.

Her innocent beauty and shy response took him unawares. He licked his lips, wishing he could swirl his tongue over her enticing breasts. The girl enthralled him with her hazel eyes. Touching her hand sent the blood rushing to his groin and he toyed with the notion of sucking her fingers into his mouth. He uttered inanities like a lovesick fool until the strident voice threatening him broke the spell.

Now, he let go of the hand he held and backed away, unsure of what was happening. He then recognized the irate man as François de Giroux. He had only seen him once before, but his likeness to his brother Phillippe was unmistakable. It was Phillippe who had intended to behead Robert during the Montbryce family’s captivity in Wales. It was a face Robert would never forget. The heat he had felt moments ago turned to ice in his veins. The beauty was a Giroux.

A curious crowd had gathered. Robert executed a clipped bow and was about to stride away when he noticed the angry expression François de Giroux fixed on his daughter. He looked directly into the baron’s eyes. “Don’t blame the girl, Giroux. I didn’t know who she was, and she didn’t know me,” he said coldly. “It was a mistake, not to be repeated.”

He glanced back to the young woman, whose eyes had filled with tears, bowed and said, “I humbly beg your pardon, Mistress de Giroux. I am Robert de Montbryce. I sought only to comfort you in your loneliness.”

~~~

He walked away and Dorianne’s heart broke. She had fallen in love at first sight with a Montbryce.

The remainder of the evening passed as a blur. She was aware of where the man who had beguiled her was seated—much closer to the salt than they were—but dared not look at him for fear of upsetting her father. He and Pierre glared at Montbryce. When she was able to steal a glance, she saw he was enjoying the company of two older men who resembled him, both of whom kept glaring back at her father. Soon three younger men joined them, one of them the dwarf.

Will I ever see him again? Is he watching me?

Pierre was upset with her. “What were you thinking, Dori?” he chided.

This censure exasperated her. “You shouldn’t have gone off and left me alone. I didn’t know who he was. How could either of us have known who the other was?”

Her brother gave her a menacing look. “Be more careful in future,” he warned.

Pierre sounded too much like her father. She’d intended to enlist his aid in convincing her sire not to wed her to the scowling child, but now it seemed her only friend had turned against her. Hatred was a destructive force. She felt no hatred for the tall, ruggedly built knight with the dark hair and blue eyes, even when she discovered who he was. She hoped he did not feel hatred for her, though it was of no consequence. She would never be allowed to see him again.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER FOUR

Emotions ran high among the noble families of Normandie as conflict loomed between the two surviving sons of William the Conqueror. A great deal of land and power was at stake. Discussions in the Grand Council dragged on as they weighed the merits of supporting each royal claimant to the throne of England. Some favored Curthose, some Henry.

After listening to the wrangling for several hours, Robert decided to enter the fray. No matter his own views, his father was his liege lord and his uncles would support his father’s decision. He indicated to d’Avranches he wished to address the assembly and was given leave.

He stood. “Mes seigneurs, I would share with you the position taken by my father. You all know him as Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere, a hero who fought with the Conqueror at Hastings, a strong supporter of the Dukes of Normandie, and a great Norman.”

He heard a snort of derision he suspected came from François de Giroux, but chose to ignore it. Everyone else nodded in acknowledgment.

“My father was rewarded by the Conqueror with the Earldom of Ellesmere in England, and, as you know, it’s been his life’s work to ensure the Conqueror’s legacy lives on in that country. There is no question as to his loyalty to Normandie.”

He paused, studying the faces before he continued. “He has supported Curthose in the past, only to find him lacking.”

He waited again, seeing many nodding heads and hearing murmurs of agreement. “Therefore, it’s the opinion of Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce and Earl of Ellesmere, that Henry is the person who will be a better monarch for the combined kingdom of England and Normandie. We can’t go on serving two masters.”

His announcement was greeted with a mixture of murmurs, nods, cheers, stares, thoughtful expressions and scowls. He hoped his father’s decision would sway some Curthose loyalists.

The argument raged on well into the afternoon. The chamber was rank with the odor of too many agitated men. Robert had to get out for a few moments of fresh air. He had not slept well the night before, his dreams filled with visions of a beautiful girl with raven hair and hazel eyes naked beneath him, writhing with pleasure, calling his name.

He decided to sneak into the kitchens in search of some leftover morsel he could chew on to calm his frayed nerves, maybe an apple. He made a point of making himself known to the cooks in any castle he visited, and never failed to be rewarded.

As soon as he entered the hot, smoky kitchen he caught sight of the Giroux girl speaking with one of the cooks. Both women looked up. The cook smiled in recognition. Dorianne’s eyes widened and she stole a glance at the door as he approached her, but he was too fast and caught her by the wrist.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, drawing her to him and into the shadows behind the hearth, reassuring the cook with a wink and a smile. “I may be a Montbryce, but I won’t harm you. I’ve been unable to get you out of my thoughts since we met. What’s your name?”

“Dori—Dorianne,” she faltered. “Milord, please let me go—my father—”

“Dorianne,” he murmured, savoring her name. His body had responded as soon as he had seen her. Desire flared in his loins. He leaned back against the warm chimney and pulled her closer, pressing her against his need. “Mistress Dorianne, you inflame me.”

He brushed his lips over hers, then pressed his tongue lightly against them. She resisted and her eyes widened, but then she opened to him. Her reaction and the intensity of his own desire stunned him. He had to have this woman, but not here in the kitchens.

“Dorianne, I want to see you again,” he rasped. “I’ll come to you.”

She shook her head and pulled away. “Non, Milord, my father will kill you. There’s nothing but enmity between our families.”

He held her firmly, both hands on her waist. “My name is Robert, and I’ve learned hatred and enmity lead nowhere except to more hatred and enmity. It’s time to put a stop to something my grandfather and yours began. Why should we allow our lives to be poisoned by their actions? I could be as full of hate if I wished to be, Dorianne. Your uncle Phillippe plotted to murder my father, poison my mother and decapitate me when I was four years old. But my parents have shown me forgiveness is a better path to follow. Can you follow it with me?”

What would his parents’ reaction be if he told them he had fallen in love with a Giroux? If this was love. Could he have stumbled upon that elusive thing his parents had, an all-consuming, passionate love?

By the saints, why did she have to be a Giroux?

Dorianne stared at him, her mouth open. “Decapitate you? My uncle?”

He took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. He longed to tear off her wimple and loosen her braid. “I know more of it than you suspect,” she whispered, “but I didn’t know my uncle had tried to kill a child.”

They stood locked in each other’s embrace for long minutes. Achingly aware they shared a history that could destroy them both, he put his hands on her shoulders and held her away. “I won’t let the past interfere with our future,” he whispered.

She looked him in the eye. “Neither will I.”

He wanted to strip off her clothes, press her against the warmth of the chimney and make love to her. He kissed her again, but not as deeply. “Go now. I must return to the assembly. I’ll find you later.”

~~~

Not knowing what to do with her time with her father and brother gone, and anxious to avoid a chance encounter with Otuel d’Avranches, Dorianne wandered into the kitchen out of curiosity. Perhaps she could learn something of use to the cook at home. She had not slept, kept awake by fitful dreams of a black-haired knight kissing her, peeling the clothes from her body, his blue eyes burning into her.

Robert de Montbryce appeared unexpectedly and took hold of her wrist, drawing her into the shadows, pressing her against him. Was he toying with her? Was she a pawn in the game of hatred between their families?

She had never been close to a man’s body. When she and Pierre were children she had seen her brother’s boy part, but did not recall it being large like the hard male length she felt pressed against her. She didn’t meant to respond to his kiss, but her lips parted as his tongue teased them open. She closed her eyes as an unfamiliar tingling hardened her nipples. If this was a game, she would play.

The future lay with a sulking brat—better to enjoy a few minutes of passion now. She reached up to touch the thick hair she had longed to run her fingers through. The warmth of the chimney bricks he leaned against seeped through his body into hers.

Her reaction plainly stunned him. It was a shock he had remembered her.

Our future, he said.

~~~

When Robert re-entered the Hall the arguments raged on. He understood. Though he sympathised with his father’s point of view, his heart told him he should support his Duke. Antoine and Hugh de Montbryce felt the same way, but they would back Ram’s decision, and together the Montbryces were a force to be reckoned with.

The presence of Robert’s cousins, Hugh’s son Melton, and Antoine’s boy, Adam, added weight to their position. Both were well regarded and known for their military prowess. Antoine’s stepson, Denis de Sancerre, was another strength. The dwarf was the life and soul of any social gathering with his ready wit.

Everyone present acknowledged they faced a political mess. Each Norman baron would have to make his own decision. Robert was saddened that he could soon be at war with many of the men in this very room, fellow Normans. This was no time for love. It would be better not to pursue the bewitching Dorianne. Even as the thought entered his head he knew he would pay it no mind.

~~~

“Dorianne, you’ve scarcely eaten anything,” her father chided at supper that night, taking his attention away from a conversation with another nobleman. “The discussion regarding your betrothal to Otuel d’Avranches is going well. It’s now a matter of agreement on a dowry,” he said loudly enough for all to hear.

She cringed and smiled weakly, rubbing her temple. “My head aches, Papa. May I be excused to go rest in my chamber?”

He shrugged her away with a nod and resumed his conversation.

Pierre watched her go. He had seen Robert de Montbryce at a nearby table, laughing and drinking ale with friends and his cursed uncles, glancing occasionally in the direction of Dorianne. He suspected from her obvious discomfort that his sister had been aware of those eyes on her.

Montbryce rose from his place and left by the same door as Dorianne. Pierre decided to follow. Near his sister’s chamber he caught sight of them and hastily retreated to the shadows. Montbryce held Dorianne’s hand, whispering in her ear. She did not pull away. Indeed, she was smiling. His sister, the whore, was smiling at the hated Montbryce. He pressed closer to the wall, listening.

“—the chapel—midnight—”

Then the unthinkable—his sister allowed Montbryce to kiss her, and not the kind of brotherly kiss he gave her. Pierre resolved in that moment to kill Robert de Montbryce in order to protect his family honor. She was to be betrothed to the d’Avranches boy. He did not envy her fate, but that was of no import. They would have an unpleasant surprise when they held their clandestine tryst in the chapel. His father would be proud of him. He would have the blood of a hated Montbryce on his hands.

~~~

Dorianne timidly shoved open the heavy oaken door to the chapel a little after midnight. She had dismissed her maid with the excuse she would prepare herself for bed, then had debated for hours whether to come. She doubted Robert would show up. Why would he be interested in her?

As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, her breath caught when she saw him kneeling before the altar. He turned, smiled and held out his hand. Her heart jumped into her throat. She took his hand and knelt beside him. As her knees sank into the plush blue cushion, the path of her future suddenly became clear.

This man will be my husband.

The idea filled her with exhilaration and dread.

The meagre light in the room came from two flickering candles on the altar. Robert and Dorianne remained motionless in silence for several minutes, their heads bowed.

“I feel I’m in the throes of a mystical experience, Dorianne,” Robert whispered. “I’m aware of the gulf between us, but none of that matters at this moment.” He squeezed her hand. “Look at me.”

She turned to look at him, a bolt of desire rocking her body as she gazed into his eyes. A faint trace of incense tickled her nostrils.

He smiled. “I am yours forever, Dorianne. I’ve never known such feelings as I feel for you. I pledge myself to you.”

His words were something she had longed for. “Forever Robert, I’ll be yours forever. I give you my pledge,” she echoed, her voice shaking.

They gazed into each other’s eyes. He squeezed her hand again. “It is after all a man’s right to kiss his bride,” he murmured. Her lips parted for him as she raised her hand to touch his face. He placed his hand over hers filling her with a deep contentment unlike any she had known before.

Robert helped her rise. “Go now. We’ll arrange to meet on the morrow. I’ll speak with your father.”

Dorianne shook her head sadly and was about to tell him it would be futile, but suddenly Pierre appeared, flinging aside a heavy drapery that had concealed him. One of the candles guttered and went out.

Pierre brandished a dagger at Robert. “You force me to take action in a holy place, Montbryce. Remove your hands from my sister. Tonight you will die. You intend to dishonor her and our family. She’s pledged to d’Avranches and will never belong to you.”

Robert moved to protect Dorianne, but she pleaded with her brother. “Pierre, please. Put the dagger away. Robert isn’t our enemy. I don’t want to marry the Comte d’Avranches’ son.”

Her entreaties gave Robert time to take out his dagger. “Get behind the altar, Dorianne, and stay there.”

She retreated. “Please don’t kill him, Robert, he’s my brother.”

The two men circled, eyeing each other warily.

“I don’t wish to harm you, Pierre, and I won’t dishonor your sister. I wish to marry her, to make her my wife. She’ll be the Comtesse de Montbryce.”

“I’ll kill her first,” Pierre spat. He lunged, but Robert grabbed his wrist. The blade reflected the light of the lone candle as the two men struggled. Robert recognized he was the stronger man, but did not want to harm his opponent for Dorianne’s sake. He glanced away to make sure she was safe. It was a mistake. Pierre’s dagger sliced into his bicep. Dorianne screamed, ran from the safety of the altar and rushed at her brother. “Non, Pierre, I beg of you, please don’t kill him!”

Light suddenly flooded the gloom. Everyone’s attention was drawn to the door as the castle guards rushed in, torches held aloft. D’Avranches lumbered in behind them, leaning heavily on his staff and breathing hard. The guards forced the two men apart. The Comte was visibly angered. “What’s going on here, Montbryce?”

Dorianne fell to her knees before him, head bowed. “Milord
Comte, please don’t chastise them. It’s my fault.”

Pierre struggled to get free of the guards. “Milord—”

D’Avranches raised his hand to silence him and motioned the guards to loosen their hold. “I will not tolerate the use of weapons in my home. I repeat, what’s going on here?”

Robert sheathed his dagger. “Milord
Comte. I humbly beg your pardon. A misunderstanding.” He offered his hand to Dorianne.

Pierre rushed forward to stand between Robert and his sister. “Do not touch her!” he cried, grabbing her hand. He pulled her to her feet and pushed her roughly to the door.

D’Avranches raised his hand again, his fat face red. “Arrête!”

The guards again took hold of Pierre, but he would not be silenced. “She’s my sister, milord. I have the right to command her. She will come with me.”

Blood seeped through Robert’s sleeve. Dorianne struggled in vain to pull free of Pierre’s grasp. Robert moved towards them, but the Comte stopped him. “Montbryce, what claim do you have on this maiden?”

Anger raced through Robert. He had no claim, and Pierre would be allowed to take her. “I have no claim, milord.”

Dorianne looked at him, her face full of anguish. Had she expected him to champion her? The only way would be to offer for her now, in this moment. But such an offer should be made to her father, who was not present. Robert had no choice but to let Pierre take her. He hoped she could see commitment in his eyes.

Pierre looked to the Comte. “Milord?”

D’Avranches hesitated, then gave his permission, and Pierre pulled his sister from the chapel.

~~~

“I want an explanation, Montbryce,” the Comte hissed after they had left. “I’m in negotiations to betroth that girl to my son, Otuel.”

The idea of Dorianne with the sulky child caused Robert’s gut to tighten. He would have to choose his words carefully. “Milord
Comte. Again, I humbly beg your forgiveness for the disturbance. I didn’t know of the plans regarding Dorianne and your son. But I ask you, as an old friend of my father, not to pursue those discussions any further. I wish to make Dorianne my wife.”

The Comte snorted. “But she’s a Giroux, Robert. Your families are bitter enemies. I assume that’s why young Pierre was wielding the dagger?”

Robert’s heart was still beating too fast and he wanted to find Pierre and shake sense into the young hothead. He had gone from elation to fear to desolation in the space of a few minutes. It brought back too many dark memories of a vengeful madman with his sword raised, poised to cut off Robert’s head. He could still remember his mother’s cry of pain as Phillippe de Giroux dragged her by the hair. His emotions were in turmoil. Had he found a woman he loved, only to lose her after such a short time?

He controlled his anger. “Oui, but don’t be too hard on him. He’s young and hasn’t yet learned that hatred and vengeance sow the seeds of destruction.”

The Comte hesitated. “Why is it important for you to marry this girl, Robert? Don’t you have enough problems at the moment?”

Robert laughed. “No more than any of us Normans! But she’s the one I want. The one I need.”

D’Avranches chuckled. “Hmm! Like your father, I suppose. He’s always boasting of how much he loves your mother. I’ll tell Giroux the betrothal is off. But you’re the one who will have to deal with him and his impetuous son.”

“Not to mention my own parents,” Robert quipped. “Thank you, milord
Comte.”

The Comte touched him lightly on his arm. “You’d better get that wound seen to.”

It was only then Robert noticed he was bleeding.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER FIVE

François de Giroux had never been a violent man. He was full of hatred and resentment for the tormented years growing up with his blind, demented father. He had been devastated by the death of his older brother, Phillippe and was distraught now over the lack of word about his younger brother, Georges, who had failed to return with Curthose from the Crusade.

These events had ruined his life and he grieved inwardly that hatred would likely shape the lives of his children. It was a cycle from which he could not break free. When he was told Robert de Montbryce had lured his daughter to the chapel, and that the betrothal would not come to fruition, he swore to kill Montbryce, whom he deemed the source of all his ills.

When Robert confronted him later in the morning in the castle garden, his anger boiled over. “I know not, Montbryce, how it is you’ve managed in such a short time to wreak this vengeance on me and my family. Dorianne is an innocent. You shouldn’t have used her this way. You’ve ruined her reputation. I’ll have to send her to a nunnery now.”

He felt a surge of pride—at least Pierre had drawn blood. Montbryce held his bandaged arm to his body, the sleeve of his doublet hanging empty.

“Seigneur de Giroux, I haven’t used Dorianne. I intend to make her my wife, if you’ll allow it.”

Giroux turned to leave. “You’ll have to stride over my dead body.”

“Why must you be ruled only by hatred?” Robert shouted. “Look what it’s done to your family. Look at your daughter. You’re denying her the possibility of becoming a Comtesse. It was not a Montbryce who first visited the indignity of blinding on your grandfather. It was a Valtesse.”

There was truth in the words, but François could not heed them. “You’re all the same spawn,” he sneered, and stormed into the keep.

~~~

Robert searched for Dorianne. Upon discovering she and her brother had left the castle, he sought out his uncles. They were seated close to the rear of the assembly. Guilt assailed him.

Hugh greeted him. “We’ve been worried, especially after hearing of the confrontation in the chapel yestereve.”

Robert groaned inwardly. Now he would receive a scolding, like a naughty child. “I apologize, mes oncles, I abandoned the cause. I’ve been—”

“We know where you’ve been,” Antoine interrupted.

Robert felt his hackles rise. “If you’ve heard what happened—”

Again Antoine interrupted. “We’ve heard, but why don’t you tell us your side of the story?”

Robert looked at his uncle and to his surprise saw a grin. Some of the tension left him. He had forgotten for a moment that here were two men who many years ago had sacrificed a great deal for the women they loved. The Montbryce family had been in danger of losing all they held dear because of the actions of these uncles.

Several heads turned and indignant faces indicated they should continue their conversation elsewhere. The Comte d’Avranches looked particularly annoyed. Robert judged he had likely done enough already to offend his host. He motioned to the doorway. “We should go somewhere else. There may not be many in the Hall at this time of day.”

They followed him, speaking in hushed voices as they walked along the hallway.

“I honestly don’t know what came over me,” Robert admitted. “I took one look at Dorianne de Giroux and knew I had to have her. Of course, I wasn’t aware she was a Giroux.”

Antoine chuckled. “The look of horror on your face when her father challenged you in the Hall yesterday!”

Robert stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled loudly. “I confess I thought that was the end of it, but I can’t get the woman out of my mind.”

Hugh slapped his nephew on the back. “We know the feeling, young man. It’s the curse of the Montbryces to fall hopelessly in love with the one woman they shouldn’t. Because Antoine and I are older doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten what it was to be smitten the first time we set eyes on Devona and Sybilla.”

They sought a quiet corner of the Hall and huddled close to continue their conversation.

Robert shook his head. “I know you both had difficulties to overcome, but you didn’t fall in love with the daughter of your parents’ arch enemy.”

Antoine’s voice became sterner. “Are you in love with her, Robert, or is it lust? Decide now, because if you’re to pursue this, Ram and Mabelle will be devastated. Your mother longs for you to make a good match and my brother is anxious for allies here in Normandie. Consider carefully. A marriage to Dorianne de Giroux won’t bring us any friends.”

A serving girl came with tankards of ale. Robert stared into the dark liquid. “As if we don’t have enough to worry about with Curthose and Henry, now I’m might rekindle an old feud and devastate my parents.”

Antoine wiped the ale from his mouth. “Giroux has never let the flame die. He has kept the hatred alive, burning a hole in his heart. You’re aware it was he tried to have Hugh and Devona condemned by the curia regis?”

Robert nodded.

Hugh pointed to Robert’s injury. “From what I see, and what we’ve heard, the same hatred has taken root in the breast of his son as well.”

Robert touched a hand to his wound. He had hardly noticed the discomfort in his preoccupation with Dorianne. “Pierre was full of hatred. I didn’t expect it. I mean, if anyone has a right to hate members of the Giroux family, it’s me. But it’s time to put an end to this feud.”

Antoine drained his tankard and looked around for the servant. “Drink your ale, Robert. Where is Dorianne now?”

Robert took a swig. “Pierre has taken her back to their castle. Maybe I should forget the whole thing. She may not feel the same way. She’s young, probably too young for me.”

Antoine banged his tankard on the table, attracting the servant’s attention. “I overheard Giroux blustering about sending her to a convent. You may have condemned the girl to a life of religious servitude.”

Robert looked up sharply. The notion of Dorianne in a nunnery made him want to retch. She was full of life, natural, a woman made to partner a man, to bring him pleasure and love. She had lived most of her life as a virtual prisoner. It was time to set her free.

He drained his tankard, but refused the second one the servant was set to pour, putting his hand over the top. “I must return to Montbryce forthwith. We’ve relayed to these other barons our family’s position. We can do no more. When you return home, strengthen your garrisons further. Get word to Ronan at Alensonne. I’ll fortify Montbryce, then travel on to Ellesmere and apprise father of what has transpired here.”

“Including that you want to marry a Giroux?” Antoine asked quietly.

Robert looked into his uncle’s green eyes and whispered, “Oui, even that.”

Hugh raised his tankard, “Then I wish you luck, nephew. You’ll need it!”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER SIX

Dorianne rode home with a stranger. Pierre did not speak on their journey. Her attempts to broach the topic of Robert de Montbryce were met with stony silence and hateful glares. The ride to Avranches had been an adventure. This was an ordeal.

Weary in body and heart, she walked from the courtyard of Giroux castle into the keep while Pierre spoke to the stable boys. Suddenly, he was behind her, gripping her elbow, his nails digging into her flesh. He gripped a riding quirt in his other hand. “Go straight to your solar, Dorianne.”

Her insides clenched with fear at the grim expression on his face. She pulled away, but he tightened his hold. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the day. Why should I go to my chamber?”

Pierre pushed her along. “You will be confined from now on. You cannot be trusted.”

Dorianne gasped. “Trusted to do what? Be as full of hate as you and father? Let me go.”

“What’s happening, Pierre?” It was their mother who had come to investigate the commotion.

Dorianne could barely keep up with Pierre as he hurried her in the direction of her chamber. She appealed to her mother. “He’s forcing me to my chamber, maman.”

Her mother bustled to keep pace with them. “Why are you treating your sister this way?” she asked nervously.

He sneered, and stopped abruptly. Elenor pulled up in surprise. “Because she’s a whore. She enticed Robert de Montbryce to a secret tryst. She allowed him to kiss her.”

Her mother’s hands flew to her mouth. “A Montbryce?”

Elenor de Giroux’s fear of her son showed in her eyes then, and Dorianne’s heart sank. Her mother would be of no help to her. But she had to try. “Maman, Pierre and Papa have made it more than clear there’s no future for me with Robert de Montbryce, but why should I be kept in my chamber?”

Elenor looked enquiringly at Pierre, who shook his head. “She’s to go to a nunnery. D’Avranches cancelled the betrothal. She has brought shame on our name.”

Dorianne managed to free her arm from Pierre’s grasp. Anger flooded her. “Maman, what shame is there in befriending Robert de Montbryce, a true nobleman, a future Comte?”

Tears streamed down her mother’s face, her eyes full of despair. “But he’s your father’s enemy,” she whispered hoarsely.

Pierre had reclaimed his grip on Dorianne and he escorted her roughly the rest of the way. Their mother stood like a statue, clenching her fists. None of Dorianne’s pleas seemed to outweigh her fear of her son.

Pierre thrust his sister to the floor of her chamber and bolted the door. He put down the quirt and took off his doublet, then his shirt. She scrambled away from him, her heart beating rapidly, a knot of fear forming in her belly. “What are you doing?”

He retrieved the quirt and braced his legs. “Bend over the bed,” he commanded.

Dorianne gasped. “Pierre—”

He moved towards her. “Lift your skirts and bend over the bed.”

She shook her head vigorously. “I will not allow you to whip me. I’m not a servant.”

Pierre sneered, his face a grim mask she did not recognize. “You are less than a servant. You’re a whore.”

He tightened his grip on the quirt and grabbed her, forcing her to the bed where he pushed her down on her stomach and put his knee on her back. She screamed and struggled, but he was too strong.

“Lie still,” he hissed. “The more you resist the more times I’ll strike you. You must be punished.”

She clenched her fists into the bed and bit the linens as he lifted her skirts to bare her bottom. The leather of the quirt bit into her tender flesh again and again. Her last desperate thought before she surrendered to the pain was that her brother seemed to take pleasure in her punishment.

~~~

The fire in Dorianne’s bottom and thighs cooled. The aroma of marigolds filled the air. She stirred. It was dark, but a single candle chased away some of the shadow and illuminated her mother, leaning over her, applying a salve to the lacerations, sobbing.

Despair had turned Dorianne’s throat into a desert. “Maman,” she rasped.

Elenor shook her head and continued her ministrations. Dorianne buried her face in the linens, lest the tears begin again.

Her mother cleared her throat. “Your father has returned.”

Dorianne had nothing to say in reply. He would not help her, and her maman was too afraid to do anything. She was at Pierre’s mercy.

“Is he of a mind to send me to a convent as well?” she murmured, the sound of her own voice intensifying the ache in her head.

Elenor took hold of her hand. “Let me help you remove your clothes, daughter. You need to sleep. Your father is yet too angry to speak to me, and I’ve avoided him. I know I’m a coward, Dorianne. I wish I had your courage, but I don’t.”

Dorianne stood up carefully and submitted. Her heart was numb. “Pierre whipped me, maman, as if I were a serf.” She tried to hold back the tears of pain and humiliation, but could not.

Elenor wiped away her tears. “Sleep now,” she crooned, helping Dorianne crawl to lay on her stomach in the bed. She stroked her daughter’s hair. “The morrow will bring its own troubles.”

~~~

Elenor came to understand the extent of her daughter’s troubles the next day. She could not believe her husband’s pronouncement. What made it worse was the gleam of satisfaction in Pierre’s eyes. But she had to say something. The idea was too monstrous.

“Mont Saint Michel? You intend to send her to Mont Saint Michel Abbey?” she whimpered. “I’ll never see her again.”

Her husband glared. “Pierre is right. He spoke with the Bishop of Avranches at the Council. It’s the best place for her. She needs to learn discipline.”

Elenor fidgeted with the lace of her sleeves. “But it’s a place known for its rigors, its poverty. The nuns are enclosed and not allowed to speak.”

She knelt at her husband’s feet, her head bowed, wishing she had the courage to lay her hand on his. “We cannot do this to our daughter.”

François walked away. Pierre strolled over to his mother and proffered his hand. “Don’t fret, maman. You’ll still have me.”

Her heart filled with dread. What had happened to the darling boy who had been her son? He had become a monster. The hatred his father had instilled in him had robbed him of his senses. Her hand trembled as he helped her rise. He put his arm around her and coaxed her to a chair. Surely he would not do this to his own sister?

“Dorianne and I will leave on the morrow, at dawn,” he gloated.

She gasped and looked to her husband, seemingly fascinated by the embers in the hearth. “But she cannot sit, you whipped her so soundly. How can she ride a horse?”

François turned abruptly and looked at his son. “You whipped her?”

Pierre pouted. “I thought you would have wished it, Papa.”

François looked back at the hearth, his hands behind his back, his head bent. “You will take her in two days, when she’s healed.”

Pierre pursed his lips and left. Elenor sobbed as quietly as she could, her heart breaking for her beautiful daughter. If only she had the courage to break through the icy wall her husband had built, but it was impenetrable. She cursed the day she had been betrothed into the Giroux family.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dorianne’s lacerations had not healed. The journey to Mont Saint Michel was long and painful. Her brother forbade conversation, insisting it was good practice for her new life of silence. After close to two days in the saddle her derrière was bruised and raw, but she was more stricken she would likely never see her mother and father again. Was she so hateful her father would cast her out?

A dull ache of disbelief took hold. As the endless miles slipped by, she became lost in thought. What had she done to deserve this treatment from her father and brother? She had merely found the company of Robert de Montbryce intoxicating, and had envisioned marrying him, becoming the future Comtesse de Montbryce. What was wrong with that? Most fathers would be overjoyed at the prospect of such a match for their daughter. Only hatred made it a crime.

She clung to the memory of Robert’s hands on her waist, the taste of his lips, the hard length of his manhood pressed against her. Remembering the warmth of the kitchen chimney warded off the damp chill. Would he come for her? How would he know where she was? Had his pledge been sincere, or would he too succumb to hatred under the influence of his parents? Was there hope? She had to hold on to the notion there was, otherwise she too might go mad. Hope was the only thing she had left.

Her first glimpse of Mont Saint Michel stole away any glimmer of hope. No wonder Aubert, Bishop of Avranches four hundred years before, had long resisted the call of the Archangel Michel to build an Abbey on the isolated barren rock. It was formidable, and Dorianne could see no way to reach it. The sea isolated it completely.

Pierre ordered their escort to dismount and set up camp. “We’ll have to wait for the tide to recede,” he told his lieutenant. Dorianne was thankful for the chance to get off her horse. The treeless shore provided no shelter from the drizzling rain. She huddled under the rough canvas the men erected, keeping her weight off her bottom. She dozed fitfully for a short time, to be awakened by a shout. “Prepare quickly, the tide’s going out.”

She struggled to her feet and stood in amazement watching the tide rush out like a galloping horse. Pierre bustled her to her mare and the two set off along the mudflat, followed by a flock of sheep that had been grazing in the fields nearby. The escort remained on the shore. As they made their way through the vast, muddy solitude, the forbidding walls of the Abbey came into full view. She supposed the multitude of pilgrims who braved many hardships to travel here would be elated at the sight. It was to be her tomb.

No wonder they call this Mont Tombe.

Pierre declined to enter the Abbey, speaking to the Prior at the gates. He made the excuse of having to regain the mainland before the tide rushed back. He brushed a kiss on Dorianne’s cheek, turned and left without a word. She could not watch him go. She stepped through the gate held open by the monk, shuddering as it creaked shut behind her.

A crow cawed its mocking cry in the distance. Would the sheep grazing on the meagre grass tufts of the rocky island be the last thing she would see of the world? Her dulled brain could only wonder how the woolly creatures knew when the tide was coming back. At least the drizzle hid her tears. She drew in a ragged breath and looked to the kindly-looking elderly Prior for instruction. “My brother has left me no clothing—”

The monk put a forefinger to his lips and shook his head. He extended his hand, showing the way to the entry. She followed in his wake. As the doorway loomed, she glanced up at scaffolding clinging to the high walls, wooden planks supported by poles lashed together. Pulleys stilled as the masons studied her progress, leaving slabs of stone suspended in mid-air. She turned away from their pitying gaze.

Were they building or repairing? It was likely such a structure would need constant repair and renovation, exposed as it was to the open sea. Men had probably scurried over its walls and rooftops since the time of Charlemagne. It was odd they did not shout to each other. When masons toiled on the Castle Giroux there was a great deal of calling back and forth. Here silence reigned. The only sound was the crunch of her boots on the narrow stone pathway. Not even the soaring seagulls exchanged a cry as they watched. She inhaled the smell of the sea she’d never seen. It called to her. Come to me. I will ease your pain.

The wind tore away the last words she murmured through parched lips as the Prior rapped on the door. “I’m losing my mind.”

~~~

Robert was torn. It was imperative he go to England to report the discussions of the Council to his father. But he feared for Dorianne. The longer she was in the clutches of her father and brother, the greater the chances he would never see her again. He sensed Pierre had lost his wits and Dorianne was at his mercy.

He had been back at Montbryce only a sennight, and had hoped the long hours he spent reinforcing the garrison and inspecting the men would have taken the edge off his turmoil, but it was not to be. He exhausted himself in the training fields with the knights, despite his slowly healing wound, but still could not sleep at night.

He felt very alone and isolated and wished his parents were there. He had assumed the responsibilities of the ancestral castle in Normandie without hesitation, and without misstep, but now he felt lost in a sea of conflicting political loyalties. Add to that the desperation of possibly losing the woman he had fallen in love with.

Would he be equal to the challenges ahead? He was surrounded by loyal servants and knights who had served his family through successive generations, but had no family there to support him. He shook off his stupor and went down into the crypt where lay the tombs of the grandparents he had never known.

He knelt heavily on the prie-dieu, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the padded armrest. He called upon the spirits of his ancestors for guidance. Exhaustion and despair lulled him to sleep.

He dreamed of the grandfather who had died before he was born, of his beloved parents, of Baudoin and Rhoni. Suddenly there appeared a clear vision of Henry, the King of the English, riding in triumph through Normandie, accepting homage from the comtes and seigneurs of the land he had reclaimed.

Robert woke with a start, his head clear, certain his father had been right to choose Henry. He ran from the crypt, turning briefly to nod at the tomb of his grandfather, and hurried to his chamber.

~~~

He was making final preparations to leave for England the next day when his uncles rode into the bailey with his cousins, Melton and Mathieu de Montbryce. “Mes oncles, cousins,” he exclaimed. “What’s happened to bring you here?”

The visitors dismounted and Robert embraced each in turn. Hugh spoke first. “Listen. Rumor is rife Giroux has sent Dorianne to Mont Saint Michel.”

Robert’s gut lurched. He ran a hand through his hair. “Mont Saint Michel?”

Antoine strode ahead of them. “Hurry, we’ll go to the Map Room and explain our plan.”

Robert picked up his pace. “Plan?”

When they reached the Map Room, Antoine rummaged through a pile of charts. “Sit, Robert,” he ordered.

Robert sat. What were these two up to?

“Aha! Here it is,” Antoine exclaimed, unfurling a chart and laying it out on the table in front of Robert. He traced his finger along the parchment and Robert’s eyes followed. “You’ll need to head back to Avranches after you go to the Castle Giroux,” Antoine began.

Robert put his hand on Antoine’s. “Wait! What are you talking about? I must go to Ellesmere. My father—”

Hugh pulled Robert’s hand from the chart. “Let him explain,” he said patiently.

Antoine cleared his throat. “You must ascertain if they have indeed sent Dorianne to Mont Saint Michel.”

Robert became impatient. “By all that’s holy, Mont Saint Michel is impregnable.”

Antoine pointed on the chart to where the River Couesnon met the sea. “You’re right, more or less. However, with a letter seeking permission to see her, from the Comte d’Avranches—”

Robert’s mouth fell open. “But it’s a two day ride, at least, especially if I go to Giroux first.”

Hugh smirked. “Give or take, you’re right.”

Robert’s head ached. “Why have they sent her there?”

Hugh put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “You’ve answered that question yourself. It’s a religious establishment. A particularly isolated and rigorous one.”

Robert glanced up at his uncle, anger constricting his throat. He rose and went to the window, pulling back the oiled covering. He watched masses of crows flying overhead, a seemingly endless migration. Foreboding washed over him. “They mean to destroy her,” he whispered. “Because she showed me love, they mean to destroy her.”

Antoine joined him at the window. “We don’t want you to worry about England.”

Robert turned to his uncle. “How can I not worry?”

Antoine shrugged. “Because I intend to go in your stead.”

Robert shook his head. “But what of Belisle?”

Antoine reassured him. “Hugh and I have spent years preparing our castles for what’s happening in Normandie. If we’re not ready now, we never will be. Ronan can be relied upon to hold Alensonne. You know it’s the same here at Montbryce. Though Ram doesn’t live here, he’s made sure the defences are second to none, and you have strengthened them more.”

Mathieu entered the conversation. “Adam and Denis are at Belisle. They’re capable commanders.”

Antoine smirked and tousled Mathieu’s hair. “Such high praise for your brothers, little one.”

Robert smiled. Calling the six foot Mathieu ‘little one’ was incongruous at best! He let the covering fall back over the window. “You propose I ride to the Giroux castle and thence to Mont Saint Michel?”

Hugh grinned. “Non, we propose you, Mathieu, Melton and I go. And don’t concern yourself with Domfort. Gerwint is there. Like his cousins he’s more than capable of commanding the knights.”

Melton nodded. “But, Papa, my brother wouldn’t be happy if he heard you calling him Gerwint. You know he prefers his nickname.”

Antoine was curious. “Nickname?”

Melton smiled. “His middle name is Isembart, as you know, after the rat catcher who saved Maman’s life, but he prefers to be called Izzy.”

Hugh rolled his eyes. “Young people these days. He complains his given name, Gerwint, is old fashioned. But he doesn’t say that in front of his mother. After all it was her father’s and her grandfather’s name.”

“Izzy!” Mathieu exclaimed. “Hah! Wait until I see him next.”

Robert paced. He had been only half listening to the exchange. “My parents will sense something is wrong if I don’t go to Ellesmere. Don’t tell them about Dorianne. I want to do that myself.”

Antoine expressed his agreement. “I won’t reveal it. But you must secure Dorianne first.”

Robert looked at his uncles. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Antoine and Hugh exchanged a glance and both men smiled. It was Hugh who replied, “Because you have the same passion in the blood we do. If Antoine had not helped me rescue Devona, I cannot imagine what my life would have been. If you love Dorianne half as much as I love Devona—”

The words seemed to stick in Hugh’s throat, and Antoine gave him a pat on the back. “What Hugh is trying to say is that we’ll do everything possible to aid you, if you truly love this woman. It’s a Montbryce tradition!”

Robert squared his shoulders. “I truly love her.”

“Enough said, then,” Antoine replied.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Prior rapped twice on the stout wooden door to the nuns’ enclosure and left. Dorianne waited, barely able to stand, her legs trembling violently. Sweat trickled down her spine and the lacerations throbbed. She heard movement on the other side of the door, but no voices. A lock clanked and the door was dragged open, the bottom scraping on the stone floor. The reek of decay assailed her nostrils causing bile to rise in her throat. A stern faced nun appeared, looked Dorianne up and down, took hold of a sleeve and pulled her inside. She applied her copious backside to shoving the stubborn door closed.

Without a word, she set off and Dorianne stumbled after her to a small door, which the woman opened. She lit a taper from the wall torch and handed it to Dorianne. It was clear she was to enter. She stepped inside. The windowless cell was so tiny, Dorianne had seemingly reached the opposite wall even before she had entered. She gasped and turned, but the door slammed shut.

The candle threatened to go out. She grasped it with both hands, willing them to stop shaking, and placed it on a wooden stool. It cast its glow onto a pallet, atop which was a pile of clothing. She crawled to lie face down, using the clothing as a bolster. The material felt rough on her face.

She dozed fitfully, but then rose and numbly picked up the habit. She was sweating profusely and once she had removed her clothing, the cool air made her shiver. She donned the rough habit. There was no wimple. She collapsed back on to the pallet, her mouth bone dry.

A short while later, another nun entered without knocking, picked up Dorianne’s clothing and left. She returned a few moments later carrying a pair of shears and a coif and veil. Dorianne sat up in alarm, the pain searing through her legs. How to tell this woman she could not sit?

The nun chopped off her braid without unplaiting it. Tears streamed down her face as the blade chewed over and over into her thick hair. Her head ached. She bit her lip and clutched the habit, trying to hold back the tears. Once the shearing was done, the nun fastened the coif tightly around her head and topped it with the veil. She indicated Dorianne should stand and turn about. The room spun. The woman seemed satisfied.

Following the nun’s signals she trailed after her to a large chamber where two score women were gathered. All appeared elderly. None looked up as she entered nor gave any acknowledgement of her presence. She was led to a bench, where she sat, accepting the resultant pain as proof she still lived.

She was served food. A watery broth, coarse bread, a piece of boiled mutton, a tumbler of ale. Each nun received the same portion. The mutton stuck in her throat, but when she pushed it to one side of her trencher, a slight shake of the head from her neighbor told her she would have to eat it.

At the end of the meal, the women rose as one at the sound of a tinkling bell. Dorianne struggled to her feet and followed, but the nun who had shorn her hair took her by the arm and led her to an office, where yet another nun awaited her.

“I am Abbesse.” Dorianne was startled by the sound of the woman’s voice and looked around for something to hold on to. She opened her mouth, but was silenced by a raised hand before she had a chance to speak. “I will tell you what’s expected of you. You may not reply, except to nod your understanding. You may not speak. Do you understand?”

Dorianne bowed her head, swallowing an urge to retch up the mutton. Her body burned. The room tilted.

“Are you ill?” the Abbesse asked.

If she was not allowed to speak, how to tell this woman she was indeed ill, that her flesh was on fire? What could she do, lift her skirts and expose her bottom to make the woman understand her predicament? She shook her head.

The nun pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes. “Good. We don’t tolerate malingerers here. You’ll soon come to accept our way of life. You should be proud your family has given you to God.”

Dorianne clenched her fists, the nails biting into her palms. What kind of a God would condone a woman being buried alive for loving a man—a good man? She prayed for the strength to remain on her feet long enough to reach the solitude of her cell.

The Abbesse droned on, explaining the rules and routines of the Abbey. Dorianne heard nothing but the sound of another human voice. She did not recall later how she had got back to her cell, and was too exhausted to undress before she fell asleep.

~~~

When she awoke, she was not alone. Indeed she was fairly sure she was not in her cell. Moans and movement and blurry anxious faces swam in and out of her wits. She could not make sense of any of it. Breathing was difficult enough. A warm hand grasped hers and she forced her eyes to stay open. Was there a look of genuine concern on the face of the Abbesse?

I must be dreaming.

She raised her hand to her head. Her coif and veil had been removed, but the habit remained. Someone bathed her forehead. She wanted to thank them, but remembered she was not to speak. And pervading all was the sharp toothed creature biting the flesh of her buttocks and thighs.

“Sister Marye was unable to wake you for Lauds, Novice. What ails you? I give you leave to speak.”

Dorianne swallowed hard and licked her lips. She doubted she could speak if she tried—her mouth was full of sawdust. She was given watered ale to sip and guzzled it greedily. “My brother whipped me,” she rasped.

The Abbesse tightened her grip. “Whipped?”

Dorianne put her hand on her hip.

The Abbesse rolled Dorianne onto her side and lifted the habit. She made the Sign of the Cross and issued terse instructions to the infirmarians. Dorianne was carefully stripped, her lacerations bathed and salved. She was given a sleeping draught and soon drifted off into oblivion.

~~~

Within a day of leaving Montbryce, Hugh, Robert, Melton and Mathieu and a complement of men-at-arms stood before the gates of the Giroux castle, requesting entry. It was refused. As darkness fell, they set up camp and pondered their next course of action.

Robert worried about Antoine meeting with his parents. They would be conflicted over his decision to wed Dorianne, and he wanted to be the one to tell them.

“Don’t worry,” Hugh reassured him. “They may sense something is in the wind, but Antoine has given his word.”

Robert paced in the canvas shelter. “What’s our next move, then? Dieu! Listen to me. I seem incapable of making a decision. I’ve never had that problem.”

Hugh chuckled. “Love does tend to addle the brain.” He passed a wineskin. “Here, this might help.”

Robert drizzled the wine into his mouth. He wiped his lips with his hand and gave it back to his uncle. “Merci, it’s fine wine.”

Melton beamed and held out his hand to his father. “We make it at Domfort. It’s better every year. And our apple brandy can rival yours at Montbryce any day.”

Robert scoffed. “I seriously doubt that, but it does seem the Montbryce family will control the apple brandy consumption throughout Normandie.”

Hugh snickered. “Experts in fine wines we are.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a guard who held the arm of a peasant woman standing fearfully at his side, eyes downcast.

Robert came to his feet. “Who is this?”

“Louysa, maidservant to Lady Elenor,” the woman murmured nervously.

Robert strode over and took her by the arm, drawing her out of the shadows. “You have news of the Lady Dorianne?”

The woman blinked and looked around. “If milord Giroux discovered I was here—”

“He won’t find out. Who sent you?”

The woman kept her fearful eyes averted. “My mistress. She sent me to tell you Dorianne is in Mont Saint Michel Abbey.”

Hugh and Robert exchanged glances. “It’s as we surmised. How many days ago did they leave?” Hugh asked.

Still the woman would not look at them. “Five. My mistress wanted them to delay, to give Lady Dorianne time to recover, but Pierre—”

Dread washed over Robert. “Recover from what?”

The woman dared a glance at him and clenched her fists. “Master Pierre whipped her.”

Robert would have charged full tilt at the gates if Hugh hadn’t restrained him. Bile rose in his throat as he shook with rage. “He whipped her?”

The woman looked at the ground, wringing her hands. Robert kicked a camp stool, sending it careening against the canvas, then stood with his hands on his hips, facing away so the others could not see his anguish. His gut tightened.

Hugh turned to the woman. “We are in your debt. You have taken a risk to come here. If your master—”

She looked up at him. “It’s not the master I’m most afraid of.” She fled the tent and disappeared into the night.

Robert strapped on his scabbard and sheathed his sword.

“What are you doing?” Hugh asked. “We aren’t leaving tonight. We’ll go at first light.”

Robert wanted to protest, but his uncle was right. They would make better progress in daylight. He reluctantly put away the weapon and gathered a blanket around his shoulders. He eased off his boots and lay down on the camp cot, impatient for the night to be over.

Hugh smiled. “Melton and I will check on the guard. Till dawn then.”

“Till dawn,” Robert replied.

~~~

Pierre de Giroux watched as the men from Montbryce rode away from his home at first light. He had expected them to remain outside the walls for many days, clamoring for entry. Why were they hastening away? Was it possible they knew Dorianne was not within? Had someone revealed her whereabouts? They had ridden off in the direction of Montbryce, but beyond lay Avranches and Mont Saint Michel.

Need he worry? Even if they discovered she was there, how could they possibly rescue her? Still the idea of Robert de Montbryce remaining alive to pursue his sister was more than he could tolerate. He hastened to the stables, saddled his horse and set off after them.

~~~

The sun was setting as the castle at Avranches came into view. The Montbryces had ridden hard and made good time. They slowed their weary mounts, not wishing to alarm the guards.

“Someone is following us,” Hugh observed.

Robert did not look back. “I’m sure it’s Pierre de Giroux. He’s been behind us since we left their castle.”

Hugh shook his head. “At least we know we’re on the right track. Will he have the temerity to enter Avranches?”

Robert shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s hard to predict. Perhaps a Giroux doesn’t need to be blinded to go mad.”

They satisfied the sentries and rode into the bailey. Stable boys took their mounts and the castle’s steward came to greet them. “Mes seigneurs Montbryce, I’ll inform the Comte of your arrival.”

Hugh inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Merci. We beg the favor of hospitality this evening, and would hope to speak with the Comte.”

The steward nodded. “Of course. Montbryces are always welcome here. The Comte is in the Hall. I’ll guide you there and then see to your chambers.”

Robert held up his hand. “We can find our own way. I know this castle almost as well as I know my own. I’m sure the Comte would not object. He and my father, the Earl of Ellesmere, are old friends.”

The steward seemed reluctant, but left them to walk to the Hall alone.

D’Avranches heaved himself up with the aid of his staff when they entered and beckoned. “The Montbryce clan! Enter. Be seated. A tankard of ale?” He banged his own on the table.

Hugh shook the Comte’s hand. “Ale would be welcome. We’ve had a dusty ride,” he replied.

D’Avranches sat down heavily and snickered. “So I see. What brings you here?”

Robert and Hugh exchanged glances. D’Avranches likely suspected the reason for their visit. Nothing happened in his territory without his knowledge. It was evident he was not surprised by their presence. Robert decided to take the bull by the horns. They needed this man’s support. “We’ve come on the matter of Dorianne de Giroux.”

The Comte shrugged his shoulders. “Her family has given her to God,” he said. “Who am I to stand in the way?”

It was imperative Robert not lose his temper, though his blood boiled at the idea of Dorianne entombed in Mont Saint Michel. “Milord Comte, I’ve already asked much of you concerning this girl, and I must ask for more. I wish to marry Dorianne de Giroux, but her father has locked her away in order to thwart me. She has taken no vows, and doesn’t wish to take vows, other than to me.”

The Comte shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve no love for the men of the Giroux family, but it’s the Bishop of Avranches who holds sway over the Mount, not me.”

Robert clenched his jaw. “All I ask is a letter of permission to see her and to speak to the Abbesse. I ask as the son of a fellow Earl.”

D’Avranches grunted. “Hah! An Earl who will be none too pleased at the idea of your marrying a Giroux.”

Robert smiled ruefully. “You may be right, but I will marry her anyway. It won’t be easy, but my parents will agree when I tell them I love her.”

The Comte’s loud laughter was not what he had expected in response. “You’re probably correct,” he said, wiping his eyes. “If only we were all like your parents and believed in true love.”

Robert smiled and looked at Hugh, who grinned, winked and mouthed, “Curse of the Montbryces.”

D’Avranches struggled to his feet and turned to Robert. “I’ll have the scrivener draw up the letter on the morrow. It will be sent to your chamber. Now I bid you goodnight. Give my regards to your father.”

Hugh slapped Robert on the back as they watched the Comte leave the Hall, leaning heavily on a page. Robert’s heart lifted, but where was Pierre de Giroux?

~~~

Pierre had spent the night in a peasant’s cottage outside the gates of the castle d’Avranches. He had chosen it carefully in order to have a view of the gate. The tenant had eagerly accepted the meagre pittance Pierre offered.

He drew his cloak around him and lowered his head as the Montbryces rode out of the gates in the direction of the Abbaye. He knew where they were going and made no move to follow.

Montbryce must believe he would be allowed to see Dorianne. Why had he stopped at Avranches? Pierre decided he would have to plan for the possibility Montbryce might free his sister.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER NINE

“If we keep up this pace, we’ll reach the Abbaye in five hours, but who knows what the situation will be with the tides,” Hugh observed as they galloped along. “Pilgrims don’t call it Saint Michel-in-Peril-From-The-Seas for no reason. We’ll have to be vigilant.”

The Mont loomed long before they reached it, a floating gray mirage on the horizon. Foreboding crept up Robert’s spine. Something had happened to Dorianne within those walls, he was sure of it. To divert his mind he reminded Hugh, “The quicksand in the mudflats is where Harold Godwinson saved two Norman knights from drowning. Our Duke William knighted him for his bravery. Of course, that was before Harold usurped the throne of England promised to William.”

Hugh grimaced. “Too bad he didn’t drown there instead. Then we might not have had to suffer the horror of Hastings.”

It sometimes slipped Robert’s mind that his father and uncles had fought at the Battle of Hastings, though all three had been adversely affected by the experience for a long time. His father had narrowly escaped being decapitated and Hugh had been troubled for years by a seemingly incurable hand tremor.

When they arrived, the tide was out. But the Abbey was over a mile away. Did they have time to get to the island before the tide rushed back in? They decided to leave the men-at-arms on the shore with Melton and Mathieu and risk it. As they galloped along, Robert avoided worrying about how deadly these black sands could be. His heart raced, his palms were clammy. He had to keep his eye on the prize.

Their mounts grew nervous splashing through seawater for the last hundred yards, but the two men made it to the safety of the desolate rock. They dismounted and chivvied the horses up the path to the gate. Robert looked back to the mainland and could make out a solitary mounted figure on the shore. He gritted his teeth and hissed, “Pierre.”

Hugh looked back and exhaled loudly. “That young man is full of hate. Don’t worry, I instructed Melton to keep an eye on him if he came.”

A monk appeared at the gate. Robert thrust the letter at him to display the seal, but held on to it. “I come on an errand for the Comte,” he lied. “Take me to the Prior.”

The monk opened the gate and led them to the Prior’s office. Robert reasoned a commanding tone was best, lest he plant seeds of doubt in the cleric’s mind.

“I must see the Abbesse,” he declared to the Prior. The monk shook his head. Robert held the letter in one hand and tapped it against the palm of the other. “I have a missive from the Comte d’Avranches.”

The monk arched his brows and held out his hand.

Robert held firm. “It’s for the Abbesse.”

This obviously irritated the Prior. He coughed, chewed on his lower lip and left the room. He led them outside, along a stone pathway to a wooden doorway, where he left them, having rapped on the door.

Robert looked up to see masons using pulleys to haul a large basket of slate up to scaffolding high above. They were busy with their tasks and paid him and his uncle no mind. Robert was reminded of how Caedmon had saved Baudoin from being crushed by a slab of marble in Italy. He shuddered as the basket dangled in mid air.

The door scraped open. A wrinkled nun peered through the narrow opening. Her jaw fell open, causing the double chin to double again against the tight coif. She blushed, much to Hugh’s ill-concealed amusement. He elbowed Robert. “Life in the old girl yet,” he whispered.

Robert cleared his throat and suppressed an urge to laugh. “I am Lord Robert de Montbryce and I am accompanied by my uncle, Lord Hugh de Montbryce. We must speak with the Abbesse. I have a letter from the Comte d’Avranches.”

The woman was clearly perplexed. She could not allow men to enter the Enclosure. She was not supposed to look upon them. Neither did she seem anxious to summon her Abbesse. Robert squared his shoulders and tapped the letter against his thigh impatiently.

Her eyes fell briefly to his legs, her blush intensified, then she disappeared, shoving the door closed. Would she return? What to do if she did not? He eyed the scaffolding. Would it provide access? His gut clenched and his throat went dry.

After an interminable wait, the door scraped open again and another woman appeared. She held out her hand. “You have a letter?”

Robert held on to the parchment. “You are the Abbesse?”

The woman stared at him.

Robert hesitated. This was no blushing matron. Should he hand over the letter, or explain first? If he gave it to her and she retreated into the Enclosure, he would have no way of knowing what might happen next. Maybe nothing. “The letter concerns Dorianne de Giroux.”

The woman’s eyes darted from him to Hugh and back again. She withdrew her hand. Something in her manner told him to give her the parchment. She unfurled it and read its contents then shook her head. “You cannot enter the Enclosure. It’s forbidden.”

Robert shifted his weight. “I understand, and we have no wish to trespass. Perhaps Dorianne could come out to see us?”

The woman hesitated. “What’s your interest in my novice?”

Robert decided honesty was the best policy. He was after all speaking to a nun. “She’s to be my wife.”

The Abbesse shook her head. “Non, my son, her family has given her to God.”

Robert braced his legs. “Ma mère, they had no right. Dorianne is pledged to me. It was her brother brought her here, was it not? My claim on her outweighs his. I am Robert de Montbryce, son of Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere, hero of the Battle of Hastings.”

Did any of these things matter to this woman who had the power to deny him his happiness?

The nun straightened her back. “You are fortunate, young Montbryce, that my novice is not in the Enclosure, otherwise I would have to forbid contact with her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw the basket of slate stop abruptly in mid air. Was it about to fall?

“Not in the Enclosure?” he parroted, half his attention on the basket.

“She’s in the Infirmary.”

His head swivelled back to the nun and he took a step towards her. “She’s ill?”

Hugh put his hand on Robert’s arm. “Steady,” he whispered.

“She’s recovering. I’ll obey the Comte and allow you to see her—on the morrow. It’s late and she’s asleep. Return to the Prior. He will provide you with a cell for the night.”

Robert chafed, but had no choice. The woman shoved the door closed and they went off to seek their night’s lodging.

~~~

Robert tossed and turned, his heart in turmoil knowing Dorianne was so close, yet so far away. Why had she fallen ill? Would she recover as the Abbesse had promised? Would the nun change her mind and not allow him to see her? Surely there was some way he could use the basket?

They were summoned early the next morning. The Abbesse awaited them on the stone path, her expression stern. She led them to a different entrance. They entered a small, dimly lit infirmary. Two of the five pallets were empty. Slumbering forms filled the others, but only one could be a young woman. Robert resisted the urge to run to her. “What has caused this sickness?” he asked.

The nun did not look at him and cleared her throat before answering. “It was a fever.”

A suspicion grew in Robert’s mind. “What would cause such a fever, ma mère?”

The woman poked her finger into the coif digging into her neck. “She’d been—she had—lacerations. They festered.”

Robert remembered the maidservant’s claim Pierre had whipped Dorianne and he swore to avenge this travesty.

Dorianne lay on her side. The Abbesse touched her shoulder. She stirred and opened her eyes slowly. Robert inhaled sharply when he saw her pallor. Her cropped hair was matted to her head. It was the first time he had seen her hair completely uncovered and he wept inwardly that such beautiful tresses had been so brutally shorn. She heard his gasp and slowly turned her head to look at him. She blinked rapidly and her breathing became labored. “Robert?” she murmured.

He wanted to strike out at something, anything. He took her hand, ignoring the indignation of the Abbesse, prevented from taking action by Hugh’s sizable frame planted between her and the pallet. “I’m here, Dorianne, my love.”

She became agitated and squeezed his hand. Her eyes filled with tears. “Robert? Is it you?”

He brushed his lips against hers and whispered, “It’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

“Milord Montbryce!” the Abbesse protested, trying to reach the pallet without having to push Hugh out of the way. “I cannot allow—”

“Cease!”

All eyes went to the doorway where Pierre de Giroux stood, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Robert and Hugh unsheathed their weapons.

The Abbesse moved towards Pierre, waving her arms, her voice strident. “Non, there will be no bloodshed. This is a house of God.”

Pierre did not draw his sword. Instead he held up both hands, palms outward, in a gesture of reconciliation. “I haven’t come to fight. I came to atone and to free my sister. I didn’t expect to find you here, milord Montbryce.” He bowed slightly.

Dorianne reached for Robert’s hand. “Pierre is here?” she rasped, her voice full of fear.

Robert kissed her hand. “Oui, but he will not hurt you. I guarantee it.”

Pierre took a step towards his sister, but stopped when Robert menaced him with his sword. He looked to the Abbesse. “Ma mère, I came because I am filled with remorse over what happened with my sister. My rage overcame me. All in Normandie are living in uncertain times. I am as much the victim of my father’s hatreds as she is. I’ve prayed, and continue to pray for God’s forgiveness. I hope Dorianne can forgive me. It’s time to put this bitter feud behind us.”

Robert did not believe a word of it and judging by the expression on Hugh’s face, neither did he. But the Abbesse seemed to soften. “God forgives us if we are truly sorry, my son.”

Pierre knelt before the nun. “I am truly sorry,” he sobbed. She patted his bowed head.

Robert and Hugh sheathed their swords, but still shielded Dorianne.

Pierre got to his feet and turned to face Robert, holding out his hand. “I beg your forgiveness, Robert.”

Rage surged through him. How dare this madman who had brought Dorianne to death’s door address him by his given name? “Listen well, Pierre de Giroux, I intend to take Dorianne from this place and make her my wife. If I have my way she will never have to set eyes on you again.”

The Abbesse gasped. Robert glared at Pierre.

“Robert.” It was Dorianne’s frail voice. He turned to look at her.

“If he’s truly sorry, I can forgive him. He’s my brother.”

Robert wanted to shake her. His head suddenly ached and his belly churned. She was too trusting, too naive. Weaned on hatred, she personified love. He did not want to upset her. She was still very ill. He bent to whisper in her ear. “We can discuss it later.”

She nodded, but replied, “I would accept his kiss of contrition now.”

Robert shook from head to foot with anger, but had no choice but to watch the emboldened Pierre draw close to his sister and kiss her forehead. “Forgive me, ma soeur. I should have been the one to protect you. I am sorry I hurt you. I free you from this novitiate.”

Dorianne’s eyes filled with tears. “I forgive you, Pierre. I thank God you have come back to me.”

Pierre stepped back, sniffling and brushing away a tear. “I trust she can remain here until she has recovered, ma mère?”

The nun nodded. “It will be a few more days yet before she can travel.”

Robert wanted to seize Pierre, bundle him into the masons’ basket, hoist it up to the roof and cut it loose. Instead he leaned close to his future brother-by-marriage and in a low voice said, “If you ever hurt her again, I will kill you.”

Robert saw no contrition in Pierre’s eyes.

“I must return home, Dorianne. I’ll inform father of what has transpired and of your upcoming nuptials.”

She smiled weakly. Robert sensed she was nearing the end of her endurance. She closed her eyes and drifted off with a sigh.

Hugh spoke for the first time as they watched Pierre stroll out of the infirmary. “I wouldn’t trust the whelp as far as I could throw him.”

“My feelings exactly.” Robert exhaled loudly and patted his uncle on the back. “Seems we’re here for a bit longer. Thank you for supporting me in this.”

Hugh took his elbow. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I rescued Devona?”

Robert laughed. “Many times, Uncle Hugh, many times!”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TEN

They took advantage of the two days spent waiting for Dorianne’s health to improve by planning their next move. One afternoon they rode back to the mainland to confer with Melton and Mathieu. It was imperative Robert and Dorianne get to England. Robert wanted to explain personally to his parents his intention to marry a Giroux, and he needed them to meet Dorianne when he did.

Hugh summed up their discussions. “The best plan is to subject Dorianne to as little time as possible on horseback. I propose we ride to Cherbourg—a day’s ride. We can take ship for Portsmouth, which is usually an easier crossing. From there, we’ll make our way to Melton Manor where Dorianne can recuperate for a few days before you complete the journey to Ellesmere. Melton, Mathieu and I can return after we’ve made sure all is running smoothly with some of our other manors in Sussex, and you can carry on with the men-at-arms.”

Mathieu had another suggestion. “These sheep must belong to someone hereabouts. I’ll seek out the farmer and procure a cart for Dorianne.”

Melton looked out across the bay. “You’d better make your way back. The fog is rolling in. You don’t want to be crossing those sands in fog. You could find yourself riding out to sea!”

The going was indeed treacherous as Hugh and Robert slowly made their way back to the Abbey, relying on the faint traces of hoof prints as white fog blanketed the black sands.

~~~

Robert spent long hours watching Dorianne sleep, willing her to recover. He studied her face in repose, trying to ascertain what it was that had enthralled him. He could not explain it. She was beautiful, there was no doubt, but he had known many beautiful women, yet none had appealed to him.

Was it her innocence? The urge to be the first to possess her was powerful, but he sensed this ‘innocent’ had a passionate side to her that would bring him more than simple physical release.

There was an elusive something about Dorianne de Giroux that had enslaved him the moment he had set eyes on her. Had she bewitched him?

She could be stubborn. He had tried repeatedly to shake her belief in Pierre’s repentance, but she was steadfast. Too trusting, too naive. But it was what he loved about her. He would protect her from her naiveté.

He put his hand on her shoulder. She stirred and looked up at him. He was relieved she looked better, but it would still be a harrowing journey for her.

“The tide is well out, and Melton and Mathieu have brought a cart for you, but perhaps we should wait one more day,” he suggested.

Dorianne shook her head. “Non, I want to be gone from this place. The Abbesse brought my clothes back to me yestereve. I’ll dress and meet you on the path.”

He kissed her forehead and left to join the other men. The cart was crude and dirty, but it had four good wheels, and would be more comfortable than a horse. Apparently overwhelmed by Mathieu’s generous offer, the grinning farmer had thrown in his own services and a weary-looking carthorse.

“I could probably have obtained it for less,” Mathieu had lamented. “I think I offered him more coin than he’s ever had in his lifetime. I’ll wager the sheep won’t see their master for a while! He may not return once he’s taken us to Cherbourg.”

Robert hurried to Dorianne’s side when she appeared at the doorway, scooping her up to carry her to the cart. Travelling this way would slow them down, but it could not be helped. He introduced Dorianne to his relatives. A bolt of jealousy surged through him when both his cousins kissed her hand and showed their unbridled appreciation for her beauty.

“I’m afraid it’s not comfortable, Dorianne,” Mathieu apologized.

She smiled at him, sending another spark of indignation through Robert. He would have to keep an eye on these cousins of his.

“I’m grateful for it, Mathieu,” she replied.

As they rode away from the Abbey, Dorianne looked up at the workmen who were hauling up another basket of slate. What was she thinking? He caught her eye and she smiled. “I pondered if there was a way to use it to escape,” she confessed.

Robert returned the smile with a chuckle. “And I was scheming how to use it to rescue you! Thank goodness it didn’t come to that. I’ve no head for heights!”

~~~

By the time they arrived in Cherbourg a day and a half later, Dorianne was bruised and stiff. The cart had saved her derrière from further aggravation, but the journey had been bone-jarring. However, it had provided many hours in which to contemplate her situation.

Everything had happened quickly. A short time ago she did not know Robert de Montbryce, now here she was en route to meet his parents in England. But he was the son of an Earl, a future Comte, and the history between their families did not bode well. At least Pierre had come to his senses and admitted continuing the feud was pointless. It was a miracle. She had begun to despair of her brother’s sanity. She hoped he had gone to confess his sin against her and been shriven of it.

And what of her own parents? Would her father too come to see that marriage to Robert de Montbryce was not only her heart’s desire, but also good for their family? She fervently hoped so and resolved to pray diligently on the matter.

She felt safe surrounded by the Montbryce clan. What impressive men they were—tall, well-muscled, and good natured. And Robert was the handsomest. She would be a good wife to him.

~~~

Dorianne’s exhilaration that they were crossing the Narrow Sea during daylight was written all over her fair face. She had never been in a boat. The wind brought color back into her cheeks. It lifted his heart. He wanted her to look her best when he presented her to his parents. Fortunately, her wimple would hide the damage done to her hair until it grew back. He knew it distressed her.

He had been a good sailor when he was a boy, but as he grew to adulthood the waves and the tossing often got the better of him. He tried his best not to retch in front of Dorianne, but it was a lost cause, and she ministered to him.

“I’m sorry. Your great hero is nothing but a man who can’t control his need to retch his guts into the sea. I am my father’s son.”

“Robert,” she soothed. “I’ve heard tell many people are unable to avoid retching when at sea. I’m happy to comfort you my love, as you’ve ministered to me this last while.”

Hugh chuckled as his son and nephews fell victim to mal de mer. “As usual, it’s proven I’m the only true descendant of our Norse forebears.”

As they neared the mouth of the Portus, Robert found his sea legs and was able to help with the landing. They dragged the longboat up on the shore where Mathieu announced his intention to ride to East Preston, one of his father’s manors in Sussex, since it was nearby. “I’ll join you at Melton Manor if I find all is well,” he added.

They arrived at Melton Manor a few hours later and Melton’s chest swelled as they entered the Manor for which he had been named. It was a holding that had been in his mother’s Saxon family for generations. Indeed, Devona’s ancestors had built the imposing house atop its craggy cliff overlooking the sea.

All Montbryces were well versed in the oft told tale of the secret passageway from the house to the beach below. Dorianne was intrigued when Robert told her the story.

“Can we explore it?” she asked.

Hugh laughed. “You wouldn’t want to, Dorianne. It may sound intriguing, but it was dark and smelly and dangerous when I was in it more than twenty years ago.”

Melton had overheard and offered to show Dorianne how the secret doorway opened, but would not take her into the passageway.

Again Robert chided himself for the jealous feelings this offer fostered in him. The sooner he married this woman, the better!

~~~

Two days later they were underway, bound for Ellesmere. They made good progress. It was a route Robert had travelled many times.

“How will your parents receive me?” Dorianne asked.

He shifted in the saddle and thought on his answer for a while. She fidgeted with the reins. After several minutes he replied. “They’ll be shocked, I can’t deny it, Dorianne. But my parents are—unusual.”

She furrowed her brow. “Unusual?”

Robert smiled. “Oui. They believe in the power of love.”

Dorianne was silent for a while and then ventured, “I have no experience to which I can attach your statement. Indeed I’ve heard my father say some churchmen preach that noblemen who profess love for their wives are committing adultery. I don’t understand. They love each other?”

“Oui! Sûrement. Definitely, and they love me and my brother, Baudoin, my sister, Rhoni and my half brother, Caedmon. Don’t worry. It’s a lot to digest. You’ll see when you meet them.”

Dorianne’s eyes widened. “Can there exist a family where love rules instead of hate? Will they love me as they love you?”

Robert laughed, leaned over and pecked a kiss on her forehead, his heart touched by her yearning to be loved. “They’ll adore you, as I do.”

Her eyes betrayed her fatigue. He decided to send messengers ahead to warn of his arrival and to let the castle at Ellesmere know he was travelling with a Norman noblewoman who should be treated as an honored guest, but who might need care.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Days later Robert and an exhausted Dorianne arrived with their escort. Robert left his beloved in the chamber prepared for her and went to see his parents awaiting him in the Map Room. As he approached the door, he overheard his mother’s excitement.

“He’s bringing a prospective bride, Ram. I know it. Why else would he bring a Norman noblewoman here? Antoine intimated Robert was detained by matters of the heart. I can’t wait to meet her. But why does he say she needs care? She must be ill.”

“Be calm, Mabelle,” his father replied. “Don’t get too excited. Let’s wait and see. He’s coming primarily to bring us news of the Grand Council.”

Robert cleared his throat loudly and entered. Baudoin, Caedmon and Rhoni were with his parents. Ronan had insisted his wife remain in England while matters were so volatile in Normandie. His brothers greeted him, then he embraced his sister. “Rhoni, little Welsh woman, you grow more beautiful every time I see you.”

She smiled. “You’re a tease Robert, but I love you for it.”

“Robert, mon fils,” his father embraced him. “I’m always relieved to see you arrive safely. It’s not an easy journey. How fares your travelling companion?”

“She’s well, all things considered,” he replied vaguely. “Perhaps we can talk about her later. We must discuss the situation in Normandie. Antoine told you most of what occurred?”

For the next two hours they discussed the arguments and counter arguments expressed at the Council. Robert confided he had not wanted to support Henry, but now thought better of it. “I’ve committed our resources and our men to Henry, in accordance with your wishes, Papa,” he said confidently.

Ram shrugged. “I wish I was as sure of Henry’s success as you apparently do.”

Mabelle huffed impatiently. “Now, Robert, what of this noblewoman who has accompanied you? What role is she to play? I sense nervousness. Why did Antoine come in your stead?”

Robert’s jaw clenched. “She’s to play the role of my wife, Maman.”

Mabelle clasped her hands to her mouth and a squealing sound emerged. “Robert! I’m overjoyed—but you don’t seem to be. I sense a difficulty.”

Robert kept silent for a few minutes. He stood, walked over to his mother and took both her hands in his. He went down on one knee in front of her and looked into her eyes.

“Maman, you know I would never do anything to hurt you or Papa. You can trust what I’m going to tell you isn’t said with any hurtful intent, nor with malice.”

~~~

Mabelle could hear her heart beating in her ears as her son spoke. From the desperate look in his eyes, whatever response she gave would affect all their lives. She braced herself, but was completely taken aback when he said calmly, “My betrothed’s name is Dorianne de Giroux.”

She hoped Robert had not seen the flicker of horror in her eyes.

“I know I have no right to ask this of you, I know it will hurt you, but don’t I have as much right as you to hate the Giroux family? I love Dorianne and want her to bear my children, your grandchildren.”

No one spoke. Rhoni seemed to be studying the elaborately tiled floor. Baudoin’s voice broke the silence. “Robert, you’ve always been a brother I’ve been proud to look up to, to respect. I’ve never known you to make a decision that wasn’t in the best interests of our family. We’ve endured many challenges together. This is another, as is the coming war. I haven’t met Dorianne, but I know you would not propose marriage to a woman who would harm us as a family. This must have been a hard choice to make.”

Mabelle saw the relief on Robert’s face as he embraced his brother. It brought tears to her eyes. Once more, Baudoin, the taciturn son, had surprised everyone with his perception and forthrightness. She looked at Robert and struggled to control her voice. “We’ll face this together, Robert. I would meet this extraordinary young woman who has overcome your feelings about the family that has done ours much harm in the past.”

“I’ll bring her to the gallery,” Robert said, rising to his feet and letting go of his mother’s trembling hand.

As soon as Robert left, Ram moved to embrace Mabelle. She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ve faced many challenges in my life with you, Ram, but this is one that might defeat me. When I look at the girl I’ll be reminded of the miserable years I spent with my father, and of the horror of Phillippe de Giroux.”

He cradled her in his arms and rocked her. “And yet, Mabelle, you can look at Caedmon and not be reminded of my infidelity.”

Rhoni spoke up. “What’s the alternative, Maman? Will we reject her? If we do, we reject Robert and the choice he has made. He’s my brother. I won’t reject him.”

~~~

A short time later, Robert returned with a very nervous Dorianne. She was still experiencing some lingering discomfort. Nevertheless, she determined to present a good impression as she met her beloved’s parents for the first time. They would see she was the well brought up daughter of a Norman baron. Robert held her hand tightly and introduced her.

“Papa, maman, Baudoin, Caedmon, Rhoni, please welcome to our home my betrothed, Dorianne de Giroux.”

Turning to Dorianne he continued. “Dorianne, I present to you my father and mother, the Earl and Countess of Ellesmere, Ram and Mabelle de Montbryce, and my brothers, Baudoin and Caedmon, and my dear sister, Hylda Rhonwen. We call her Rhoni.”

Dorianne was struck immediately by the striking resemblance the four men shared. This was where Robert had inherited his dark good looks. She sensed hostility, especially from Robert’s mother, the woman whose father had begun the terrible feud.

Hoping her pain and exhaustion were not apparent, she curtseyed deeply and bowed her head. “Milord Earl and Countess, I thank you for welcoming me to your home.”

Ram took Dorianne’s hand and said formally, “Welcome to Ellesmere, Lady Dorianne.”

As Dorianne attempted to rise, the blood rushed to her head. She swayed as the room swam around her. Ram took hold of her elbow and helped her to a chair. She flinched as she sat down heavily.

Mabelle rushed over. “What is it, my dear?”

Robert moved quickly to help Dorianne stand, and she recovered her equilibrium, horrified at what had happened. “Dorianne was harmed,” he said grimly.

“Harmed?” Ram exclaimed. “By whom?”

Dorianne knew Robert had no choice. The look in his eyes said he would have to explain. “Her brother, Pierre. She didn’t want me to tell you. He whipped her. It brought on a fever.”

Rhoni gasped audibly. Tears streamed down Dorianne’s face. What must these people think of her family? “But he has repented. He has seen the error of what he did. Ask Robert.”

Everyone looked at Robert whose face betrayed his doubt. Somehow, someday she would make Robert see her brother had repented.

The shock was evident in the Countess’s voice as she shook her head. “Dorianne, you’re obviously as much a victim of the bitter feud between our families as we have been. I assume you were punished for caring for my son. Though wounded, you’ve been willing to undertake this arduous journey for Robert’s sake.”

There was no trace of hostility in her voice as she said, “Robert, take this lovely young woman back to her chamber. She needs rest. Has Carys seen her yet?”

“Non, maman, I was trying to take care of her myself,” he replied sheepishly.

“Robert, you’re not a healer. Ask Carys to come at once to Dorianne’s chamber.”

Turning to Dorianne she said softly, “Dorianne, many years ago I was the victim of the consequences of my father’s anger towards your grandfather and the unspeakable things he perpetrated. This family, including Robert, have suffered much because of it. But I know your family has suffered too, and is obviously still suffering from the long held hatreds. You and I must lay that hatred to rest once and for all. It will keep trying to raise its ugly head, but we must defeat it.”

Dorianne felt dizzy with relief on hearing these words from the Countess. It was the truth, and she grieved her father might not put hatred aside. She was at once filled with hope and despair. How to put that into words other than a simple, but heartfelt, “Merci, Madame Comtesse.”

Robert turned to his father. “I’ll wed Dorianne as soon as possible, Papa. I would prefer to have the ceremony here with you and Maman present. I want your blessing on this union. It’s vital for the good of my soul, and it will be important when we return to face the difficulties awaiting us in Normandie. To be frank we would have difficulty marrying in Normandie without her father’s permission.”

Smiling, Ram reassured his son. “Take Dorianne to her chamber and we’ll discuss preparations when you return.”

Robert escorted his betrothed and delivered her into the capable hands of Carys, the healer, daughter of Rhodri and Rhonwen.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWELVE

Baudoin de Montbryce was conflicted. He was immensely relieved his brother had at last brought home a woman he wanted to marry, a woman he obviously loved. The succession of the Montbryce family through Robert was vital.

However, it was typical of Robert to come along and steal the thunder yet again, just as Baudoin was on the point of revealing his love for Carys to his parents.

After Robert’s stunning revelation of his feelings for Dorianne, he decided it was time to act. He and Carys met secretly in the gallery and he told her the news.

“Carys, I long for you,” he whispered in her ear, nibbling her earlobe.

She molded her body to his. “Baudoin, I want to be yours. I love to feel your strong arms around me.”

He fingered the ends of her chestnut hair and breathed in its scent, the scent of herbs and wholesomeness that was pure Carys. “We’ll be together my love, despite the obstacles,” he swore.

She took hold of his hands and put them to her lips. “My mother knows about us.”

His heart lurched. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s a perceptive woman who knows us both well. What did she say about your father?”

She twined her fingers in Baudoin’s. “She said there would be difficulties. I reminded her she and my father had difficulties to face when they fell in love.”

He pressed his need against her as they kissed. He traced his fingers over the contours of her breasts and sensed her arousal as she moaned. He was elated he had been gifted with love and passion in the same woman, a woman who longed to join her body to his, to become one with him.

“Will your father consent?”

Her eyes flashed. “You’re my destiny, Baudoin. I have known it since the moment I met you. My father is a great believer in destiny.”

He leaned his forehead against hers. “I wish I’d resolved this problem earlier. My mother probably believes I’m over my infatuation with you. Now Robert has presented our parents with the dilemma of Dorianne de Giroux.”

“Why not talk to Robert? He might sympathise with our plight.”

He hugged her tightly. “I’ll do that, wise Welsh woman.”

~~~

Carys assured Robert that Dorianne needed rest and loving care.

“I can give her that,” he replied with a smile. He had always liked the Welsh girl, though she was Rhodri’s daughter, and could understand his brother’s obvious attraction to her. “Poor Baudoin,” he thought, “as if my marrying a Giroux isn’t a big enough problem, imagine if my brother wanted to marry Carys!”

After Carys’s departure, Robert dismissed Dorianne’s maid, Margene, a girl who had been with the Montbryce family since childhood. She was the granddaughter of Giselle, Mabelle’s faithful maidservant and chatelaine for many years. There was censure in Margene’s eyes, but she bowed and left.

Robert sat with Dorianne for a while and they talked over his parents’ suggestions for the ceremony. It was planned to take place in three sennights in the church his father had commissioned. He did not want to be away from Saint Germain de Montbryce for such a long period, but at least then Dorianne would be fully recovered. It would give his parents some time to plan a wedding his mother deemed suitable for an Earl’s eldest son.

Sitting beside Dorianne he became aroused. He itched to run his hands over her body, to ignite the passion he sensed within her. The potion Carys had given her was taking effect. The healer had left behind some of her medicinals and he sauntered over to take a look, delighted to find a vial of almond oil. He took out the stopper and inhaled deeply, an arousing vision playing with his thoughts. He brought the vial to Dorianne’s chair and knelt at her feet.

“Let me soothe you,” he whispered, slipping off her shoes and stockings.

She sighed and closed her eyes.

He poured oil into his palm and rubbed his hands together to warm them. He took hold of one foot and massaged it, kissing her toes as he kneaded. He repeated his ministrations with the other foot.

She sighed contentedly. “No man has ever touched my feet before.”

Her words sent blood rushing to his groin. He massaged up her skirts to her knees, kissing each in turn and stroking the backs. Then he slowly moved his fingers further and further up. As his fingertips brushed the tops of her thighs, her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him through long brown lashes. He flared his nostrils. The intoxicating scent of female arousal mingled with the aroma of the almond oil.

“Let me look at you, Dorianne,” he murmured as he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

He carefully peeled down the bodice of her gown to reveal her lovely breasts straining at the light fabric of her shift. He bent to kiss her shoulder then trailed his kisses down to the tip of her breast, suckling her through the fabric. Her moans aroused him further.

“May I undress you, my love?” he whispered, as he lifted the dress and shift from her body. “I’ll be gentle.”

She did not resist. Should he continue? Could he pleasure her without meeting his own needs? He sincerely wanted to save that experience for their wedding night. He knelt beside her and looked at her naked body for the first time, finding it difficult to believe he had stumbled upon this beautiful woman. He poured more oil into his palms and massaged her breasts, feeling the dark nipples harden as he teasingly touched and licked them.

She arched her back and breathed his name, “Robert—Robert—”

Sensing her need building, he replenished the oil and resumed his massaging of her thighs. His thumbs came closer and closer to the dark triangle. She writhed and whispered his name more urgently. “Robert, Robert.”

He tore off his shirt and placed his hands on her hips, then drew her legs up on to his shoulders. Her eyes flew open as his mouth claimed her. She tasted sweet and salty at the same time.

“Robert.” Her plea was more strident now.

“Hush, Dorianne, hush,” he whispered as his tongue flicked over her most intimate part.

She cried out her release, clutching the linens, never taking her eyes from his. He’d an urge to rip off the rest of his clothes and plunge his rock hard erection into her. It took every shred of control he had to lay her quivering body back down on the linens. He left her to find a cloth to wipe the excess oil from her body. She had the sated look of a woman experiencing her first orgasmic experience and his heart soared he had been the one to initiate her. “Wait until we’re married my love. Then we’ll experience paradise together.”

He rolled her over and smoothed his hands over the healing welts. “I hope I didn’t hurt your scars.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t give them a thought,” she admitted with a languid sigh.

He kissed her bottom, then brought her a nightgown, tugged it over her head, and covered her with the bed linens. She curled up and dozed off immediately, the potion having its desired effect. He retrieved his clothing, tiptoed out of the room, closed the door, and leaned his head against it. Now he had a problem. What to do with the raging ache at his groin?

He turned and bumped into his brother.

“How is Dorianne?” Baudoin asked with a smile, raising his eyebrows at Robert’s obvious discomfort.

Robert adjusted his leggings, and finished fastening his shirt and doublet. “She’s getting better, brother. I’m helping make sure of it!”

Baudoin snorted. “No doubt! Listen, Robert—I need to speak with you—you’re probably the only person who will understand a predicament I find myself in.”

“It’s Carys, isn’t it?”

Baudoin chuckled, and ran his hand over his forehead. “Is it so obvious? I thought we’d been careful. But I love her, Robert. I’ve been drawn to her from the moment I first met her years ago when she was thirteen. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Her smile was dazzling. She had a dark Celtic mystery that intrigued me.”

Robert laughed. “What you mean is your lance saluted as soon as you saw her!”

Baudoin looked sheepish. “Well, oui, but she was attracted to me, too. I could tell.”

“But she was thirteen, Baudoin, too young to understand what happens between men and women.”

Baudoin shook his head. “Maybe, but don’t forget she’s the daughter of a healer who’s very open on such topics. Anyway, she’s not thirteen now. If you can marry a Giroux, why can’t I marry Rhodri’s daughter? Her father is the Prince of Powwydd, even if he’s our father’s sworn enemy.”

Robert nodded. “But Papa is aware, as we all are, that Rhodri has not attacked any of our lands since he married Rhonwen, out of respect for our mother.”

Baudoin snickered. “Rhonwen would have something to say if he did attack Ellesmere. She’s visited here frequently over the years. We’re the closest thing she has to family.”

“And Papa is the one who has tacitly allowed safe passage for the Welshmen who’ve accompanied her and her children.”

They walked along the corridor as Baudoin continued. “Rhodri kidnapped the two of us, and I hold no rancor towards him, nor do you. Let’s admit it—we liked him.”

They paused when they reached Baudoin’s chamber. Robert turned to his brother. “You managed to manipulate our mother into asking Papa to let Carys stay at the castle permanently as one of the resident healers.”

Baudoin smiled. “Rhonwen has passed on many of her skills to her daughter, and I convinced them that surely the castle folk would benefit. She’s inherited her mother’s mystical abilities to heal. Eventually Papa conceded. I’m sure Maman had her suspicions about my motivation. I don’t know if our parents are aware of it, but Carys and I often meet each other secretly here at Ellesmere.”

Robert arched his brows and frowned. “Oh, they probably do know. Carys has grown from a lovely girl into a beautiful young woman.”

Baudoin became wistful. “Maybe I’ve found the one thing I believed I never would, something our parents have.”

Robert shook his head. “The challenges facing you will be enormous.” Then he laughed and slapped his brother on the back. “What a strange family we are don’t you think, Baudoin? We’re the sons of two people who flout the norm and actually love each other. Caedmon is besotted with his Agneta, and you and I have had the unusual great fortune to fall in love with women we want to marry—though it seems we have chosen the most difficult path possible. It’s the Montbryce family curse! Look at Rhoni. Could there have been a more unlikely choice than Ronan?”

Baudoin put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and laughed with him. “And what about our uncles—Hugh with his Devona and Antoine with Sybilla. You’ll have no objection then to my speaking to our parents? It’s not too soon after the shock you’ve given them?”

Robert’s facial expression changed and he became serious. “Baudoin, we’ll soon be embroiled in the conflict between Henry and Curthose. Take this opportunity and seize your happiness.”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ram was angry. “Baudoin, this is too much. First your brother comes with this notion of marrying a Giroux and now you want to marry the daughter of my sworn enemy! Rhodri will fight this to the bitter end. He’ll never agree to your marriage, and if he does, his hot-headed sons won’t. Your pursuit of Carys could restart the hostilities we’ve had the good fortune to live without for many years.”

Baudoin clenched his jaw. They rarely argued, but now his son responded angrily. “Am I then the only Montbryce not to be allowed to wed for love? You’re quick to boast how fortunate you are to be a man who loves his wife, and yet you would deny me the possibility?”

Ram felt his rheumatic knees would not support him much longer. “But are you sure you love her, Baudoin? And does she feel the same? Has she considered the ramifications?” he asked, wondering if he had ever seen Baudoin so animated.

“Mon père,” Baudoin replied indignantly, “I’m not a child. I’m a man. I was man enough to accompany you to Constantinople on your perilous search for Caedmon, I’m man enough to be the heir apparent to Ellesmere, a castle I’m more or less running already, yet you don’t judge me man enough to recognize love when it stabs me in the heart?”

Ram watched Mabelle struggle to sort out her mixed feelings. But Baudoin was right, and he sensed Mabelle knew it.

“Baudoin,” his mother said softly, “your father and I are happy for your love of Carys. We’re not as young and resilient as we used to be, and sudden shocks are more difficult to accept. I believe it would be rather wonderful if we had a double wedding. Seeing both my sons happily married would be a bright spot in an otherwise rather desperate time.”

“Thank you, maman,” Baudoin replied, embracing her. “So, Papa, do I have your blessing also?”

Ram shrugged and said, “Evidently I’m not the head of my own household!” But he smiled as he said, “Oui, but you must now seek out Rhodri.”

~~~

The first person Baudoin sought out was Carys and he shared his good news with her. “Carys, you know how much I want you. Sometimes it takes all my control not to rip the clothes off your body and make love to you. But I’ve held back, fearing we could never be together. I didn’t want to have you as my mistress. My parents have at long last given us their blessing. Will you come now to my chamber?”

Carys gasped. “I’ve longed to make you mine, Baudoin. I’ve dreamt of it often and the intensity of my dreams has been—”

Baudoin understood Carys’s deep Celtic belief in the power of her dreams. He kissed her, elated at how readily she became aroused. She parted her lips for him readily and he savored the warmth of her mouth. She tasted of peppermint. They broke apart and walked arm in arm to his chamber. He unwound the wimple from her hair and inhaled deeply as he ran his fingers through it. “What is the scent in your hair?”

She smiled. “It’s elder flowers, and burdock root.”

He nuzzled her nape. “Soft,” he murmured. He put his hands on her hips and lifted off the tabard she wore when she worked.

“Take off your dress, Carys. I want to see you.”

She stooped to grasp the hem of her dress and raised her arms to lift the garment over her head. His mouth went dry as the fabric whispered against her skin. Though her chemise was ample, he could see the outline of her breasts. The hard pebbles of her nipples were clearly discernible. He had fondled them before in stolen moments and pressed his lips to them, but had never seen her naked. He was afraid if he spoke now, his voice would fail him.

Without him asking, never taking her eyes from his, and without shame or shyness, she quickly removed the chemise and stood proudly before him. He swallowed hard. “You are magnificent, Carys. So natural and so free. Will you undress me now?”

She smiled and flared her nostrils. His heart thudded in his ears. He had removed his doublet and now wore only his shirt, leggings and braies. She tugged the linen shirt over his head, and ran her healing hands over the muscles of his chest. When she glanced up at him, he sensed she was hesitant to remove the rest of his clothing. He took her hands in his and placed them on his waist, helping her pull the leggings down over his hips. She blushed. He stepped out of his leggings and placed her hands on his belly.

He put his hands on her hips. “Untie my braies, Carys—please,” he coaxed, looking into her eyes.

She peeled the linen braies from his body. Her breath caught when his shaft sprang free of the confines of the fabric, fully erect. For a moment she looked afraid. He embraced her, pulling their bodies together, his manhood pressed against her belly. The warmth of her skin penetrated to his core. “Don’t worry, my love. It will be all right. I want to worship you with my body. I’ve burned for you.”

His words seemed to have a hypnotic effect on her and she swayed against him. He leaned away from her, took hold of his shaft and slid it between her legs. His Celtic beauty was warm and wet for him, and it was all he could do not to thrust into her. He was breathing too fast, his heart racing. She moaned when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger.

“Carys,” he whispered, brushing his lips over hers. He wanted this woman more than he had ever wanted anything, but he would not shame her. He wanted her to bear his children, but as his rightful heirs, not his bastards.

He took her hand. “Carys, I’m going to make you mine, only mine. But I don’t intend to plant my seed within you yet. I’ll only do that when we’re married.”

He was not sure she understood what he meant, what such an action would cost him. He picked her up and laid her on his bed where she stretched innocently, her eyes bright, like a cat begging to be stroked and petted. He lay down beside her and suckled, letting his fingers roam softly over her stomach, down her thighs, around her navel, up her neck, down her spine. He suckled harder and harder as his need grew, his teeth grazing the rock-hard nipple. She growled, raking her fingers along his scalp. When he stroked her intimate place it was but seconds before her lush body arched and she convulsed with the strength of her release.

He held her tightly until her breathing slowed, his head on her breast.

“I’ve ached for you to touch me there,” she whispered.

He looked up. Her passion-glazed eyes held only trust and desire. She nodded and opened her legs wider. He dipped his fingers carefully in her hot wetness. He raised his body over her and slowly entered, pushing past the barrier. She cried out and her eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip. He stopped, and waited, hoping he wouldn’t have to wait long.

“Tell me when I can move again. I need to move,” he rasped.

“You can move, my love,” she whispered.

He began slowly, but as he felt the heat build inside her tight passage, he thrust harder and harder, deeper and deeper. She matched his rhythm. Her muscles clenched on him when her second release overwhelmed her. Her guttural cries made his heart soar. She revelled in his possession of her. Her eyes held a look of triumph.

He wanted to stay inside this woman, to possess her completely, but he could not. He wrenched from her and spilled on her belly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He buried his head in the pillow not wanting her to see him grit his teeth in frustration. His body had found release, but his heart was unsatisfied.

As if she sensed his unease, she drew his head to rest again on her breasts, stroking his hair, making soothing sounds, holding him close. She crooned a Welsh lullaby. He had died and gone to heaven. He touched the sheen on her belly. She put her hand on his and lazily traced her finger through the glistening wetness.

“Sticky,” she murmured.

Renewed interest stirred in his groin.

“I’m yours now, Baudoin,” she whispered.

“You’ve always been mine, Carys. When we’re married, I’ll pump my seed as far inside you as I can, not spill on your belly.”

He kissed her forehead, rose from the bed and went to get water and a linen cloth, returning to cleanse her.

“I want to send a message to your father,” he said as he wiped her thighs and belly, then cleansed the blood from his shaft. “It’s time.”

She rose up on her knees and clung to him. “Oh Baudoin,” she cried. “What if he doesn’t agree?”

He held her tightly, inhaling the clean scent of her hair, stroking her back. There were difficulties ahead, but they had to be faced. Carys would never marry him if her father objected. “On the morrow, I’ll write a letter to him, requesting a meeting. We’ll find a messenger who can take it to him. Do you know where he is?”

“Yes, he’s in the border village of Rhydycroesau,” she replied.

He laughed. “That’s auspicious. It’s the last place I saw him, after we were ransomed.”

~~~

Baudoin’s heartbeat thrummed through Carys. She wanted to believe they would marry, but had she been so caught up in her deep need to mate with him that she had allowed him to take her maidenhead prematurely? Her heart’s reasoning had obscured the truth of the matter. Rhodri ap Owain would probably rather die than see his daughter wed to a Norman. He had spent his life fighting them.

Her heart had also reasoned that because Baudoin’s parents had given their blessing—something she had despaired of—then perhaps her parents too would agree. She was the daughter of a Welsh prince. In the Norman world she might be a lowly healer, but in Wales she was a princess.

She believed Baudoin was her destiny. Her dreams had led her to this, and she knew her father trusted in the power of dreams. He too believed in destiny. He had often described to his children his dream vision of the goddess Arianrhod that had convinced him Rhonwen would be his wife, despite the difficulties they faced. Her father was a warrior, her mother a healer, a woman of peace. Royal blood flowed through Rhodri’s veins. Rhonwen was the illegitimate daughter of a Welsh healer and a Saxon nobleman. Yet their passion and love for each other had overruled.

What would her brothers say? Rhys, the diplomat, would see the benefit of such a marriage in political terms. Twins Rhun and Rhydderch would be furious. Her elder sister, Myfanwy Mabelle, the prioress—Carys did not know her well enough to predict what her opinion would be.

She had no guilt feelings. She had wanted to possess Baudoin, but she worried what he would do if Rhodri refused permission. It would break her heart, but what would it do to the normally gentle Baudoin?

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When Rhodri received Baudoin’s missive he knew exactly what was afoot. Rhonwen had been dropping hints and had finally told him of Carys’s confession of her love for Baudoin.

It rankled that his daughter would want to wed a Norman, and he hoped she had not already been shamed. However, he was a believer in the power of destiny, and if this was Carys’s destiny, he could not stand in its way. He was reading the letter over when his eldest son entered the room.

“What’s that?” Rhys asked.

Rhodri showed the letter to his son. “Baudoin wants to wed Carys.”

Rhys thought for a while before he spoke. “We already have fairly good relations with the Earl of Ellesmere because of you and Mother—well, because of Mother anyway. An alliance can’t hurt us. But it will mean she’ll have to remain in England, and the political situation between Normandie and England is unstable at best. The Anglo-Normans try to serve two masters. Some day they’ll need to choose between the King of the English and the Duke of the Normans. We may be putting her into the lion’s den.”

Rhun and Rhydderch had entered the room. Both men tensed as they listened to Rhys, but it was Rhun who spoke first. “Aren’t we gathered here to plan strategy for the next round of raids into England, and against footholds the Normans have gained in Wales? Why are we discussing Carys?”

“What are we talking about?” Rhydderch asked. “Putting Carys in what lion’s den?”

These red headed twins were volatile and Rhodri anticipated a strong reaction. He explained the situation to them, seeing their tempers rising.

“You must be mad to consider this Father. A Norman,” Rhydderch spat.

Rhodri held up his hand in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “What if she loves him, my boys, what then? If your mother hadn’t followed her destiny, her love for me, none of you would be here today. And I know Baudoin. He was my pupil!”

Rhun shook his head vehemently. “I can’t condone it, Father.”

“It’s not your decision, Rhun,” his father reminded him. “It’s mine.”

The redheads glowered at him, their tattooed arms folded in defiance across their chests. But they respected his word as law. He would decide Carys’s fate. They might not like his decision, but they would not challenge it.

~~~

There was no mist as Rhodri and his three sons watched Baudoin and Carys ride across the uneven cobblestones of the bridge at Rhydycroesau. Baudoin reined his horse to a halt and called to his former captor. “I haven’t crossed this particular bridge into Wales since the kidnapping. What is it now, twenty-five years ago?”

He smiled across at Carys, mounted on her mare beside him and dismounted. “I remember waving goodbye to your father. I was clutching the wooden shield he had given me in one hand and holding Giselle’s hand with the other.”

Rhodri dismounted. “Five and twenty? Give or take,” he agreed.

Baudoin helped Carys down from her mare. The others remained on their horses. Carys walked to her father and embraced him. “Thank you for coming, Father,” she said in Welsh.

He kissed her forehead. He was proud of his beautiful daughter. She looked well, if nervous. He did not offer his hand to Baudoin, but asked in Welsh, “Baudoin, how is my little Norman warrior?”

“I’m hale, my teacher,” the Norman responded in Welsh. “I’ve come to ask for Carys’s hand in marriage.”

Rhodri shifted his stance—straight to business then. He remained silent for several minutes, staring at Baudoin. When he spoke there was no teasing in his expression. “If you harm my daughter, Norman, I will kill you. I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth and I’ll kill you slowly and painfully.”

Baudoin looked directly at him. “I love her. I won’t harm her.”

Rhodri shook his head and insisted. “There’ll be others where you take her who may wish to harm her.”

Still Baudoin did not look away, his eyes locked on Rhodri’s. “On my honor, I’ll protect her with my life.”

There was a time when the oath of a Norman would have meant nothing to Rhodri, but Baudoin was the son of an honorable man, whose life he had spared many years ago. Baudoin’s sister, Rhoni, had been born in his own fortress of Cadair Berwyn and named for his wife, Rhonwen. It was not long ago he and his men had saved Baudoin’s half-brother from drowning in the River Dee. No, he was not a man to stand in the way of destiny. He turned to his daughter, looked into her eyes and said, “Carys, you’re aware I don’t want you to go with this man. But as you know, I’m a great believer in the power of love.” He winked.

He could tell from his daughter’s expression she found his words amusing when she looked at her fierce father with his wild black hair, his war braids, his tattoos, his intimidating body, his dagger tucked at his waist. She tried hard to control a grin. But she knew he did believe in the power of love. He had wooed a shy healer to share his difficult life. “I’ve never loved you more than I do at this moment,” she rasped. “Father, you know he’s my destiny.”

Rhodri’s eyes filled with tears as he embraced his little girl, remembering how he had told Rhonwen the same thing many years before. Here too was a woman who had known the intimate touch of a man she loved. “Then you must follow your destiny, daughter. Go with him. You have my blessing.”

Rhun urged his horse forward. “But father,” he shouted.

Rhodri raised his hand to silence his son. Rhun gritted his teeth.

Carys strode towards her brothers, smiling. Rhys dismounted and embraced her. “Goodbye, little one,” he said. “Be happy.”

Rhun and Rhydderch would not dismount. She pushed her way between their horses and laid her right hand on Rhun’s knee, and her left on Rhydderch’s. “Goodbye, handsome brothers. You will be in my heart. Be safe. I love you.”

“Goodbye, Carys,” Rhun croaked.

Rhydderch could not speak.

Baudoin helped her mount her mare, remounted his own stallion, then raised his fist in salute to the four warriors who watched him go, taking with him their precious jewel back over the ancient bridge.

Rhys turned to his scowling brothers and said pointedly, “You’ve failed to consider your sister will one day be the Countess of Ellesmere.”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Three sennights later the Montbryce brothers were married to the women they loved in the church their father had commissioned. Mabelle had outdone herself in her efforts to make it a memorable occasion, both for her sons and the local gentry.

“Some people believe you and Robert are twins,” she told him. “You look so alike with your dark hair and blue eyes.”

Baudoin laughed. “Oui, and Caedmon’s presence as the third replica of our father has only added to the delight of those in attendance.”

Mabelle chuckled. Baudoin admired the way his mother had accepted her husband’s illegitimate son and welcomed him into the bosom of their family. He never thought of Caedmon as anything other than his brother.

His mother was still gushing. “Both brides are stunning in their wedding finery. It’s good Carys and Dorianne have become friends.”

He smiled too. “Oui, as soon as they met. Now instead of healer and patient, they will be sisters-by-marriage.”

Mabelle sighed. “It’s unfortunate for both women their fathers aren’t present to see them wed. Rhonwen’s here with Rhys, but it doesn’t bode well that no members of the Giroux family are in attendance, though your father reached out to them by sending messengers. They were refused admittance to Giroux castle.”

Baudoin grasped his mother’s hand in reassurance. “Agneta made the journey from Ruyton with Caedmon and everyone has been delighted to see how their twins, Aidan and Blythe have grown. Now they’re five years old they obviously see themselves as the protectors of their younger siblings, Edwin and baby Ragna.”

Mabelle kissed her son’s hand. “Did you see Caedmon’s face when he and Agneta saw Rhys?”

Baudoin laughed, having heard the tale of Rhodri and Rhys saving Caedmon from drowning when Rhys was a mere lad. “Of course, everyone is taunting me and Robert that it’s now our turn to provide you and Papa with heirs.”

Ram had joined them. He slapped Baudoin on the back when he overheard. “Judging by the lustful looks on your faces when you look at your brides, I doubt it will take long.”

Ram became serious. “Does Caedmon resent that his children can never be Montbryce heirs?”

Baudoin shook his head. “Be assured, Papa, he doesn’t. He’s more than happy with what you have provided for him and his family.”

The guests took their places at table. Trésor and her helpers in the kitchens had prepared a memorable feast to celebrate the event. They dined on roasted goose stuffed with figs, pheasant with boiled leeks, rabbit stew, black bread and of course the trout à la Cuisinière. Those who had room for dessert enjoyed gooseberry tarts and cheese. The wine and ale flowed freely and Ram gave orders for two of the kegs of the Montbryce apple brandy brought from Normandie and kept in the cellars for special occasions to be opened.

“I can’t think of a more special occasion than this,” he quipped as he offered a toast to his sons and their new wives.

“I wish to propose a toast to my sons, Robert and Baudoin, and to their beautiful wives, Dorianne and Carys. Mabelle and I’ve been blessed to have two such proud Normans as our sons. The future of the Montbryce name is in good hands.”

Cheering broke out as everyone raised their goblets to the newlyweds.

Robert stood to respond to the toast. “Milord Earl and Countess of Ellesmere, Comte and Comtesse de Montbryce, I know I speak for my brother as well as myself when I say it was our great good fortune to be born your sons. It’s our awesome responsibility to ensure the continuance of the great name of Montbryce, and again I know I speak for both of us when I say we’ll do our very best in that task.”

He winked at Baudoin. Guffaws echoed through the appreciative crowd.

“But I want to finish by saying it’s been my honor to share this important day of my life with Baudoin. He’s a man to emulate and I’m proud to have him as my brother.”

Baudoin was humbled his older brother would pay him such homage. Mabelle could contain her tears no longer and cried on Ram’s shoulder. Rhys comforted his mother as she too wept.

~~~

Dorianne leaned over and whispered in her husband’s ear. “Carys and I are nervous about what will happen when it comes time for the two of you to take us to bed.”

Robert looked at her strangely. Surely she knew?

Dorianne blushed. “Non, I mean, we’ve heard tales of bawdy revellers forcing newlyweds to join their bodies in public, and we dread the possibility.”

Robert took her hand, and smiled across at Carys, who was nervously biting her lip. “I can assure both of you no such thing will be allowed to happen. Neither of us wants anybody else ogling our wife’s body. We’ll be escorted to our chambers, undressed by our servants, in private, and tucked up in bed together. Then the bishop will give his blessing, and the revellers will leave.”

Baudoin had overheard. “Then we’ll get down to business, in private,” he laughed, rubbing his hands together.

As the festivities drew to a close, Robert and Dorianne were the first to be escorted to their chamber, since he was the eldest son. It was the first time Dorianne had been in Robert’s chamber. A cheerful fire warmed the room. A carved wooden screen had been placed at one end, and she and Margene stepped behind it. The maidservant helped her remove her gown, veil, chemise, shoes and hose. She gasped at the flimsy nightgown Margene carefully fastened around her. But then the maid produced a voluminous bed gown and wrapped Dorianne in it, pulling the belt tight.

“Only for milord’s eyes, in my opinion. Not those who want to ogle,” Margene whispered.

Robert’s friends and brothers were divesting him of his clothing, tossing it here and there, and he eased into a red silk bed robe, cinching it lightly around his waist. Smiling and waving to the cheering and jeering crowd, he strode proudly across the room and climbed into bed beside a blushing Dorianne. She was propped up against a large bolster, having been tucked in by Margene.

The Bishop intoned a brief prayer of blessing and sprinkled the bed with holy water. Then, despite ribald urgings from the guests to Get on with it, Robert pointed to the door with an imperious wave of the hand. He teased his brother with mock humility. “Baudoin, I apologise I’ll be unable to escort you and your lovely bride to your chambers. I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy.”

“Never fear,” Baudoin responded with equal levity. “I’ll manage without your help.”

The last to leave as he ushered the well-wishers out, Ram gave Robert a wink and closed the door. The newlyweds heard the merry voices continuing on to Baudoin’s chambers.

“Alone at last,” Robert quipped to his bride. He slipped off the silk bed robe, lifting his hips to free the fabric from beneath him. He helped her remove the bed robe she wore, then drew her on top of his body. The silk of her nightgown inflamed him as he felt its coolness on his chest and on his already aching shaft. She nestled her head against his neck and nibbled him. He hunched his shoulders and laughed. “I’m ticklish.”

She raised her head, smiled a wicked smile and resumed her nibbling. Her body warmed and he wondered if she was already wet for him. He laughed again and held her away, instantly missing the feel of the cool silk on his sack.

“I love this flimsy frock you wear, but it will have to go,” he said, holding her with one arm and trying to lift the shift from her body.

She raised her arms to help him, stoking the fires of his need as her body was revealed. The logs in the hearth crackled.

“You’re beautiful, Dorianne,” he whispered, pulling her back on top of him.

With her forearms on his chest she raised up to look at him. He flicked his tongue, wanting to lick the twin globes pouting together enticingly between her upper arms, the nipples begging to be suckled. The glow of the fire danced on her skin. She lowered her body and touched her tongue to his. They lapped at each other lovingly. He licked her lips, the corners of her mouth, then increased the pressure of his kiss as his need and his arousal grew. He explored the warmth of her mouth, her teeth, tasting apple brandy. She sucked rhythmically on his tongue. Keeping their mouths joined he rolled her off his body and on to the bed beside him.

She broke away, her expression uncertain. “I’m not sure—”

Robert’s heart thudded. She had never touched his manhood. He took her hand and placed it on his shaft. “Move your hand on me,” he whispered, showing her how.

Taking her other hand he placed it on his sack. “Like this. Pull up and squeeze. Gently.”

She did as he showed her and he exhaled loudly. “That feels good.”

She arched her back, thrusting her breasts upwards. “I’m light headed,” she rasped.

Blood is rushing to my head too!

His mouth found a nipple and suckled. She hummed, deep in the back of her throat, and pressed her belly against his erection. Her eyes widened and her breath caught.

“You’re getting bigger,” she whispered.

“Don’t be afraid, I will fit. I’ll make you ready. There’ll be but a moment’s pain and then—”

He could not speak. He loved this woman so deeply the words foretelling the ultimate passion he hoped they would share in a few minutes were too much to squeeze out of his dry throat. He grasped the back of her warm neck and buried his face in her soft hair. His passion seemed to arouse her.

“I’m yours to do with as you will, Robert,” she whispered, her eyes bright.

Remembered visions of his hands kneading her breasts glistening with fragrant oil and his mouth on her sex carried him to greater heights. He reached to touch her female nub. He covered her scream with his mouth, her wetness flooding his fingers. She convulsed as release shuddered through her.

He knelt between her legs as she opened for him. “I can’t wait any longer, Dorianne. I need to be inside you now.”

“I’m ready,” she murmured lovingly, and his soaring heart knew she was.

He was a big man and hoped the pain would not be too great. He slid his whole length into her and felt the barrier tear. The warmth of her maiden’s blood mingled with her woman’s juices flooded over him like a tidal wave. He was a drowning man who did not want to be rescued. He took his weight on his elbows and crushed her breasts to his chest. She didn’t cry out.

“Am I hurting you?” he rasped as he pounded into her. “I can’t stop.”

She shook her head, her eyes glazed. “I relish it, Robert. It’s my rite of passage into womanhood.”

He sent a prayer of thanks heavenward he had been gifted with this remarkable young woman as she surrendered her body to his possession, her muscles pulsating against his shaft. Moments later the white heat surged from his body into hers and his release engulfed him.

~~~

Baudoin did not spill on the sheets of his matrimonial bed. As promised, he pumped his seed as far inside his mystically beautiful wife as he could, and relished her obvious enjoyment of his possession of her. There would be difficulties, but she was his now and nothing could part them.

~~~

Robert and Dorianne left for Normandie two days later. Hugh met them at Montbryce Castle, and brought Robert up to date on the political situation which had predictably deteriorated into two distinct camps. Curthose was openly planning an invasion of England. Robert had brought troops from Ellesmere to strengthen his garrison and made preparations to defend the castle against attack by Curthose supporters if it came. He half expected the Duke himself to come to persuade him to fight on his side, and was relieved when that did not happen. Given the danger of venturing beyond the castle environs, he and Dorianne spent most of their time together, enjoying the exhilarating passion they shared.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In the month of July in the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and One, Curthose landed at Portsmouth with an invading army. Ram and Mabelle were relieved Robert would not be among the Norman knights accompanying Curthose, but anxious because Baudoin and Caedmon had gone south to fight for Henry. Mabelle did what she could to cheer Carys.

After many long, tense days, it was Baudoin who returned home with good news. “You were correct, Papa, in your assessment that the supporters of William Rufus would in turn support Henry. So did the Church.”

Ram exhaled loudly and tightened his arm around Mabelle’s waist. “It’s over then? Caedmon is safe also?”

Baudoin’s squire helped Carys remove his armor, and once that was accomplished, he sat down wearily, drawing Carys on to his lap. “Oui, he’s gone straight home to Ruyton. But it’s a stalemate, with Henry keeping England and Curthose getting a pension of Two Thousand Pounds per annum. The treaty calls for an amnesty.”

Ram shook his head and slumped into a chair, drawing Mabelle onto his lap. “But you know Henry will seek revenge on anyone who has supported Curthose. Thank God we seem to have made the right decision.”

Mabelle spoke for the first time. “A stalemate won’t ease tensions in Normandie. It has only put things off. We still serve two masters. It’s untenable. Curthose will be incensed with the nobles who didn’t support him, in particular his former allies.”

“Like the Montbryces.” Baudoin voiced what all knew in their hearts. “He probably believes that if he could have shown he had the support of Robert’s men from Normandie and ours in England the outcome might have been different. No doubt he will spread his rancor among disgruntled supporters.”

~~~

Baudoin’s words proved prophetic. Over the next two years Normandie became a more dangerous place. Montbryce was an armed camp. Travel was difficult and only accomplished with a large contingent of knights and men-at-arms.

Dorianne and Robert welcomed two daughters into the world, Catherine and Marguerite. Ram and Mabelle travelled to Normandie and doted on their grandchildren.

Carys bore two sons, Gallien and Etienne. Though Robert said nothing, rejoicing with his brother, Mabelle sensed his longing for a son. All recognized the importance of an heir.

Mabelle watched helplessly as the stress of the political situation took a toll on Ram. Though no longer young, he had weathered the years well and remained a strong virile man, but now he seemed to age visibly before her eyes. His hair had turned grey, his blue eyes were guarded and full of worry. He was anxious for Robert and Dorianne, and his brothers in Normandie, amid the growing political uncertainty. No one doubted there would be another confrontation between the sons of the Conqueror.

Ram began to suffer chest pains he tried hard to conceal, but when Mabelle mentioned it he shrugged them off. “It’s something I ate,” he would say. “I am nervous with all this worry.”

A day after marking three score and two years, Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce, First Earl of Ellesmere, suffered an apoplectic attack in his sleep while on a visit to Normandie. He never woke and died in his wife’s arms. She keened his name, unable to believe this man she had loved was dead. The crux of her life for nigh on forty years, he had become one of the most powerful and wealthiest nobles in England and Normandie, known as a firm but fair man, a negotiator first and warrior second. But above all else he had been her magnificent lover.

King Henry, son of the Conqueror for whom Ram had sacrificed much, sent his condolences. No word came from Curthose.

Robert de Montbryce became Comte de Montbryce, de Belisle, d’Alensonne and de Domfort, inheriting, as the eldest surviving son, his parents’ lands in Normandie. Baudoin became the Second Earl of Ellesmere.

Baudoin, Rhoni and Caedmon came from England. Mabelle was at least consoled Ram had died in his beloved Normandie and she buried him, as she had promised long ago, in the family crypt in Montbryce Castle. The coffin was placed in a tomb next to those of Ram’s mother and father.

Mabelle never returned to England, preferring to live out her final days at Montbryce with Robert and Dorianne who were appreciative of her presence in their lives.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The observance of Epiphany in the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Four was a subdued affair at Montbryce, as was the Yuletide that preceded it. A veil of sadness for the loss of Rambaud de Montbryce hung over the castle. Mabelle often remarked it reminded her of when Ram’s father had died while his three sons were away fighting at Hastings.

In the midst of this mourning, Pierre de Giroux rode into the environs of Montbryce Castle alone and was immediately challenged by the guard.

He threw back his shoulders and announced, “I am Pierre de Giroux, brother to the Comtesse de Montbryce. I’m here to see my sister.”

He was escorted into the courtyard where a stable boy came to take his horse as he dismounted. Tristan Bonhomme strode out to greet him. The escort identified him to the steward.

Tristan bowed. “Welcome, young knight. Is the Comtesse expecting you?”

Pierre removed his gloves and slapped them against his palm. “Non, but she’ll be happy to see me. It’s taken me too long to bring our family’s condolences for the Comte’s bereavement. And I hear I have nieces I’ve never met.”

Bonhomme took him to the Map Room and went in search of his lord and lady. Robert was surprised when Bonhomme told him who awaited them. “You’re sure of the name?” he asked.

Dorianne leapt to her feet, casting aside her sewing. “Oh, Robert, has Pierre at long last convinced my father to put his hatred behind him? I pray for it daily.”

Robert braced his legs. “Dorianne, let’s not forget the pain and suffering Pierre inflicted on you and that he attempted to kill me. We have two children and he has never made any effort to meet them.”

His wife put her arms around his neck. “He was young and under my father’s thumb. Things have changed. Why else would he come here?”

Robert pressed his forehead to hers. “There’s only one way to find out. But don’t get too close to him.”

He turned to his steward. “Is he armed?”

“He has a sword, milord,” Bonhomme replied. “That’s the only weapon I could see.”

As soon as they entered the Map Room, Dorianne ran to her brother and flung her arms around his neck. “Pierre, I’ve missed you.”

So much for my advice not to go near him!

Robert kept a wary eye on the young man. Pierre had changed. His unkempt beard and matted hair gave him a wild look. He was no longer a boy.

Pierre hugged his sister then dropped to one knee. “Dorianne, please forgive me for the pain I caused you. I’ve fretted over it. I hope you’re healed by now?”

Dorianne pulled him to his feet. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine now. Get up, please. I forgive you, and Robert does too,” she gushed.

Robert had no such thoughts. Fretted, indeed.

Dorianne linked her arm in her brother’s. “How is Papa? Does he know Robert and I have two children?”

Pierre grimaced. “Oui, he knows, but he’s still stubborn and his pride won’t let him come. He sends his congratulations and his condolences on the death of your esteemed father, milord.”

Thank be to the saints my mother isn’t present.

“Merci,” Robert responded coolly. “Well, brother-by-marriage, now you’ve given us your good wishes, what other news do you have?”

He suspected the Giroux family had participated in Curthose’s invasion, but did not know if Pierre had been part of the landing in England.

Dorianne gave Robert a scolding look, plainly displeased at her husband’s coolness towards her repentant brother. Then she blurted out, “Pierre, you look as though you’ve had a long journey. Why not stay here with us at Montbryce? Robert, I’m sure you can find a post among your men for my brother?”

Pierre held up his hands in protest. “Non, Dorianne, I can’t expect that from the Comte.”

She linked her arm in his. “Nonsense. We must put rancor behind us. Isn’t that right, Robert?”

Robert was angry he had been backed into a corner. He did not blame Dorianne for her trusting innocence, but if Pierre was to stay at Montbryce he would have to prove his trustworthiness. He noted sourly his brother-by-marriage had not sought his pardon directly, nor apologized to him for attempting to kill him. Could he keep the suspicion out of his voice? “I’m sure I can find a place for you, Pierre. I’ll speak to my Second, Bernard Chauvelin, and we’ll get Bonhomme to prepare a chamber for you. Come, we’ll find him together.”

~~~

“How goes it with Pierre de Giroux?” Robert asked Chauvelin two months later.

“Your brother-by-marriage is a good soldier, milord. I put him in the hands of our toughest Captain as you requested, and Gicotte gives good reports of him. He has tested his mettle, as you instructed, and found him resilient.”

“We can trust him then?” Robert asked.

“He’s a quiet man, milord, hard to read. He hasn’t been here very long, but he has acquitted himself well. He’s not a man who makes friends.”

Robert had noticed Pierre’s cool demeanor and solitary ways, but perhaps that should be of no concern. The boy had grown up with a difficult father after all. “Tell Gicotte to ease up somewhat on the discipline, perhaps give Giroux a small promotion.”

“Oui, milord.”

~~~

Dorianne cuddled into Robert’s back as they lay skin to skin that night. “Pierre told me you gave him a promotion. Merci.”

Robert reached behind him and pressed her arm.

She nuzzled his neck. “Your mistrust has come between us. We never seem to discuss my brother without one of us losing our temper. I’m relieved you’ve decided to trust him.”

Her husband remained silent, wishing he could rid himself of his suspicions. It had been his intention to discuss it with his mother, but since his father’s death she seemed preoccupied and distracted, cloaked in sadness. He did not want to get into another argument over it. His wife’s naked body pressed against him was already playing havoc with his senses, as it never failed to do. He turned to her, bent his head to lick her nipple and suckled.

She ran her fingers through his hair. “You’ll soon have to share your delight again, Robert,” she teased.

He looked up at her, wondering what her smile meant. “Share?” he asked.

“Yes, you know—” She took his hand and placed it on her belly. “You’ll have to share the suckling—with your son.”

Robert suddenly felt his heart would burst. “You’re enceinte again?” he murmured.

“Oui.”

He rose from the bed and lifted her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, swaying from side to side, choked with emotion.

“You’re happy?” she asked him after a few minutes.

“I’m delirious. Merci, my love. It’s a precious gift you’ve given me. I love you. Another child. Perhaps this time a son of my own.”

She tucked her head into his shoulder. “A son for us to love,” she said with a smile.

He laid her back on the bed, aware she had seen the desire flare in his eyes and the obvious sign of his arousal.

“Can we still? Is it permitted?”

Why was he stammering like an idiot?

She laughed. “You’d think this was our first baby! Yes, it’s permitted. In fact, it’s encouraged.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathed as his mouth fastened on hers and they began the long slow, pleasurable climb to ecstatic release.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Curthose made his anger known to the noble Norman families who had supported him. One who paid particular attention was Pierre de Giroux. Having sailed proudly with his Duke to invade England, he’d been extremely disappointed in the outcome. They’d been sent back to Normandie with their tails between their legs without engaging the enemy.

His hatred of Robert de Montbryce and Curthose’s anger led him to place the blame for the failure of the invasion completely at Robert’s door. He had schemed long and hard to devise a plan to deliver Montbryce into Curthose’s hands, and now success was within his grasp.

“Your men must come after midnight,” he explained again, handing a rolled parchment to the Duke’s lieutenant. “I’ve devised a plan of the location of the postern gate of Montbryce Castle. It’s difficult to find. Your men will have to pay close attention to the chart. I’ll be there to open the gate.”

The band of well-armed men stood in a clearing deep inside a copse, not far from the Montbryce lands.

The man studied the drawing Pierre had given him. “Is it guarded?”

Pierre smirked “Oui, but I’ll take care of the sentry. He’ll be taken by surprise. They trust me.”

“And once inside?” the Duke’s man asked.

“Your men will eliminate Robert’s bodyguards. Then I’ll conduct them to the Comte’s chambers. I must have your guarantee he won’t be killed. He’s married to my sister.”

The lieutenant reassured him. “They won’t kill him. He’s to rot in a dungeon for his disloyalty. But won’t your sister be with him in their chambers?”

“Oui. I’ll take care of her. Your men must remember their hoods and no identifying marks on their tunics.”

“It will be done. Until tonight then.”

Pierre watched the men leave, then returned to his post as captain of the guard of the postern gate of Montbryce Castle.

~~~

Intruders roused Robert from a deep sleep. He tried to curl his body around his wife, to protect her, but he was  dragged cursing from the bed. Dorianne’s scream turned into a muffled protest. His heart and gut lurched at the  thought of rough hands on her. He blamed himself for not sensing the castle was under threat.

The coarse wool of his attacker’s tunic chafed his naked skin. The odor of unwashed men sent a wave of nausea rolling over him. Icy fear crawled through his veins. A blindfold was tied roughly over his eyes. He heard Dorianne struggling to be free, as fists pounded his flesh. “If you touch my wife I’ll kill you,” he rasped. “Dorianne, where are you?”

“I’m blindfolded, Robert,” she cried in terror.

Someone made a snorting noise. “You’re in no position to issue threats, milord
Comte.”

Vulnerable as he was in his nakedness, he was incensed that his wife was also naked. What did these men want? Would they rape her before they killed them both? He had to stay calm, but desperation for his wife and unborn child seeped into his racing heart. A hood was placed over his head and two men forced him to his knees, arms behind his back. “What is it you want? How dare you invade the privacy of my home, my castle?”

“Put this on,” was the only reply. Something was thrown at him. His hands were released and he picked the garment, indignation rising in his throat. “I’ll not don this garment. It’s a penitent’s robe,” he said defiantly.

A blow to the back of his head sent him reeling.

“If you don’t, we’ll carry both you and your wife naked. I have a nice nun’s habit for her, if you cooperate.”

He heard a soft thud, then Dorianne panting heavily, sobbing.

“They’ve given me a habit. I’m covered now,” she whispered.

Robert reluctantly donned the rough robe and cinched the rope at his waist. His hands were bound behind him and he was hoisted as effortlessly as a sack of turnips over a very broad shoulder. The man’s helmet pressed against his arm and the mail of a hauberk dug into his chest. These men were soldiers. But whose soldiers? Who had sent them?

He was carried down steps. Dorianne still sobbed. Cool air hit his face. Where were they taking him? What had happened to his bodyguards? The attackers kept silent. This had evidently been well planned. Each man knew his role. These were no peasant brigands. Suddenly the pace slowed and he was jostled against a gate. The postern gate! Who was in charge of securing it?

He wracked his brain, settling on the grim answer he should have known—Giroux. But if it was Giroux, whose men were these and why take Dorianne? She sobbed, not far away. They were jostled onto horses. Robert’s hands were freed and then retied to the pommel.

“Dorianne?” he called out.

“Robert?” she sobbed, but her voice seemed more distant.

“Dorianne?” he shouted again.

“Robert?” Fainter now. They were taking them to different destinations.

“Where are you taking my wife?” he demanded.

He received no reply. His feet were bound from ankle to ankle, the rope tied beneath the horse. He then had to devote his energies to staying mounted as they galloped away to his fate.

They rode for hours. He lost track of time. The rough robe chafed his legs and genitals, his head and body throbbed where he’d been punched, his cold hands were numb from the effort of hanging on to the pommel, and he was exhausted with worry for his wife. He had no sense of the route, the hood blocking all visual clues. Fear constricted his breathing.

When he heard the hooves clatter to a halt in a cobblestone courtyard he assumed they had reached their destination—evidently a castle. He was untied and dragged from the horse. Body odor told him it was the same burly shoulder that carried him. He was taken inside, along winding corridors, then down steps, a long way down. The stench grew viler, the air cooler. He heard cries of human misery. Then they went lower, his head and shoulders colliding with the walls of the narrow staircase. Here utter silence reigned, the only sound the grunts of the man who carried him. A metal door grated open. He was thrown to the ground, the hood pulled from his head. The metal door slammed.

A sarcastic voice, the same cruel voice that had commanded him to don the robe, sneered, “Welcome to your new home, milord
Comte!”

Laughter receded as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom around him. The stench turned his stomach. He discerned gradually he was in a tiny, windowless cell. One man could lie down, two could not. There was a hole in the corner which he surmised went straight to the drains. This was the source of the foul odor. He struggled to his feet and discovered he could barely stand upright before his head touched the ceiling. Damp straw covered the stone floor. He hurried to the drain to retch, praying they had not brought Dorianne here.

“Dorianne,” he called, then waited. “Dorianne,” he called again.

Only his voice echoed in the eerie silence. He drew the cowl of the robe over his head, collapsed onto the straw, hugging his knees to his chest, and succumbed to exhaustion.

~~~

After she donned the habit, a man lifted Dorianne carefully and carried her in his arms, looping her bound hands over his neck, forcing her close to him. This man’s body odor was different—cleaner. There was something familiar, but he did not speak. She trembled uncontrollably. Once outside, her captor mounted and sat her before him on his lap, holding her tightly. He said nothing. She was exhausted by terror and passed out despite being jostled on the horse.

When she woke she was abed in a chamber that seemed too familiar. The blindfold and bindings had been removed, but she still wore the chafing habit. She sat up abruptly. It was her own chamber in her father’s castle!

She had been rescued! She was safe! Where was Robert? Gingerly she rose from the bed and made her way to the door. It was locked. Why was she locked in? She banged her fists on the heavy wood. “Help, help, Please release me. I’m awake now. Is Robert safe?”

No one came. She wandered around the familiar room, a feeling of foreboding taking hold in the pit of her stomach. By the time the door creaked open she was again trembling, but with a different fear. Pierre strode in carrying a tray.

“Here you are, Dori. I brought you some food,” he drawled.

She rose slowly and asked him, “Where is Robert? Is he safe? Did you rescue him too?”

“Rescue him?” he sneered. “He’s my prisoner, as are you.”

She could not understand. “You’re my brother. How can I be your prisoner?”

“You’re no longer my sister. You forfeited the right when you married Montbryce. In any case you married in England, so your marriage is null here in Normandie. You’re a whore who has brought shame, disgrace and ridicule on the Giroux name.”

Her blood turned to ice. Hatred had turned her sweet brother’s mind to dust. “Where is my father? I wish to speak with him,” she said trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

Pierre shrugged. “Father is away from the castle for a few days. You’ll stay here until arrangements are made for you to be sent back to a nunnery—one you can’t escape from.”

It was on the tip of Dorianne’s tongue to blurt out she was with child, but she thought better of it. It would give Pierre too much power. Nor would it be any use to expect help from her mother. Her mind worked feverishly to find a solution to her dilemma. Surely her mother-by-marriage, Mabelle would raise the alarm? But when? The poor woman spent most of her time in the crypt. Would she discover they were gone, that they had been abducted? And where in the name of all the saints was Robert? Was he here in this same castle?

“Thank you for the food, Pierre. I prefer to eat alone,” she said, knowing now what had been familiar about the man who had carried her.

“As you wish.” He put down the tray and left, locking the door behind him.

~~~

It was Tristan Bonhomme who raised the alarm when early the next morning he discovered the sentry’s body at the postern gate, and the bloodied bodies of the special guard. He ran immediately to inform the Comte, but when he received no answer to his insistent knocking on the chamber door, he took the liberty of entering. He recognized at once the evidence of a struggle. Fear nipped at his heels as he scoured the castle for any sign of his beloved master and mistress. It soon became apparent they were gone. With a grieving heart, he went to inform the dowager Comtesse.

Mabelle was incredulous. “Disappeared?” she asked. She became more and more agitated as Bonhomme told her the details of the dead guards and the ransacked chamber.

“We must seek the help of King Henry in this matter. It will take too long to get a message to Baudoin at Ellesmere, though we must send one there also. I’ve never missed Ram as much as I miss him now. What would he do in the circumstances? Are Robert and Dorianne being held for ransom? Dieu, what terrible memories that possibility brings back.”

Tristan was distraught and did not know how to comfort her as she wept.

“Who has taken them, Bonhomme?” she asked.

“I fear I know not,” he answered sadly.

They were joined by Robert’s Second, Chauvelin and Captain Gicotte. Tristan had alerted them in his frantic search.

Chauvelin spoke first. “Madame la Comtesse, regrettably it appears Pierre de Giroux has also disappeared. He may have been another victim of this plot. However, the postern gate was his responsibility.”

Mabelle’s hand went to her throat. “Giroux?” she gasped. “Robert didn’t trust him. Will we never be free of this feud?”

“Perhaps he was right in his judgment, milady,” Gicotte replied.

“Chauvelin, we are reliant upon you now until we can get word to the King in England and to Baudoin,” Mabelle said.

“Milady, I’ll send out small groups to listen and report back to us. We must ascertain where they’ve been taken, and someone will talk. They will drink too much and divulge the secret we wish to know.”

“Merci. I leave that in your capable hands. Bonhomme, please make sure messengers are dispatched immediately to Henry and to Baudoin. I’ll apply my seal.”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In his dark, damp cell Robert waited for the torturers. Days went by. Twice a day, he surmised each morning and evening, a heel of stale bread, moldy cheese and a tumbler of watered ale were shoved through the bars of his cell. The foul smelling hulk of a man who brought the food shuffled across the stone floor, but said nothing. When Robert spoke to him, he opened his mouth and with a strangled grunt pointed to his missing tongue with a fat finger ingrained with dirt. The same mute brought him the second meal later in the day. It was mostly the same fare, with, from time to time, a piece of boiled mutton.  He communicated only with signs and grunts and headshakes.

Robert resolved to start a tally. He had already lost track of the days. The only event marking the passage of the hours was the arrival of food. Having nothing to write with, he added one piece of straw to a pile each time the first meal arrived.

After several days, the mute goliath motioned him to push the straw out through the barred door and stand back in the cell. He indicated to Robert to strip off his robe and hand it through the grate. Robert obeyed and shivered with disbelief as the guard picked up a bucket and threw ice cold water at him. It took his breath away, but he was thankful for the rough piece of lye soap the mute threw into the cell. He could barely pick it up. He soaped his filthy body, his teeth chattering. The mute motioned for the return of the soap and then doused Robert with another bucket of icy water. The guard shoved a pile of fresh straw and the robe under the door and tramped away with the buckets. Waiting for his frozen body to dry before reluctantly resuming the detested robe, Robert tried desperately to recall how many straws had been in his little pile.

Gradually a pattern developed and he deduced they changed the straw and allowed him his ‘bath’ once a sennight. He did not have to count the days. He could count the sennights. The revelation brought exhilaration and despair. Sennights! He had been in this hell hole for sennights.

His hair and beard grew. Lice were a constant problem. The food and filthy conditions played havoc with his bowels. The penitent’s robe he wore had not been replaced and he could barely stand the stink of it. The drain hole was the only place to relieve his bodily needs, the rats his only company—until another creature stalking rats took an interest in him.

At first he had shooed away the fat mangy cat that stalked the cells at night. But he woke one night finding comfort in the warmth of the creature’s body curled into his back. On the nights when the cat did not share his bed, he felt bereft and missed the soothing purr of its contentment. He named it Espérance, his only hope. “You’re as lonely as I am, aren’t you, you miserable excuse for a cat.”

He concentrated his anger and frustration on Pierre de Giroux, but was sure the boy could not have accomplished this plot on his own. Who wanted him to be penitent? Penitent. Penitent. Who wanted him to be sorry? The answer came.

“Curthose,” he whispered. “I am in the Duke’s castle in Caen.”

Still the torturers did not appear, and gradually he came to grimly accept that his isolation, his unbearable solitary confinement was his torture. Curthose planned to leave him here to rot slowly. He could not rid himself of the growing knot of fear in his belly.

He became emaciated. He dreamed strange dreams. He had visions of Pierre’s uncle, Phillippe de Giroux dragging his mother by the hair, Robert’s severed head held high in his other hand. He dreamt of Pierre plunging a dagger into Dorianne’s belly, killing their unborn child. He screamed at the horror of his dreams, but there was no one to hear, no one to comfort him.

His body grew stiff, like an old man’s. He determined to pace his cell, to keep his muscles strong, but the monotony of the few steps back and forth, back and forth drove him to hysteria. He exercised his arms by splaying his hands on the damp stone, standing back with his feet spread and then pushing his body up and down from the wall. He continued till his muscles burned. When his arms grew stronger he did the same thing on the floor, urging his body through the searing pain in his biceps.

When the robe interfered with his movements, he discarded it and exercised naked. The hateful garment was replaced when it rotted. In its place he was given a shirt, pantaloons and a coarse blanket. No serf on the Montbryce lands wore such poor clothing.

He thought often of his captivity in Wales as a child and how the so-called barbaric Welsh had made sure he was clean, well fed and properly clothed. Now he was a prisoner of a noble Norman and he was being treated like an animal. What did Curthose want of him? To be sorry? He was sorry indeed. Sorry he could not cut the Duke’s throat.

He might go mad if this confinement went on any length of time. It was the feeling of powerlessness that threatened to consume him. He was confident efforts would be underway to rescue him. He was not alone in the world. It was his responsibility to remain sane until his rescue. He thought on the good things in his life and resolved to concentrate on those and those alone. He sat cross-legged on the dank stone floor and conjured a vision of Dorianne.

He thought of the first time he had seen her raven hair peeking out from under her wimple in the Hall at d’Avranches, of her bewitching hazel eyes, of her breasts glowing with fragrant oil, the nipples hard under his thumbs, of the taste of her sex on his lips, of the blushing smile when she told him she was enceinte. He wept at the memory of her radiance after the birth of his daughters, and lamented he had not spent more time with his girls. The images of his wife brought him solace, but had their negative side—they drove him mad with desire. He cried her name as he spilled his seed on the damp straw.

He conjured an image of his father—greeting his sons at the bridge when they were ransomed, accepting Caedmon as his son, smiling whenever his mother entered the room, sharing his love of the castle Montbryce with his children when they visited there, telling them the story of Hastings when they went to Bayeux. His visions of his father were a source of strength for him and he prayed to his father’s memory in thanksgiving for his Montbryce blood.

“Give me courage, Papa. Help me endure this,” he prayed.

When his father came to him in his dreams, the family motto was always on his lips, “Fide et Virtute! Have faith! Have faith!”

His visions of his mother brought him the most relief from his anguish. He was aware of the hardships she had undergone as a child, and yet she had survived and become one of the most loving and forgiving people he had ever known. “Help me endure this maman, I know your thoughts and prayers are with me here. Try to find Dorianne. Help her.”

~~~

Robert was wakened one night by the sound of an animal in distress. His back was cold. A shiver of dread trickled through his veins. Where was Espérance? He came to his knees and felt for her. She was lying in the corner. As soon as he put his hand on her, he realized what was happening. Kittens! How could he not have known?

Her belly contracted. She licked his hand. He sat back on his haunches and sobbed, thinking of his wife and the son he prayed she still carried.

Espérance was stoic. It probably wasn’t the first litter of kittens she had borne. Robert could tell when each was about to be born—it was the only time the cat cried. He heard the rasp of her tongue licking them dry and the gnawing sounds as she chewed the afterbirth, separating them from her body. Tears flowed when he thought of his little girls, Catherine and Marguerite. His obvious disappointment that they were not boys must have hurt his wife. Had he made her feel she was to blame?

When the four new arrivals were licked clean and suckling hungrily, he reached out slowly and scratched the cat’s ears. “Well done, Espérance. You must take good care of your family. Better care than I took of mine.”

She and the kittens purred.

He lay for hours watching her with her brood, until the gaoler brought his food. Panic seized him then when he remembered this was the day for his straw to be replaced. He had looked forward to it for days. What would happen to the kittens? How could Espérance protect four of them when the ice cold water was thrown into the cell?

By the time the mute returned with the straw and bucket, Robert had devised a plan. But he would try to communicate first with the giant.

“My cat,” he said, pointing to the kittens, slightly startled to hear his own voice.

The man looked at the cats, shrugged and motioned for the straw.

Robert was torn. What would happen if he refused? He desperately needed to feel clean. If he made a fuss, the mute might take the kittens and dispose of them. He removed his clothing and passed it to the guard, then gathered up the straw and pushed it out of the cell.

Espérance arched her back and hissed. She picked up one kitten by the scruff of its neck. Robert hoped she would understand what he was about to do. Carefully he picked up the remaining kittens. Espérance struck out and clawed his hand, but he persevered. He cradled the squirming newborns to his breast. As the gaoler doused him he turned his back. Espérance screeched and darted out of the cell. The three kittens struggled, but he held them firm, elated he had successfully protected them.

He shook his head when the lye soap was proffered. Water would have to be enough. The gaoler shrugged and shoved the fresh straw under the grate. Robert kicked some into a pile in the corner, knelt, and laid the mewling kittens atop it.

“There,” he sniffled, his arms across his chest, trying to hold on to the warmth he had derived from their little bodies. Then he turned to reach for the clothing the guard held out to him. It was the first time he had seen the mute smile. He smiled back.

Within minutes, Espérance had crept back into the cell, still carrying the kitten she had rescued. Her green eyes followed him as he dressed and hunkered down beside her, watching her suckle her brood once more.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered.

~~~

Dorianne chafed at captivity. While preparations were made for her to go to a nunnery, Pierre relented and allowed her to leave her room to eat in the Hall. She spoke to her parents, seeking their aid.

“Papa,” she said softly, “I can’t believe you condone what Pierre has done. Robert is my lawful husband. You’ve broken God’s law by separating us. My children are without their parents. What has Pierre done with Robert? If he has killed him—”

“It’s out of my hands, daughter,” her father replied angrily. “I can do nothing. You shouldn’t have married Montbryce. But he’s not dead. They won’t kill him.”

He hurried away. Her mother sat with her head bowed, refusing to look at Dorianne.

“Maman, you know this is wrong,” she begged.

Her mother scurried off. Dorianne wanted to scream. If Robert was not to be killed, did that mean torture? She pushed the possibility away as it threatened to rise up her throat. She made her way back to her chamber where she lay awake until exhaustion took her. She dreamt of Robert’s hands on her breasts, his mouth on her sex, his manhood deep inside her. She woke sobbing his name, her hands cradling her belly, protecting the child she carried within her—Robert’s child.

“Be brave, Robert. Somehow we will be rescued.”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWENTY

King Henry was furious when news of Montbryce’s abduction was brought to him soon after the event. Though the report spoke of the Giroux family, he suspected his brother was behind the plot. He itched to march into Normandie and put paid to the Duke of Normandie’s claims and aspirations. He was a much better ruler for the combined kingdoms than his brother. This vengeful abduction of a prominent Norman nobleman proved it. The time would come, but he could not make his move too soon. He dispatched messengers to Ellesmere to inform Baudoin of his knowledge of the crime and summoned the Earl of Ellesmere to Court.

Baudoin and Caedmon both rode to meet with the King. Henry laid out his plans for an invasion. “However, we can’t proceed yet. When the time is right we’ll take Bayeux and then Caen from the Duke. If he has your brother he’s doubtless in the fortress at Caen.”

Baudoin hesitated. “Majesté, the Montbryce men stand ready to aid this invasion. But you can understand our desire to rescue Robert and Dorianne at the earliest, if they are still alive. What’s your estimate for your plan to commence?”

Henry was pensive. “Six months from now I hope to be underway.”

Baudoin and Caedmon opened their mouths to protest, but Henry held up his hand. “I cannot attack without success being assured.”

~~~

As the months dragged by, Dorianne feared it would be impossible to hide her pregnancy much longer. When she undressed, the swell of her belly was unmistakable. She concealed it beneath many layers of loose clothing, relieved Pierre had not allowed her the luxury of a maidservant. She feared her mother already suspected and was terrified Pierre would kill her baby if she did manage to survive long enough to deliver him. She was sure she carried Robert’s son.

The more she remembered of the night of their abduction, the more convinced she became Curthose was behind the crime. She remembered her father’s words. They won’t kill him. Why else would her husband have been forced to wear a penitent’s garb?

If Curthose has him, he’s in Caen.

She sought out her mother—her only hope. “Maman,” she whispered, putting her mother’s hand on her belly, silently praying this was the right thing to do. “Can you feel it? Can you feel the heart of your grandchild beating within me? You must help me. You must convince Pierre to send me to the Abbaye aux Dames, the convent built by the Conqueror in Caen. The nuns will protect me and give me and my babe sanctuary.”

A tear trickled down her mother’s face. “I’m afraid of Pierre,” she whimpered. “He’s full of hate.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. Her mother seemed to be on her side. “Maman, we must protect my baby from him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s ruled by anger. Please, convince him, but don’t reveal I’m enceinte.”

Her mother wiped her tears with her sleeve and walked away, looking around nervously.

~~~

A sennight later, Pierre strode unexpectedly into her chamber.

“Prepare yourself, Dori,” he ordered. “You’re to be taken to the Abbaye aux Dames in Caen. The nuns there have agreed. You will join the community where you can spend your life atoning for your sins. You may take nothing from this castle.”

He left the chamber as abruptly as he had entered it. Dorianne’s knees gave way and she slumped to the floor. She was elated she was being sent to a safer place for her baby, but devastated she had lost her brother forever to the madness of his hatred.

“We’ll be in Caen,” she whispered to the child within her. “Nearer to your Papa.”

Two days later, when she arrived exhausted at the Abbaye aux Dames she asked immediately for an audience with the Abbesse. She was ushered into the office where a tall, thin woman greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “Welcome Dorianne de Giroux, our newest novice.”

“Madame l’Abbesse,” Dorianne replied, clutching the woman’s hand. “You’ve been misled. My name is Dorianne de Montbryce. I am the wife of Robert, Comte de Montbryce, and I’m enceinte with his child. We were both abducted by my brother. I don’t know where my husband is. I seek sanctuary here within these walls built by our great Conqueror, and your help with the birth of my child.”

The Abbesse was plainly shocked. “Dear girl. I had heard of the Comte’s abduction, but I had no idea—what an ordeal you’ve had. I grant you and your child sanctuary.”

Dorianne fainted with relief.

~~~

Robert was not sure how long Dorianne had been pregnant when she had told him—perhaps two months? By his straw tally he had been in captivity seven months. He closed his eyes and saw her rounded belly swelling with his child. When he estimated the time for her delivery might be close at hand, he knelt in silent prayer for hours in the damp straw, day after day, willing his child to come into the world whole and his wife to be well. If she still lived. He had a persistent feeling she was somehow close by.

As he knelt in prayer, Espérance rubbed against his hip. He took it as a good omen. He rarely saw her kittens any more. They could survive without their mother now.

He had become disgusted with his inability to control his burning physical need for his wife. He could not get images of her naked body, her face, her hair, her smile out of his head. “Nothing of my body works properly any more except my cursed shaft,” he lamented, meeting his own needs time and again. “If I’m rescued, Dorianne will never look at me again. I’m nothing but an animal. I look like one, I smell like one and I behave like one.”

~~~

He did not know it, but Dorianne was not far away in the Abbaye where the sisters helped her deliver a sturdy baby boy. She had refused to send word to Montbryce. Isolated from the events of the world, she did not know who remained there, and she held firm to the belief she had to stay in Caen. Her baby had to be born there.

“Your Papa is alive, mon petit,” she murmured to the child when he was brought to her breast. “He’s praying for us. I can feel it.”

She turned to the Abbesse and made a request. “Ma mère, now we need to let Robert’s family know about the birth of this child. He’s the heir to the Montbryce lands. Please send a message to my mother-by-marriage at Saint Germain.”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

After their interview with King Henry, Baudoin and Caedmon took ship for Normandie and joined a distraught Mabelle at Saint Germain. They rode out on regular sorties with a contingent of their men-at-arms searching for any rumor or trace of Robert and Dorianne.

“This isn’t the Normandie we love, you know, Caedmon,” Baudoin lamented one afternoon. “It’s become a land of danger and foreboding. Everyone knows war with Henry is coming.”

Caedmon nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. It seems a very different place from when we were here with Father on our way back from the Crusade.”

The two men smiled at the shared memory.

“We’d better turn back,” Baudoin suggested. “No use getting too close to the Duke’s lands. We don’t want to make it easy for him to get his hands on two more of the sons of Ram de Montbryce, if he indeed is the abductor.”

They entered the Hall at Montbryce just as a monk was ushered in by Bonhomme.

“Milady Comtesse,” the Steward said hurriedly to Mabelle, who had been waiting for Baudoin and Caedmon to return with any news. “This friar claims to have a message from our dear lady, the Comte’s wife.”

Mabelle rose quickly from her chair. “Speak, Brother,” she commanded excitedly. “What news?”

The monk hesitated, scratching his chin. “Madame, it’s taken me many days to wander here to your castle. These are not easy times for a pilgrim alone on the road. Perhaps ale, before I begin my message?”

Baudoin glowered at him. “You’ll have ale aplenty, good friar, but first you’ll deliver your message.”

The monk shrank back, licking his lips. “As you wish, milord. It’s from a woman at the Abbaye aux Dames in the Bourg l’Abbesse in Caen who claims to be the Comtesse de Montbryce. She’s given birth to a son.”

Mabelle swayed. Baudoin rushed to her aid. She grasped his hand. “Baudoin, it’s our Dorianne. A child. A grandson. An heir. We must get her home. See to this kind friar.”

Caedmon turned to the monk. “I thank you for your message. The kitchen will see to your needs of food and ale, and Bonhomme will find you a chamber for the night. The news you bring is welcome indeed.”

~~~

“We’re clear on the plan, I assume?” Baudoin asked the group assembled in the Map Room of Montbryce Castle. “We can’t go into the environs of the Abbaye with a large group of armed men. That would alert Curthose. We’ll ride to the outskirts of the town and then Caedmon and I will take the donkey and walk the rest of the way dressed as monks. We’ll bring Dorianne and the child back on the donkey and rejoin the main group for the ride back. Are there any other suggestions or ideas?”

The plan was risky. “Sometimes, the simplest plan is the best,” Caedmon observed.

Baudoin agreed. “They won’t be expecting intruders to the Abbaye. It’s the castle which will be heavily guarded.”

~~~

The elderly nun charged with the gates of the Abbaye responded to the persistent ringing of the bell. Her eyes widened considerably at the sight of two monks, drenched to the skin. Baudoin forced a smile, despite the chill in his bones and the rain dripping from his hood. “We seek shelter, ma soeur, for ourselves and our donkey.”

The nun opened the creaky gate and ushered them inside.

Baudoin would do the talking. Caedmon’s accented Norman French might make people wary. “We would beg an audience with the Abbesse, ma soeur. We’re here to see the Comtesse de Montbryce and her child.”

The woman scurried off without a word and came back a few minutes later with the Abbesse, who eyed them critically. “I assume you’re not monks?” she said derisively.

Baudoin and Caedmon went down on one knee and each in turn kissed the Abbesse’s hand. Baudoin reassured her. “Non, ma mère, but we are good men who revere God and who seek only to protect and rescue our sister-by-marriage and nephew from a cruel injustice. I am Baudoin, Earl of Ellesmere, son of Comte Rambaud de Montbryce who fought alongside the Conqueror at Hastings, and this is my brother Sir Caedmon FitzRam.”

“You’re welcome, sirs,” the Abbesse replied, softening. “Men who revere God are difficult to find these days. Come, I’ll take you to the Comtesse.”

“On behalf of my family I thank you for the care you’ve taken of her and her child.”

The Abbesse bowed in acknowledgement. “Perhaps a small donation as a token of your family’s gratitude?”

Caedmon arched his brows and smiled a crooked smile. As they followed the nun, Baudoin asked him about it.

Caedmon smiled again. “Reminds me of how I convinced the Abbey in Alnwick to give up Agneta. Every religious establishment has a constant need of money.”

“Ah, oui, I forgot you told us that.”

When Baudoin walked into her small cell, Dorianne jumped up and he suspected she thought he was Robert.

“Dorianne,” he exclaimed, embracing her as she trembled. “Dear sister, we’ve come to take you home. Where is the child?”

Caedmon embraced her and she led the two men to the corner where a tiny boy slept. “He takes after Robert,” she croaked as the tears trickled down her cheeks. “Is there news of him?”

Caedmon shook his head. “No, but we surmise he’s in the castle here in Caen.”

She told them how she came to be at the Abbaye and why she stayed there to bear her child. “I have felt his presence close by.”

Baudoin passed her a blanket and an oilskin. “Wrap the child. We plan to take you back to Saint Germain. Madame l’Abbesse, can we trouble you to give our sister a habit? In these dangerous times we must travel incognito.”

Dorianne interrupted. “I still have the habit they made me wear when they captured me.”

Caedmon’s eyes widened. “They made you wear a habit?”

She swallowed hard. “Oui, they forced Robert to wear a penitent’s robe. It was my brother,” she gasped with sorrow. “But he did it for Curthose.”

“We’re of the same mind, Dorianne,” Baudoin answered. “Quickly now, we’ve a long way to go before nightfall. Our men await us not fair off to aid our escape from Curthose’s lands.”

Dorianne slipped the habit over the surcoat the nuns had given her, and the Abbesse brought a wimple. She gathered up her child and swaddled him then kissed the Abbesse’s hand. “Ma mère, how can I thank you?”

“Go with God, milady Comtesse,” the Abbesse replied. “I’ll continue to pray for the safe return of your husband.”

Baudoin helped her mount the donkey and she clasped her son to her breast. They made their way slowly in the rain to the wood where the men-at-arms lay hidden. Tears flowed unbidden when she caught sight of the ramparts of Caen castle in the distance in the Bourg le Roi. “Robert is there,” she whispered. “I’m sure of it.”

“Aye! Keep faith, Dorianne,” Caedmon said. “King Henry plans to seize Caen when he invades Normandie to oust Curthose. We’ll save him.”

There was nothing else they could do but wait for Henry’s help. They did not have the forces necessary to launch an attack on the fortress at Caen. But she worried what effect his long confinement would have on her proud husband.

They rendezvoused with the larger group and made the long journey back to Montbryce safely. Mabelle came out to the courtyard to greet them and to take the child.

“He’s a beautiful boy, Dorianne. Welcome home, daughter. You’re safe now. Saint Germain is a fortress since your abduction. Hasten the day when we can be free of the dangers threatening us now. Your girls are anxious to see you.”

Tears trickled down Dorianne’s cheeks and she had to blow her nose. “I’ve missed them terribly.”

Turning to Baudoin, Mabelle asked, “What news of Robert?”

“Nothing, maman, but we’re convinced he’s in Caen. Caedmon and I will stay here with you. Ellesmere is in good hands and there’s no threat to it. We’ll await Henry’s command.”

Dorianne hastened off to the nursery to reunite with her daughters.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Not long thereafter, King Henry extricated himself from the domestic political problems besetting him in England and arrived in Normandie with an invading army. Caedmon and Baudoin joined him.

“This war won’t end peacefully until my brother is captured and I’ve won a complete victory,” Henry told them. “I will win. I’ve put my trust in money.”

Baudoin and Caedmon had indeed seen the great barrels and carts full of coin.

The King smiled. “Money makes it possible to fight with more men. It will allow me to make promises to Comtes and barons. The more I promise, the more likely they are to abandon my brother. Even those who hold lands from the duke and owe him fealty have already left him in my favor, abandoning their true lord.”

Baudoin grimaced. “Majesté, suddenly Normandie is a land full of fear. We’ve heard of people burying everything in cemeteries, leaving nothing in their houses for robbers and thieves.”

The King shook his head sadly. “It’s a result of my brother’s greed. I’ve summoned men from Le Mans and Anjou and Bretagne, and they have come willingly at the prospect of gain. All know the rewards to be had. My brother has no money left. He’s spent it freely. He’s had his castles rebuilt, walls repaired and strengthened, battlements constructed and trenches made in front of castles. At Caen he built a trench stretching from Rue d'Esmeisine to Porte Milet. But do you know what he does when he runs out of money to pay his mercenaries?”

Baudoin and Caedmon both shook their heads, though they had heard rumors.

Henry smirked. “He hands over his burgesses to the mercenaries, who then ransom them back to their families. This is a man who pretends to be a king! Many of his own burgesses now hate him.”

~~~

The war commenced. Curthose sought to make alliances with the King of France and other factions, but Henry had bought them off.

The cathedral town of Bayeux fell to Henry. Baudoin sent an account of events to Dorianne and his mother.

Maman, Dorianne,

We are well, as I trust you are.

The inhabitants of Bayeux defended themselves bravely, not wanting to surrender to the king and he couldn’t take them by force. Gonthier, their constable, rode throughout the region, bringing prisoners and booty which greatly assisted the town. King Henry was very displeased that Bayeux’s resistance threatened the advance on Caen.

The king and some of his knights, including Caedmon and myself, assembled and went to Bayeux together, where we set light to the town. Flames leapt high, chapels and churches burning, houses and food-stores toppling. The church was entirely destroyed and its precious possessions taken outside.

Henry took the city and laid waste to the area as far as Caen. Curthose hasn’t been able to recover anything or return to Bayeux. No one can remain between Bayeux and Caen. The peasants are too afraid to till the land, join their oxen together or plough the fields and the merchants do not dare go about the town or transport their merchandise.

On to Caen! We will find our brother.

Baudoin.

Caedmon and Baudoin took advantage of the confusion in the aftermath of Bayeux to work with another knight, Robert FitzHaimo, to capture influential citizens of Caen. They met with the King at Yvrandes, in a hermitage surrounded by a great wood called the Lande Pourrie. They told him their plan.

The king was pleased. “It’s a good plan. These prisoners you’ve brought are powerful men, born in Caen. We can have the town through them.”

Baudoin folded his arms across his chest. “Oui, they’ve agreed that if you release them and make it worth their while, they’ll hand over Caen. But it must remain secret.”

The King turned to FitzHaimo. “Can we trust them?”

The knight chuckled. “To make sure, we’ve insisted they provide their sons and nephews as hostages. They’ll pretend to obtain what’s necessary and pay their ransoms.”

This plan was successful and Caen surrendered to the King, without much bloodshed. Henry’s men flooded into the town.

Baudoin and Caedmon made immediately for the cells below the castle. They searched by torchlight, rags over their mouths. Baudoin’s eyes watered. “How can he have survived this stench?”

Caedmon shook his head and continued the frantic search. Cell after cell revealed broken, confused men, terrified by the torches thrust into their dark existence. But nowhere could they find Robert.

~~~

Unaware of events in the world above him, Robert was wrenched from his cell and dragged along the darkened corridor. It was the first time in months he had been outside the black hole. He did not recognise the men, but they bore the Curthose device on their tunics. The mute giant was not one of them.

His hands were tied to something. His heart beat faster. Was this to be the end then? Was this his execution? Death would be welcome. He heard the sound of the lash before he felt it tear into his flesh. His ravaged body recoiled, but he did not have the energy to cry out. He did not bother to count the strokes as they bit into his skin. He would be dead before they stopped.

Then, he was back in his cell, his mangled back on fire. He remembered his indignation when he had first learned Dorianne had been whipped. He heard loud voices above. It disoriented him. Did he hear his name? Was the angelic host calling him to heaven? Searing pain overwhelmed him. He blinked hard, trying to hold on to his wits. The voices receded, leaving, leaving him to the black meaningless existence he had endured for too long. He would die alone in this awful place.

“Dorianne,” he murmured with his last breath.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Baudoin and Caedmon were devastated not to find their brother. They were on the point of leaving the prisons, their hearts heavy, when Baudoin stopped. “Listen,” he rasped to Caedmon.

Caedmon cocked his head. “What is it?” He waited, frowning. “All I hear is a cat’s mewling cry.”

“He’s here,” Baudoin replied turning back. “I feel him. I feel my brother’s presence. There must be more cells somewhere.”

They turned back, creeping carefully along narrow dark corridors. After many long minutes Baudoin heard Caedmon shout, “Here! A stairway.”

They descended the steep slippery steps, their torches held high to illuminate the narrow walls. The meagre light fell onto an oubliette. They peered inside.

“There’s a man in there,” Caedmon cried.

Baudoin strained to see, his eyes watering. A wretched man lay on a bed of straw. “He’s dead, I think.”

Caedmon smashed the crude lock with his sword and they entered. The mangled creature prostrate before them did not move. A cat scurried by and was swallowed up by the blackness. Then they heard a faint whisper. “Dorianne.”

Bile rose in Baudoin’s throat, his heart thudded in his ears. “By the saints, it’s Robert! Hold the light here.”

His fury intensified when he saw Robert’s bloody back. “He’s been flogged—and recently. A parting gift! Call for more help.”

Robert groped the straw. “Espérance?”

Tears streamed down Baudoin’s face. He grasped his brother’s hands firmly. “Oui, you have hope now, Robert.”

With Caedmon’s help, he lifted Robert over his shoulder. The Montbryce men-at-arms came at the call and they and Caedmon helped guide Baudoin up the steps to the courtyard. Robert cried out when the light assailed his eyes. Baudoin quickly tore a strip from the crude shirt and tied it over Robert’s eyes.

“Robert,” Baudoin strained. “It’s Baudoin. You’re safe now. Caedmon is here. We’re here for you.”

“Dorianne?” Robert rasped.

Baudoin wiped away tears. He could barely speak. “She’s safe, my brother. You have a son.”

“A son? I have a son. But where is Espérance? Don’t leave her behind.”

Caedmon and Baudoin looked at each other and shook their heads.

“He’s delirious,” Caedmon said.

Robert fainted.

The men-at-arms carried their broken lord on a litter to the Abbeye aux Hommes where the monks shaved the lice ridden hair from his face and body. They bathed his lacerations and applied salve, washed him and tended the sores on his body, then rebandaged his eyes against the light. He remained in a stupor as they ministered to him.

“How bad is it?” Caedmon asked as Baudoin emerged from the infirmary.

“It’s bad,” Baudoin replied angrily. “He’s been beaten, starved, humiliated, deprived of light. It will be a long road back to good health. He’s emaciated. I can barely recognize him. It’s hard to believe a Norman nobleman would treat another this way. So much for a code of honor.”

Caedmon put his arm around Baudoin’s shoulders. “Dorianne will help nurse him back to health.”

Baudoin shook his head. “I doubt if she’ll want to touch him the way he looks.”

“Never underestimate the power of a woman’s love,” Caedmon replied.

Baudoin was lost in his thoughts for a long while as they stood in the silent cloister of the Abbey. “I’ve sent messengers to Saint Germain. But I doubt he’ll be able to travel for a few days.”

A monk appeared with news Robert had awakened. They entered the infirmary. Robert lay on his side on a palette. Baudoin choked back tears as he clasped his brother’s hand. “Robert…Robert…we thought you were lost.”

Robert coughed. “Baudoin? Where…am I? It’s been…so…long…since I talked…with anyone…I—”

“Don’t worry about talking, Robert,” said Caedmon. “We’re relieved to have found you.”

“Caedmon? You’re—both here?” Robert had difficulty making his voice work. “Take me home—I want to go home—to Montbryce—I want to die there—not here.”

“You’re not going to die, Robert,” his brother retorted. “We’ve gone to too much trouble to save you. Dorianne would never forgive us.”

“She will—not want me now—I’m not the man—she married,” Robert whispered.

“You’re doing what I did, Robert,” Caedmon said. “I was afraid Agneta would never speak to me again when I returned from the Crusade, and yet she welcomed me back with open arms.”

“But Caedmon—you didn’t look like this,” Robert said sadly, running a gaunt hand over the ribs protruding from his once broad chest. He coughed deeply. “I don’t want her to see me. She will—want to flee.”

Baudoin snorted. “I won’t be the one to try to keep her away from you when we return home.”

“Nor I,” Caedmon added. “King Henry plans to leave Normandie tomorrow. He’s been called back to England to deal with the Investiture problem, but he’ll return as soon as he’s able.”

Baudoin wanted to hearten his brother. “Curthose has avoided capture this time, and Henry won’t stop the fight until he has his brother soundly defeated. He’ll leave Caen and Bayeux garrisoned until his return. If possible we should leave with him on the morrow to take advantage of the escort to Montbryce. Will you be able to travel, Robert?”

“Oui,” Robert replied weakly. “I’ll be ready. I want—to be as far away from Caen as possible—and I want to see my son. Did you find Espérance yet?”

Baudoin shook his head. “I don’t understand. Who is Espérance?”

“My cat.”

Caedmon and Baudoin looked at each other. “Non, we didn’t find a cat.”

Robert gripped his brother’s arm, surprising Baudoin with his strength. “You must find her.”

Baudoin put his hand on Robert’s. “I’ll try.”

Robert eased his grip. “Merci,” he rasped.

Baudoin turned to Caedmon and whispered, “I’ll send a messenger on ahead.”

~~~

Robert wasn’t able to stay atop his horse. Caedmon helped him remount behind Baudoin and tied his hands loosely around his brother’s waist. Robert lay heavily against his brother’s back as they rode and Baudoin held on to him.

The monks had provided them with salve and from time to time they had to stop when the pain of his lashes became too much. They took him down and applied the salve. The last two hours of the journey were completed in the rain and as they rode into the courtyard of the castle, Robert had to be taken from the horse and carried to a chamber. He had passed out.

Mabelle and Dorianne clung to each other in the downpour, the rain mingling with tears as the bald, broken and blindfolded man was carried into the castle. They followed the sad procession to the chamber, but Baudoin barred their way at the door.

“Why have you not brought him to our chamber, Baudoin?” Dorianne asked.

“Dorianne—maman,” he began, “Robert will need a few hours to regain his strength before you see him.”

Dorianne’s mouth fell open. “But Baudoin,” she stuttered, “I long to see him, to hold him.”

Baudoin clenched his jaw. “He doesn’t want you to see him this way. You must respect his wishes.”

“Come, Dorianne,” Mabelle coaxed. “Robert will sleep now. We have our darling boy home. Baudoin is right. We’ll see him later. We’ll nurse him back to health.”

She led her daughter-by-marriage back to her own chamber where Dorianne took her son from his nursemaid. “Papa is home, Alexandre, everything will be fine now. Papa is home,” she whispered to the gurgling infant, her face streaked with tears.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Robert’s valet Danyel Bonhomme was relieved his master had returned safely. He tiptoed into the chamber to see if the Comte was awake, barely recognizing the gaunt figure prostrate on the bed. Lying on his stomach, Robert struggled for a moment with the blindfold, but then covered his eyes with it again.

“Who’s there?” he asked nervously.

“It’s Danyel, milord, I’m elated you’re home. Shall I prepare a bath for you?”

“Oui. I would like to bathe. That’s one of the pleasures I missed the most. Hot water will be a delight. But not too hot—the wounds on my back.”

“Oui, milord, I understand. I’ll make everything ready, and I’ll lay out clothing for you. Perhaps a bed robe for now?”

His master did not answer right away, and Danyel wondered if he had fallen asleep. Then he heard a whisper. “Probably the best. I don’t intend to do anything today.”

He made the wooden bathtub ready and stable boys filled it with hot water from the kitchens. He was taken aback when the Comte snapped at the boys. “Too much noise. Hurry, you’re making too much noise.”

He laid a thick drying cloth against the back of the tub and helped his master rise. Robert leaned heavily on him as he stepped into the water. Suddenly he swayed and grasped Danyel’s arm more tightly, his fingers digging into flesh.

“You won’t let me fall? I can’t…see.”

“Non, milord,” Danyel replied, worried at the look of abject fear on his lord’s face. “I won’t let you fall.”

Carefully he helped his master settle into the hot water, placing a cloth and soap in his hands. “Madame la Comtesse has asked me if you’re awake yet, milord. Shall I tell her to enter?”

“Non,” Robert said quickly. “I’ll bathe first.”

“As you wish, milord. I’ll inform la Comtesse.”

~~~

Robert tried half heartedly to wash his body, but didn’t have the energy. The soothing warmth of the water relaxed him and he dozed until he became aware of the soft feel of the soaped cloth on his skin. “Merci Danyel, I’m as weak as a babe.”

When there was no reply, he became alarmed, fearful as to who was in the chamber with him. Roughly, he grasped the hand and stilled it. He could feel immediately it was a woman’s hand and the panicked notion it might be his wife took hold of him. “Non!” he rasped.

Dorianne whispered, “Robert, be calm, my love. I want to wash you.”

He shook his head and forced her hand away from his body. “You’ll never wash the stink from me, Dorianne. I don’t want you to look at my body. I’m not the man I was.”

His wife pulled against his grip. “Robert, you insult me if you believe I married you only for your body,” she said softly. “Let me help you. Please don’t shut me out. I was also abducted. I need your comfort.”

Her words gnawed his heart. He laid her hand against his cheek. “Dorianne, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I failed you.”

She cupped his face in both hands and kissed his parched lips. “Non, Robert. I failed you. I trusted Pierre.”

Robert shuddered. “Wash me, Dorianne. Help me cleanse my soul of this torment.”

She took the cloth and washed his ravaged body, then helped him stand and step out of the tub. He leaned on her, shaking with the effort.

“Hold on to the chair while I dry you,” she said. “Danyel has laid out your robe. I’ll help you dress.”

He gripped the chair, feeling nauseous. “You’re not my servant.”

Dorianne dabbed carefully at the livid scars on his back. “Robert, I love you. I’ll serve you all my life. I’ll be the one to nurse you back to health.”

She dried his body, kissing him tenderly as she applied salve to his back. The painful pleasure was more than he could bear, but he did not have the strength to fight her.

“Now get back into bed and I’ll fetch your son. Your mother is anxious to see you.”

He sat on the bed with her help. “How can you love what I’ve become? Even my mother won’t recognize me. I can barely walk.”

Dorianne cupped his face in her hands. “Robert, because the Duke wanted to destroy you doesn’t make you less of a man. That dubious honor falls to him and my mad brother.”

She went to the door where her mother-by-marriage waited with the babe. She took her son so Mabelle could untie Robert’s blindfold. He squinted to look at his mother for the first time in months. The long ordeal had taken its toll. She had aged. She would have missed his father’s support and guidance during the abduction. She embraced him, her eyes filled with tears, her voice breaking. “Welcome home, my son. I know you’re anxious to meet my grandson.”

He had avoided looking at Dorianne, afraid he would see how repulsive she found him. Now he dragged his eyes to her face. She too had not escaped unscathed. She had gained weight, which was to be expected, but fear, not revulsion haunted her. He wanted to cover the face he had longed to see with a thousand kisses—anything to remove the fear from her eyes.

Dorianne placed the child in his father’s arms, opening the swaddling cloths to let him see his son’s maleness. Robert gazed into eyes as blue as his own then cradled his son against his body, rocking back and forth. “What’s your name, mon fils? I’m your father, Robert de Montbryce.”

A sob escaped Dorianne’s throat. “I named him Alexandre, for the warrior king Alexander of Macedonia. I wanted him to have a strong name.”

“Alexandre de Montbryce,” Robert murmured.

The baby fussed. Robert trembled “Your Papa is afraid to drop you. You need your maman.”

He handed the child back to Dorianne. She adjusted her dress and chemise, settled on the edge of Robert’s bed and put the baby to her breast. Robert became aroused at the sight of the boy suckling, but his arousal brought home to him sharply the shame ingrained in him during his captivity when he had been unable to control his burning need. He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes, fatigue and guilt sweeping over him. “Leave me now. I’m tired,” he said coldly.

Mabelle eyed him curiously and suggested they wait until the baby had finished.

He became more agitated. “Non, maman, leave me now—please.”

“It’s all right, Robert. We’ll go. I’ll bring Alexandre back when you’ve rested,” Dorianne said softly.

After they left the chamber, Robert put his head in his hands. He had sent away the very people he had longed to see when he was a captive. He could not understand his own actions. He ran his hand over his head and felt the light stubble. “Poor Alexandre. What a sight for his first glimpse of his father. No wonder my mother looked at me strangely.”

Exhaustion weighed heavily and he slept.

~~~

Alexandre was still fussing as Mabelle and Dorianne left Robert’s chamber. Mabelle held out her hands. “Let me take him to the wet nurse, Dorianne. You need rest.”

Could her mother-by-marriage see the agony in her eyes? She had expected it to be bad, but it was much worse than her worst nightmare.

She nodded woodenly and handed the squirming infant over. Mabelle hurried off with him, and Dorianne turned to go to her own chamber. She controlled the urge to scream until her head was buried in her pillow. The sobs racked her body until she thought she might choke. She still loved Robert, but this was going to take much more than love to heal. Something in her husband had died. She could see it in his eyes. Would she be equal to the task of bringing him back to life?

He would never love her again after what she had allowed her brother to do to him. She vowed to atone for her brother’s sin by accepting that Robert would be repulsed by her. She would love him anyway.

~~~

Robert woke to find Baudoin and Caedmon standing beside his bed. Baudoin smiled. “You look better already. Better than you did in Caen at any rate.”

Robert shrugged, then regretted the movement.

Baudoin sat on the edge of the bed. “Caedmon and I are leaving today. We’ll catch up to the King and return to England with him. I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but you’re well armed and guarded here, and Curthose will keep out of harm’s way for the moment.”

“Baudoin, Caedmon, I owe you my life,” Robert said humbly.

Baudoin grinned at him, but Robert could see his brother did not want to let his emotions show. “Make the best of that life then, brother.”

Robert rose slowly from the bed and the three clasped hands.

Caedmon too was emotional. “Take care of your little lad, Robert. He needs a strong father, and Dorianne needs you. She suffered. It was her courage carried them both through.”

“I know,” Robert whispered. “Godspeed.”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mabelle worried. In the two months since his release Robert had regained some weight, and looked physically better, but his recovery was not easy for him, or for Dorianne. She suspected they had not lain together since her son’s return. Dorianne had lost her buoyant nature.

Mabelle commented on Robert’s improved appearance to her daughter-by-marriage as they sat together in the gallery, embroidering a new banner for the Hall.

Dorianne smiled. “Oui, he trains with the men, rebuilding his muscles.”

Mabelle looked at her thoughtfully and continued sewing for several minutes before she spoke again. “Are the lacerations on his back healed?”

Dorianne hesitated. “Oui, but he’ll be scarred.”

Both women knew it was an ignominious mark no Norman of noble birth should have to bear.

The pop of the sharp needles puncturing the heavy fabric and the whisper of the embroidery silk as they pulled the threads were the only sounds in the still air. Mabelle did not know if she should interfere or if Dorianne would resent her for it.

“Does he sleep well?”

Dorianne looked up quickly and tensed her shoulders. Then she looked away, but not before Mabelle had seen the desolation in her eyes.

Mabelle tucked her needle into the fabric and put her hand on Dorianne’s. “Sometimes a burden shared—”

Dorianne drew in a long breath and a tear trickled down her cheek. “We no longer share a chamber, but I know he has nightmares. Hellish nightmares.”

Mabelle put her arm around Dorianne’s shoulders and hugged her. “It’s to be expected, I suppose, but it can’t be easy for you.”

Dorianne sniffled. “He dreams of the horrors he endured, of the flogging, of the moment he thought all was lost and he would die alone. I know it’s because of the nightmares he’s afraid to share my bed. He curls up every night with the cat he procured from the rat-catcher. He dotes on the creature.”

“Baudoin told me Robert murmured your name when they found him, but it was a cat’s cry that first alerted them.”

A wail escaped Dorianne’s lips. “I love him, but sometimes he flies into violent rages at the slightest provocation. It’s hard to gentle him back to calmness. He complains of strange noises no one else can hear. Sometimes I’m afraid. How can he not blame me for trusting my brother?”

Mabelle had seen some of the terrifying rages Dorianne spoke of. “I too have seen insignificant things send him into a panic.”

Dorianne wiped away tears. “One day when Alexandre spat up his food, Robert broke down and cried.”

Mabelle was bereft she did not know how to resolve these problems. How she longed for Ram’s comfort. He would have known how to help Robert in his recovery. She and Dorianne stayed in the gallery, holding hands, until darkness fell.

~~~

Though his body was stronger, Robert was painfully aware he was not recovering from his ordeal. He often woke in the night panting, terrified of suffocating. He wanted to lie with his wife, but was still overwhelmed with guilt. He was an unworthy sinner.

Alexandre’s insistent cries for nourishment threatened to send him over the edge and he became verbally abusive. “Silence your whining child, Dorianne. By the saints, feed the boy.”

He avoided his daughters, afraid of his impatience with their shrieks of laughter. He raged inwardly, knowing how hurtful his words were to his wife. He longed to hold her, caress her and make love to her, but he was afraid and full of shame. He was not worthy of her.

The unrelenting desire for vengeance sometimes threatened to engulf him. He dreamt of the different ways he would torture and kill Curthose. His black humors were short lived and he was always contrite. It was difficult for everyone and he could tell his behavior was taking a toll on his mother especially. She spent most of her days in the crypt and he suspected she went there to “talk” to his father.

One day his mother did not appear for the evening meal. Robert went down into the crypt knowing he would find her there. On Ram’s tomb she had placed a posy of bluebells picked earlier in the day with the help of one of the maidservants. Her head rested on her husband’s tomb, her arms around the neck of the stone effigy on its surface. He called his mother’s name, but she did not respond, and before he touched her he knew she was dead.

“Maman,” he whispered tearfully. “You are at last reunited with your beloved Ram.” With all the strength he could muster, he carried her up to her chamber.

Mabelle de Montbryce’s remains were entombed beside her husband’s. They lay side by side in death as they did in life, watched over by the Montbryce crest and motto, “Fide et Virtute! Faith and Valour.”

Dorianne keened at Robert’s side. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, feeling her tremble.

“I will miss her,” she whimpered.

He recognised guiltily that his mother had been his wife’s only comfort while he dealt with his demons. He looked up at the crest as the bishop completed the funerary rites. He had kept faith and survived his torment. He swore to his dead mother and father he would bring only honor to the family name, and he silently thanked them for their gifts of courage and love. He could not have survived his ordeal without them.

He promised to fill his own life and those of his wife and children with love. He would recover from his captivity because of the love Dorianne had for him. She was nursing him back to health, helping him slay his demons. One day he would be whole again.

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

With his problems in England resolved, King Henry returned to Normandie in the summer of the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Six. Robert de Montbryce wanted desperately to fight with Henry against Curthose and deemed he was sufficiently recovered. He had to be part of the destruction of Curthose. He needed the closure.

After taking the fortified abbey of Saint-Pierre-sur-Dives, Henry’s army turned south and besieged the castle of Tinchebray, on a hill above the town, not far from Caen. Tinchebray, on the border of the county of Mortain, in the southwest of Normandie, was held by the Comte, who was one of the few important Norman barons still loyal to Curthose. The Duke brought up his forces to break the siege. After unsuccessful negotiations, battle was inevitable.

On the Twenty-eighth day of September the Battle of Tinchebray was fought between Henry and Curthose.

Henry's army was organized into three groups. These were commanded by Ranulf of Bayeux, Robert de Beaumont, and William de Warenne. Also on Henry's side were Alain, Duke of Brittany, William, Count of Évreux, Ralph of Tosny, Robert and Baudoin de Montbryce, their half-brother Caedmon FitzRam, and Robert of Grandmesil. In addition Henry had a reserve force, commanded by Elias of Maine, out of sight on the flank. Hugh’s sons Melton and Izzy, and Antoine’s boys, Adam, Denis and Mathieu, were part of that force.

On Curthose's side were William, Count of Mortain, François de Giroux and Robert of Bellême.

The battle itself lasted a brief hour. Henry dismounted and ordered most of his knights to do the same. Mortain charged the front line. The intervention of Henry's reserve force proved decisive. Most of Curthose’s army was captured or killed.

François de Giroux was among the captured Curthose supporters, but was subsequently released by the King. He pledged his allegiance to Henry and was allowed to return to his castle with what remained of the body of his son, Pierre. Robert dreaded imparting the news to Dorianne.

Baudoin and Caedmon saw action in what essentially became a running battle over several miles, and Robert was proud his brothers and cousins had come to join him in this crucial fight.

He requested and received a boon from his king—he wanted to be in the party of knights seeking to apprehend the Duke. When the fugitive was trapped at a farm two miles north of Tinchebray and forced into surrender, Robert itched to run him through with his sword. The dark memories washed over him, but he did not want the blood of the King’s brother on his hands.

He handed Curthose over to the King, but not before goading him in a proud and steady voice and with a mock bow. “Your Grace, I am Robert de Montbryce, of late your guest in Caen. I hope for your sake the prison your brother the King has in mind for you is better than the one you inflicted on me. You will be in prison much longer than I was.”

~~~

When they arrived back at Montbryce, there was a message for Baudoin. Dorianne herself delivered it to him. Her daughters clung to her skirts and she held Alexandre in her arms. She thrust the missive into Baudoin’s hand as he dismounted. Her expression told them it was not good news.

Before he read the message, Baudoin took Dorianne aside. “Robert will find it hard to tell you this, sister, so I will. Pierre was killed at Tinchebray. Robert was not the one who slew him. I did.”

She swayed and clutched Alexandre. “My father?” she whispered.

“He was captured, but swore his allegiance to Henry and was released. He took Pierre’s body home.”

Dorianne only nodded.

Baudoin opened the message. Caedmon watched his brother’s face draw into tight lines as he read it.

“What is it?” he asked.

Baudoin exhaled loudly. “I suppose I should have expected this. Rhun and Rhydderch have been arrested by the Earl of Warwick for harassing the building of his new castle at Abertawe in south Wales. They are sentenced to hang in a fortnight. Carys is distraught for her brothers. I must return at once to see what I can do.”

“I’ll journey with you,” Caedmon said.

Robert put his arm around Baudoin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about Carys’s brothers. Rhodri must be devastated. Will we never know peace?”

Caedmon braced his legs, determined not to let his younger brothers lose heart. “Listen, we’ve achieved our father’s goal. Normandie and England are again subject to one ruler, King Henry, son of the Conqueror, the only one of his children born in England. The political strife has been put to rest. But the battles aren’t over. Now Baudoin, you and I will ride to help Carys’s brothers. We must be our father’s sons and protect this family. We’re his legacy.”

The three men embraced, too overcome with emotion to speak. Baudoin and Caedmon hugged Dorianne and her children. Dorianne sniffled back her tears as they kissed Alexandre, and then Catherine and Marguerite begged to be picked up. The two men crouched. Baudoin lifted Catherine and Caedmon hoisted Marguerite onto his shoulders. They clung to their uncles, giggling. “Goodbye, beautiful nieces,” Caedmon said.

“Au revoir, oncle Caedmon, oncle Baudoin,” they replied.

Baudoin lowered Catherine to the ground and mounted his stallion.

Caedmon put one arm around Robert’s shoulder and drew him aside. In a low voice he said, “After we leave, Robert, turn around and take a good look at your family. You’ve wrought your revenge on Curthose, now you must defeat whatever demons are destroying your wife and children. Look into the eyes of this child on my shoulders. She needs you.”

Robert nodded slowly, and reached up to take Marguerite. For a moment Caedmon feared she would make strange with the father she barely knew. But then she put out her arms and threw them around Robert’s neck.

“Godspeed, my brother,” Robert rasped, holding his daughter tightly.

~~~

Dorianne gasped when she saw how fiercely Robert held on to his little girl. Was there hope now that he could learn to love them again? She had resigned herself that she would never again be the object of his love, but his children—she knew what it was to grow up without a father’s love.

He came to her and put his arm around her waist. It was the first time for months he had willingly touched her, and her knees buckled. He held her up, as if sensing her distress. “Let’s get inside. I must get this armor off.”

He crouched and beckoned Catherine, who had again taken refuge in her mother’s skirts. She looked at Marguerite then held out her arms. He lifted her and carried both of them into the keep. “My father was good with children,” he said to Dorianne.

She could barely speak. “Oui, he was,” she rasped.

Alexandre seemed suddenly to become aware his sisters were being carried by their father. He squirmed in Dorianne’s arms and reached out to Robert. “Papa,” he begged.

Robert turned, his eyes filled with tears. “He has never called me that before.”

Dorianne tried to soothe Alexandre. She stroked his hair off his face. “Papa will pick you up when he’s got his armor off,” she cajoled. He was not to be placated. Robert laughed and crouched to put the girls down. He smiled at them. “Can I put you down for a few moments, while I kiss your brother?”

Both girls pouted, but did not put up a fuss. Robert took Alexandre from Dorianne and lifted him high above his head. Alexandre giggled with delight. Robert lowered him and clasped him to his breast, burying his face in the child’s hair. “My son,” he croaked.

Dorianne’s heart filled with cautious hope.

~~~

After bathing, Robert decided to go to the nursery. Suddenly he could not get enough of his children. They had missed so much while he struggled with his ghosts. He had a lot to make up for.

When he strode into the room, his girls ran to him, squealing with delight. He nodded to the nursemaid, crouched and pretended they had knocked him over. The three wrestled on the floor until both girls seemed worn out by his tickling. “Show me your toys,” he said, feigning defeat.

Catherine took his hand and dragged him over to a bench. Two knight puppets lay atop it. He looked enquiringly at the nursemaid. “They like to play with them,” she explained, “but don’t really know how.”

He knelt beside the bench. “Well, we’ll soon fix that. Catherine, you stand at that end of the bench.” He placed the strings attached to the knights in her hands. “Hold them tightly.”

“Marguerite, you stand at the other end.” He straightened the strings and put the other ends in her hands.

“Now, if you both pull—oh, too hard. Pull gently, and you’ll see them battle each other.”

The two giggled with delight once they got the feel of it. The two miniature knights twisted and turned in mock battle with each tug of the string.

Robert laughed at their amusement. How could he have found their joy irritating? “Where’s Alexandre?” he asked.

Catherine thrust her chin out towards an alcove. “With Maman,” she replied.

It was only then he became aware of Dorianne suckling his son in the shadowed alcove, watching him. She lowered her gaze when she realized he had seen her, covering the suckling babe with a blanket.

Robert cursed himself for the times he had sent her away when she nursed their child. “I’m going to talk with Maman for a few minutes,” he said to his daughters. “Can you play with your toys for a while?”

They nodded and carried on the mock battle. He came to his feet and walked over to the alcove. “Alexandre still suckles?” he whispered.

Dorianne nodded. “Oui, sometimes.”

“I’ve missed so much,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “I’ve been here, yet I haven’t.” Carefully he pulled the blanket away. His shaft responded. Alexandre had fallen into a contented sleep, his head resting on his mother’s breast. Dorianne’s eyes flitted to his groin then she looked away, blushing. Her mouth fell open.

Robert shifted his weight. Did he have the right to ask? He touched his fingers to Dorianne’s burning cheek. She looked up at him, her eyes wary.

He went down on one knee and bowed his head, fearful of the answer he might receive to his request. “May I return to your bed this night, milady Comtesse?”

A choked sob escaped her lips. He looked up. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She reached for his hand. “I will be waiting for you, milord Comte.”

He kissed her hand, stroked his son’s head, rose and went back to playing with his girls.

~~~

The light tapping at the door of her chamber set Dorianne’s heart beating rapidly. She fanned her face and straightened the neck of the linen chemise she had decided to wear. She usually slept naked, but did not know what to expect from Robert. His behavior since his rescue more than a year before had been unpredictable. She swallowed hard and murmured, “Entrez.”

The word stuck in her throat. She coughed and tried again. “Entrez.”

She had never noticed before how the hinges creaked. As he entered Robert did not look at the bed where she sat propped up on the bolster, the linens up to her chin. He turned to close the door, his shoulders tense. He wore a long night shirt. She knew he was still uncomfortable with his body, though he had regained much of his weight and rebuilt most of the muscle he had lost. She longed to see his body again.

He turned and hesitated. She held out her hand. “Come lie with me, husband,” she murmured. “We must talk.”

He nodded, walked to the bed and sat next to her, his knees bent. He drew the linens up over his chest, clamping them down with his arms. Why was he so nervous?

“You have never told me what it was like,” she whispered. Would he tell her, or would he continue to shut her out of his nightmare?

Still he did not look at her. “I cannot.”

She placed her hand over his. “Neither of us will find peace until you do.”

He gripped her hand and put it to his forehead. She barely heard his answer. “I know.”

He did not speak for long minutes, and then gradually he told her of his captivity. He talked long into the night. Sometimes the painful words came in a rush, sometimes he had to force them out. When he told the story of the kittens, he sat for a long while with his arms clasped to his chest. She wept for the suffering he had endured.

Finally, he inhaled deeply. He seemed to be holding his breath. Then she heard the sobs emanating from deep with his chest. He shook his head.

She gathered him into her arms. “Let them out, Robert. Let them out.”

His head sagged onto her breast and he sobbed openly. “A man shouldn’t cry,” he lamented.

“A man who can’t cry isn’t a man,” she replied.

She held him until long after he had quieted. She thought he had fallen asleep, but when she tried to ease him onto the bolster, he looked up at her. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “I feel better,” he said. “I’ve talked of nothing but myself. I’ve never asked about your ordeal.”

She put her finger on his lips. “Mine was nothing compared to yours.”

“The candles have all but burnt out. Lie down while I light new ones and you can tell me,” he suggested.

He walked over to light the new candles from the guttering remains of the old ones. Had some of the tension left him? He seemed more at ease as he wedged the new candles into the bases and then went to cleanse his hands at the basin.

He came back to bed, and she recounted the details of her ordeal as they lay side by side. He eased up on one elbow. “I knew you were in Caen.”

She edged nearer to him. “I wanted our son born there. I could feel you.”

Robert shook his head and smiled. “I had the same sense of nearness. I felt your presence.”

She leaned over, her heart beating wildly, and kissed him lovingly, pressing her tongue against his lips. She could tell he was aroused, but again he held himself in check. She drew back and looked at his face. “What’s wrong? Do you no longer find me desirable? I don’t blame you. If I hadn’t trusted Pierre—”

Robert looked away. “Dorianne, your trusting nature is one of the things I love most about you. I desire you more than I can tell you. I can’t understand why you still desire me. I’m not worthy of you.” He took a deep breath. “My desire for you during my incarceration is what led to my sin. I’m ashamed of myself.”

She did not understand. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. A lesser man wouldn’t have survived what you did.”

The sorrowful look Robert gave her was troubling. She felt unburdened that he did not blame her, but she needed to break through whatever still held him in its thrall. It was clear he did not want to say more. What sin could he mean? “What do you mean by sin?”

A heavy sigh shuddered through him. He sat up and stared at the bed. “I sinned. I sinned, over and over.”

She sat up next to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “Then confess.”

He became impatient. “I’ve confessed again and again to the Bishop. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t cleanse me.”

“Confess to me then,” she whispered.

She had startled him, but he looked into her eyes.

She moved to sit cross-legged in front of him and took his hands. He averted his eyes. They sat for long silent minutes, holding hands, listening to each other breathing. Then Robert spoke so softly she barely heard him. “Dorianne, a man has needs—strong needs—urges—desires.”

She raised his hands to her lips. “I know. I understand desire. You’ve shown me only too well that a woman can have these desires too. I’ve ached for you since your return. All the time you were gone—”

He pulled his hands away from her mouth, but she would not release her hold on him. Still he stared at the linens. “But when a man has strong desires—and there’s no woman—”

He wrenched his gaze from the bed and looked at her. Her belly roiled at the anguish in his eyes.

“Dorianne—I couldn’t help myself. The more I tried to stop, the more I brought myself relief. It’s a mortal sin, but I couldn’t help myself.”

Dorianne had led a sheltered life, her father’s prisoner. Other than occasional glimpses of bare male flesh during her spying adventures atop the battlements, and the intimate joys Robert had shown her, she was ignorant of the male body. However, she would never forget the long nights she had lain awake in frustration longing to feel her husband’s manhood deep inside her, especially since his return, knowing he was so near. “You mean, when a man has desires, and—there’s no woman—he can—give pleasure to himself?”

“Oui,” he said softly, hanging his head.

She considered this new information. “Can a woman do the same for herself?” she asked. “I had needs too.”

Robert looked back at her. “Oui, Dorianne, a woman can pleasure herself if there’s no man to fill her needs, or even—”

His hands had become warmer, his skin redder and he was shifting his hips. She recognised the signs and it aroused her. “Robert, you probably worry I’m shocked by the idea of you—of your—but in truth I find it exciting,” she whispered, feeling the blush redden her cheeks.

He trembled as he drew her into his arms. “In truth, the vision behind my eyes of your touching yourself excites me.”

She drew the chemise over her head and threw it to the floor. “Show me how,” she breathed. He crossed his arms, reached for the hem of the nightshirt and peeled it off his body.

He held her tightly and they were skin to skin for the first time since his rescue. She wanted to scream out her joy and relief. Could he feel her body trembling?

Robert laid her down, and bent to kiss and lick her nipples in turn, then rolled each one between a finger and thumb. “I’ve dreamt of your breasts,” he growled. “Dreamt of suckling and squeezing, of seeing the look on your face I see now.”

She gasped. “Robert—”

He put his forefinger to his lips, then took her hand, placed it on her breast and rolled one nipple with her fingers while he teased the pebbled tip of the other breast. “Squeeze your nipple, Dorianne,” he whispered. “Feel how hard it is.”

She thrust her head back. Molten sensations coursed through her. The passion he ignited burned deep in her belly. Her mouth fell open and she licked her lips. He responded to the open invitation of her tongue, sucking it into his mouth as he kissed her. He laid her other hand on her breast, removing his own. “Squeeze both now. Twice the pleasure.”

His fingers traced slowly down her body to stroke the intimate ache between her legs, stoking the fire. She squeezed her nipples harder, moaning as the heat of her need grew. He slid his fingers in, then out of her slippery wetness, over and over. Soon, soon the crescendo would wash over her. She was nearly there. It had been too long.

Robert took one of her hands from her breast and placed it lower, where his own had brought intense pleasure. He showed her how to caress her aching flesh with her fingers. He took his hand away and bent to suckle her. The intensity of her release made her light headed and she heard her own voice scream Robert’s name. The waves of pleasure went on and on, carrying her away.

When her breathing slowed, she opened her eyes. She lay with her legs open, one hand on her sex, the other still on her breast. Robert’s gaze was full of unshed tears. “Dorianne,” he rasped, “I never beheld anything more lovely.”

Lazily, she reached for his erection, closed her hand around his rigid flesh and whispered, “Can it not be beautiful when a man pleasures himself?”

She moved to sit beside him, then took his hand and put it on his shaft, folding her hand over his. She stroked with him, then took her hand away and pleasured herself again. She never took her eyes off Robert’s manhood and watched it harden and darken as he clenched his fist tighter, his strokes firmer and faster, his breathing more labored.

This is what happens to him when he’s inside me.

Robert watched her face. Suddenly he got to his feet. “I have to stand up,” he growled, bracing his knees against the side of the bed. She turned to face him and felt the molten desire pool between her legs again as she stroked her ripening bud. It was arousing not to touch him, just to watch as he neared his release.

“I love you, Robert,” she whispered as he leaned forward, his seed gushing on to her belly like a torrent from a breached dam. He cried out his euphoria, panting hard. Sweat shone on his body. The grim mask that had long disfigured his handsome face was gone.

He shuddered and collapsed onto her. They lay together, breathing heavily. She felt no shame, but Robert? Had she helped him with his demons? Or had she made things worse?

“Merci, Dorianne,” he whispered as he came to his knees and drew her up into his arms, pulling her tightly to him. “Your love has freed me from a worse bondage than my torment in Caen.”

PASSION IN THE BLOOD

EPILOGUE

Henry was king for nine and twenty years after his victory at Tinchebray. In the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Twenty, he was devastated by a personal tragedy which would have far reaching effects on the people of Normandie and England.

Robert and Dorianne sired more children, and two survived to adulthood. It amused their parents that Catherine and Marguerite seemed to believe it their responsibility to rule their younger brothers, Alexandre, Laurent and Romain, even after the three became young men. Everyone placed the blame at Robert’s door because he had lavished so much love and attention on his girls.

When François de Giroux died, his estates devolved to his daughter, since he had no male heir. There had never been any trace found of the Crusader, Georges. This seemed to bring to an end the bitter feud between the Giroux family and the Montbryces.

Robert’s cousin, Izzy de Montbryce was appointed master and took over governance of the Castle Giroux for Robert and Dorianne. Izzy decided he would plant an apple orchard, as his father, Hugh had done at Domfort years before. He hoped in time to produce an apple brandy as fine, if not finer than that of Montbryce itself.

Izzy’s brother, Melton de Montbryce took over Domfort on the death of his father, Hugh. Adam de Montbryce succeeded his father, Antoine, as lord of Belisle.

The Montbryces held sway over vast tracts of land in Normandie and England.

Caedmon and Agneta raised their four children, Aidan, Blythe, Edwin and Ragna, spending part of the year in Northumbria at Kirkthwaite Hall, and the winter months in the gentler clime of Ruyton. Blythe became a lady-in-waiting to King Henry’s daughter, Princess Adelaide, who later married the Holy Roman Emperor, Heinrich.

Agneta’s Danish heritage surfaced in Ragna who became known as The Wild Viking Princess. From the age of two, she intimidated older cousins at family gatherings. Her parents despaired of her.

Curthose spent the rest of his life in prison—eight and twenty years. He attempted one escape, from Cardiff Castle. He would have succeeded had his horse not become mired in a bog. The episode infuriated Robert de Montbryce.

As for Baudoin and Carys, and the captive sons of Rhodri—those are other stories in the Montbryce Legacy.

ABOUT ANNA MARKLAND

Thank you for reading Passion in the Blood. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.

I’d love you to visit my newly revamped website and my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels.  Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter.

I was born and brought up in England, but I’ve lived most of my life in Canada. I was an elementary school teacher for 25 years, a job I loved.  After that I worked with my husband in the management of his businesses. He’s a born entrepreneur who likes to boast he’s never had a job! My final “career” was as Director of Administration of a global disaster relief organization. I then embarked on writing a romance, something I’d always wanted to do. I chose the medieval period because it’s my favorite to read.

I have a keen interest in genealogy. This hobby has had a tremendous influence on my stories. My medieval romances are tales of family honor, ancestry, and roots. As an amateur genealogist, I cherished a dream of tracing my own English roots back to the Norman Conquest—most likely impossible since I am not descended from nobility! So I made up a family and my stories follow its members through successive generations.

I want readers to feel happy that the heroes and heroines have found their soul mates and that the power of love has overcome every obstacle. For me, novels are an experience of another world and time. I lose myself in the characters’ lives, always knowing they will triumph in the end and find love. One of the things I enjoy most about writing historical romance is the in-depth research necessary to provide readers with an authentic medieval experience. I love ferreting out bits of historical trivia I never knew! I based the plot of my first novel, Conquering Passion, on a bizarre incident that actually happened to a Norman noblewoman.

I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.

AIDAN

ELIZABETH ROSE

TITLES BY

ELIZABETH ROSE

LEGACY OF THE BLADE SERIES

Prequel

Lord of the Blade

Lady Renegade

Lord of Illusion

Lady of the Mist

DAUGHTERS OF THE DAGGER SERIES

Prequel

Ruby

Sapphire

Amber

Amethyst

MADMAN MACKEEFE SERIES

Onyx

Aidan

Ian

BARONS OF THE CINQUE PORTS SERIES

The Baron’s Quest

The Baron’s Bounty

The Baron’s Destiny

ELEMENTAL SERIES

The Dragon and the Dreamwalker

The Duke and the Dryad

The Sword and the Sylph

The Sheik and the Siren

TARNISHED SAINTS SERIES

Tarnished Saints’ Christmas (Prequel)

Doubting Thomas

Luring Levi

Judging Judas

Seducing Zeb

Saving Simon

Wrangling James

Praising Pete

Teaching Philip

Loving John

Playing Nate (New)

Igniting Andrew (coming soon)

Taming Thad (coming soon)

GREEK MYTH FANTASY SERIES

The Pandora Curse

The Oracle of Delphi

Thief of Olympus

Kyros’ Secret

SHORT STORIES

One Red Rose

My Christmas Soldier

COWBOYS OF THE OLD WEST SERIES

The Outlaw

The Bounty Hunter

The Gambler

The Drifter

The Gunslinger

Wolfe of the West

TANGLED TALES SERIES

Lady and the Wolf

Just A Kiss (New)

Beast Lord (coming soon)

SINGLE TITLE

The Caretaker of Showman’s Hill

Curse of the Condor

Familiar

GNARLED NURSERY RHYMES

☠Mary, Mary

☠Muffet (coming soon)

Please visit Elizabeth’s amazon page
to see boxed sets, paperbacks, and audiobooks

Website: elizabethrosenovels.com

AIDAN

CHAPTER ONE

The Scottish Highlands. Late summer 1362.

Only a madman would use a stone for his pillow. The Stone of Destiny to be precise.

Aidan MacKeefe tossed restlessly in his sleep, having used the Stone of Destiny as his pillow for the last six months now, hoping to have prophetic dreams. Supposedly, the stone was used back in the days of the Bible, and Jacob had used this exact stone and had dreams of angels.

Aidan was in the middle of a dream. Mist surrounded him in his little stone cottage in the MacKeefe camp. He couldn’t see anything in the darkened room, but then the door opened, and in the bright light – he saw an angel. The angel walked toward him, covered with a long, white, hooded cloak, her fiery red tresses falling in ringlets down to her shoulders. Stopping in front of him, she peeked out from under the hood. While he couldn’t see her face well in the dark, he could still see her wide, green eyes that reminded him of the color of the moors on a warm summer’s day. Her gaze steadied upon him and she lit a candle in her hand, illuminating her face beneath the hood.

Her skin was fair, like alabaster, and a smattering of fine freckles trailed down her nose and spread to her rosy cheeks. Aye, she was a bonnie lass, and though he couldn’t see her body under the robe, he was sure it matched her beauty. He wanted her badly. Then she smiled at him, and her laugh rang out across the room like the sweet song of a small meadow pipit, bringing with it a fragile innocence to its tone. She was a fine angel. A perfect Scottish angel. He wanted naught more than to reach out his hands and touch her, but something weighted him down and he could not move.

As she reached out to him, he saw a strawberry birthmark on the inside of her arm that looked like . . . a skull. He felt himself jerk away from her touch, and then she turned away from him and nodded toward the door. Aidan’s attention focused across the small room, and to his horror he saw English soldiers following her into the cottage with their weapons drawn.

Aidan tried to cry out for help, but couldn’t speak. He tried to reach for his sword at his side, but couldn’t move. Then his eyes scanned down her body, and to his horror, he saw sticking out from the back of her robe right by her doup – a tail. A furry red tail! It reached out and brushed across his face, and in his only form of defense he leaned forward . . . and bit it.

The sickening screech of an animal cried out, pulling him from his slumber. His eyes popped open, bringing him out of the dream and he sat up quickly, not knowing what was happening.

Then he saw Reid, his pet red squirrel scurrying off his chest, scolding him, running in circles around the room. The door opened just then, but instead of his dream angel, his friend, Ian, stood there with a dour expression upon his face.

“What in the clootie’s name was thet screech?” asked Ian. His tall, muscular form filled the entire doorway, and his dark hair looked wet as if he’d just come from bathing in the loch.

Aidan jumped up, realizing he was fully clothed, and that it was well into the morning hours. Then he remembered taking a nap, too full to move after eating his fill of skirlie, an oatmeal and onion dish topped off with a goose egg. The food for the clan had been prepared by his younger sister, Kyla, and the chieftain’s wife, Wren.

The door pushed open from behind Ian, and there stood their good friend, Onyx, who had recently married an Englishwoman, Lady Lovelle of Worcestershire, after finding out that his true family was English, not Scottish at all.

“Aidan, ye dunderheid,” said Onyx, spying the squirrel running around the room in a heated frenzy. Onyx’s two different colored eyes stared back at him in question. “What did ye do te yer squirrel?”

“I think I bit its tail,” he said, running a hand through his hair and leaning back against the stone. The Stone of Scone, or Stone of Destiny as most called it, was a large, black basalt rock with ancient hieroglyphs etched into it. It had iron-looped handles embedded into the sides to use for carrying with a pole through it. The stone was very heavy, and took at least two full-grown men to move it - if they were strong. He’d embedded the thick stone into the dirt of the cottage floor to lower it, and pulled his pallet over it, to it to use as his personal pillow.

“Were ye hungry so soon after eatin’ so much skirlie?” asked Ian, walking into the room and sitting down. Onyx followed, leaving the door wide open. The summer sun spilled into the cottage, lighting it up and bringing with it a fresh breeze from the Highland hills.

“Nay, I had a dream.” Aidan settled himself atop the stone and donned his leather shoes that laced around his legs. Highlanders often went barefooted in the summer, unless they were traveling, like they would be today. “She was a bonnie angel with reid hair, I tell ye.”

“And so ye bit her?” asked Onyx, pulling up a chair and making himself comfortable. He raised an eyebrow in amusement, his one orange eye shining in the sun from the door, while his other black eye stayed in shadow. Most people thought Onyx was a madman because of his eyes. All three of the friends were madmen, and Aidan prided himself of the fact. If there were an outlandish or dangerous act or activity suggested, they were the first to try it just for excitement.

“Nay. Me Scottish angel had a tail – and we all ken thet our enemies have tails,” he said, pointing out the superstition held throughout the lands. “And I couldna move, so I bit it.”

Ian and Onyx both laughed hysterically, holding their sides and almost falling from their chairs.

“Ye big galoot,” said Ian. “Yer squirrel must o’ been sleepin’ on yer chest again and ye bit its tail.”

“Sorry, Reid,” Aidan said, looking over to the other side of the room where his pet was sitting on the floor licking its wounds. “So Dagger,” he continued, calling Onyx by the name only his close friends used, “when did ye get te the Highlands? I thought ye were visitin’ yer new family in England fer awhile.”

“I jest arrived,” Onyx told him. “Actually, Love is stayin’ with her mathair fer awhile in Worcestershire,” he said, speaking about his wife. “E’er since she started gettin’ heavy with our bairn-te-be, she seems te want te be close to her mathair. Since I’m no’ her new faither’s favorite as he still hates Scots, we decided I’d be best off visitin’ the MacKeefes until she’s closer te birthin’ the bairn.”

“I canna picture ye being a faither,” said Aidan.

“I already am a faither te her son, Charles.”

“So is Charles with her then?” Ian inspected a wooden cup on the table and smelled it, then decided to sample its contents. He made a face and set the cup back down quickly.

“Nay.” Onyx leaned back on two legs of the chair, with his arms crossed and also stretching out his feet atop the small table. “The lad wanted te go back te Blackpool and be fostered by me own faither as they are gettin’ along nicely, and I do believe the lad enjoys being a page. Someday he’ll make a fine squire.”

“And how are ye gettin’ along with yer faither?” asked Aidan, knowing Onyx still had some ill feelings for the man who almost killed him as a baby.

“We are gettin’ along better e’ery day,” he relayed. “I even invited him te join us at the Highland Games in the fall.”

The Highland Games was a tradition of many different competitions, and everyone looked forward to it.

“Guid,” said Aidan, reaching over and picking up his sword. He laid it across his lap and shined it with the edge of his purple and green plaid. The clan’s old weaver only knew how to weave one pattern, so the plaids of the MacKeefes ended up all looking the same. “Guid, thet is, thet he’ll be able te see me win the caber toss and also beat ye inte the ground with the sword hold.”

“Aidan, keep dreamin’ on thet rock o’ yers, becooz ye’re daft,” said Onyx. “Ye’ll ne’er beat me at the swordhold, and ye ken it. I can hold swords high and proud to me sides all day and night if I have te, and you’ll ne’er see me arms shakin’ at all.”

“Aye, thet’s true,” agreed Ian with a nod of his head. “He can. And Aidan, what makes ye think ye can beat our chieftain at the caber toss? E’eryone kens thet Storm has held the title o’ winnin’ the caber toss fer the last nine years now. He is countin’ on makin’ it te ten and havin’ a huge celebration.”

“That’s right,” said Wren, Storm’s English wife, as she appeared in the open doorway with Kyla, Aidan’s sister at her side. “My husband is King of the Caber, and you all know it’s because I’m his good luck charm.” Wren was a few years over thirty, and she and their laird had four children. Wren’s long, black hair was tied up and covered with a kertch as was custom of married women.

“Aye, brathair,” said Kyla. “Ye canna beat Storm.” Kyla pulled her long, light-brown hair back, tying it with a ribbon as she spoke.

“Well, then I jest need a guid luck charm also,” said Aidan, standing up with his sword in his hand.

“Ye jest dreamt o’ one on thet stone pillow o’ yers,” said Ian with a smile. “Tail and all.”

Onyx and Ian started laughing again, and Aidan threw down his sword and lunged at them, knocking Onyx off the chair and to the ground. Ian, in his usual form, wasted no time in getting Aidan into a headlock.

“Stop it, you three, and tell me what this is all about.” Wren stood with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for an explanation.

“Aidan was tryin’ te dream up a lassie again, usin’ the Stone o’ Destiny,” explained Onyx, pushing up to a standing position and brushing himself off.

“I was no’,” said Aidan, stuck under Ian’s armpit. Then, reaching backwards, he got a hold of his friend and flipped him over his head. Ian landed atop the table with a crash, and Onyx jumped out of the way of being hit. The squirrel chattered away, finding safety atop the Stone of Destiny.

“Then what were ye doin’ takin’ a nap in the middle o’ the day?” asked Onyx.

“’Tis no’ the middle o’ the day,” grumbled Aidan. “And I was tryin’ te have visions in me sleep, the way Jacob did in the Bible.”

“Ye ken ye three are supposed to be guardin’ thet stone, not usin’ it te find lassies te bed,” said Kyla, squinting and looking at them out of one eye. She was six years younger than her brother, at nine and ten years of age, but still, she’d kept up with Aidan and his friends her entire life. Kyla was always around them, wanting to be part of whatever danger they were getting themselves into. She wasn’t close to any of the women of the clan and considered herself more, ‘one of the boys.’

“I take me position of guardian o’ the stone seriously,” said Aidan, going back and sitting atop the stone.

“Only someone with rocks in their heid would sleep on the damned thing,” muttered Ian, sliding off the table and getting to his feet.

“The stone is only in our possession until the end of the year,” Wren reminded them. “After that, it’ll go in secret to another clan to protect it, so the English never find out that their king stole a fake coronation stone so many years ago. This system has worked well for the last five and sixty years, so don’t ruin it.”

“Dagger, ye didna tell Lovelle aboot it, did ye?” asked Ian. “Or any o’ yer family? After all, they are all English and if their king finds out the English have stolen a fake coronation stone, he’ll send his armies after it, sooner or later.”

“I didna say a word te me English family,” said Onyx. “Only Love kens, but she willna tell the rest o’ them.”

“Ye shouldna o’ told her,” said Aidan.

“She is me wife. I can trust her.” Onyx raised his palms in the air and shrugged as he spoke.

“She’s also a Sassenach. Ye can only really trust the Scots thet our stone is in safe hidin’,” Aidan reminded him.

Wren cleared her throat just then and shook her head. “I am English as well as Storm’s mother, so I am sure we can all trust that Scotland’s secret is still safe. Now hurry up, as Storm sent me to tell you that everyone is ready to go to the trade fair in Glasgow, and we’re just waiting for you three.” She left the room with Kyla following right behind her, leaving the door open.

Aidan looked at the Stone of Destiny, having taken a personal guardianship over it these past six months. Back in 1296, King Edward I, stole the coronation stone from the Scots from an abbey in Scone. Little did the king know, the abbot had replaced it with a fake, large, red sandstone, and the real stone was safe in hiding.

Because the English weren’t really familiar with what the stone looked like, they had taken naught but a decoy. And with the Scots taking turns over guardianship and moving it from clan to clan, they’d managed to keep safe the stone used in every Scottish coronation since Kenneth MacAlpin, the first king of Scots who was crowned over five hundred years ago.

“Aidan, ye dinna need te worry aboot me wife tellin’ secrets. After all, ye are the one who canna e’er haud yer wheesht,” spat Onyx.

“Thet’s right,” agreed Ian, pushing back his dark, tousled hair. “Ye are the one who always opens yer big mouth and says things ye shouldna.”

“Thet’s no’ true,” he protested.

“Really?” Onyx crossed his arms over his chest. “Then how did Lovelle ken what I was goin’ te do when I went te kill me faither? After all, ye and Ian were the only ones I told.”

“And how aboot the time ye told Kyla I was the one who hid her clothes when she was bathin’ in the loch?” pointed out Ian.

“She’s me sister,” Aidan said in self-defense. “I couldna let ye see her naked! And Dagger,” he said, nodding toward Onyx, “I couldna let ye kill yer faither, as I kent ye woulda regretted it someday.”

Onyx just shook his head and smiled. “Face it, Aidan, if anyone wants te ken gossip, they dinna go te the alewives te find a waggin’ tongue, they come te ye instead.”

“Well, I willna e’er tell anyone aboot the stone,” he said, feeling a wee bit bad that everything his friends were saying was true.

“It’s been safe so far, so mayhap ye are changin’,” said Ian.

Just then, Onyx’s wildcat slinked into the room with a dead chough, red-legged crow, in its mouth. It saw the squirrel scampering around and dropped the bird and lunged for Aidan’s pet instead. The squirrel scurried up Aidan’s arm and settled itself on his shoulder. Aidan ran a hand over the squirrel to soothe it, and stood to put distance between his pet and its stalker.

“Dagger, yer pet has grown since we last saw ye,” said Ian.

“Aye,” agreed Aidan. “I dinna think its safe te bring it around camp. There are bairns and livestock and sheep in the hills . . . and squirrels here.” His squirrel agreed by scolding the wildcat from atop Aidan’s shoulder, flicking its tail wildly.

“Nay, Tawpie willna harm them,” Onyx said, scooping up the cat, now having to use both hands to hold her, as she was no longer a cute little kitten. The cat’s eyes stayed fastened on the squirrel. “I have raised her from a bairn, and she is only bein’ playful since she is still so young. She listens te me, so dinna fash yerself aboot it.”

“Still, jest te play it safe, ye should keep her locked up,” said Aidan.

“I willna lock up me pet any more than ye’ll do the same te yers.” Onyx held the cat to his chest protectively. “Besides, she’s jest caught a bird so she willna be hungry fer awhile.”

“What is takin’ ye three so long?” asked their chieftain, Storm, walking into the hut, followed by Wren. Storm and his father both served as chieftains to the clan, and took turns staying at either the Highland camp, or the Lowland castle they’d claimed near the border, Hermitage Castle. Wren spied the dead bird on the ground and jumped back, startled.

“Dagger’s pet is killin’ off e’erythin’ in sight,” complained Aidan.

“No’ so,” Onyx replied. “And I willna lock her up.”

“I canna endanger the clan nor the livestock,” said Storm, shaking his head. The long blond braid at the side of his head swung slightly, and the cat tried to swipe out for it with its paw.

Storm scowled, but Wren reached over and took the cat in her arms. She had always had a way with animals and truly loved them. “I’ll get Renard to keep an eye on Tawpie during your visit,” said Wren, offering the services of their eldest son of eight and ten summers for the job. He was actually Storm’s son from a previous marriage, but Wren had raised him as if he were her own. “He used to have a pet fox years ago, and loves animals. He’ll keep the children safe, don’t worry.”

“Then Renard and Niall will stay here te watch the cat as well as watch o’er the stone while we’re at the fair,” said Storm. Niall was Renard’s cousin and also best friend, as they were about the same age, Niall being a little younger. They’d both turned out to be excellent with handling weapons thanks to Storm, so the stone would be in good hands. Besides, since the English didn’t even know it existed, it wasn’t in any real danger anyway.

“Storm, you know how much the boys look forward to the fair,” Wren reminded him.

“I’ll stay,” offered Onyx.

“Nay,” said Storm. “I need ye three te help me sell and trade fer goods we need at camp. Ye three are the best at gettin’ a guid, fair trade, and also the best prices, so ye’ll come with. Renard and Niall will take watch fer now and they can still go te the fair in a few days time.”

“I had a dream,” said Aidan anxiously. “I’m no’ sure what it means, but I saw the English comin’ inte this cottage.”

“No’ another o’ yer dreams,” grumbled Storm, not believing in anything supernatural. “Last time ye had a dream, ye had all the lassies bathin’ e’eryday becooz ye were sure if they didna, they were goin’ te get the pox.”

“Aye, but I enjoyed thet,” said Ian with a smile.

“Nay, this is different,” Aidan tried to explain. “This was so real, and I’m no’ sure what the English were doin’ here.”

“Mayhap they were hunting bonnie lassies . . . with furry tails,” said Ian, causing another fit of laughter between him and Onyx.

“Aye,” said Onyx, trying to catch his breath. “Mayhap Aidan should stay on watch so he can bite them all in the tails when they arrive.”

“Haud yer wheesht,” snapped Aidan, pushing past them out the door with his squirrel on his shoulder. They could make a jest of his dream, but somehow he knew that it was one of those visions like Jacob had so many years ago. Though he had no idea what the dream meant, he felt that his Scottish angel was in trouble and somehow needed his help.

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWO

Liddel Castle, Scottish Border

Effie MacDuff opened her eyes, hoping she’d only been having a bad dream. But when her vision focused on the bars in front of her small confinement, she realized the nightmare was real.

“Coira?” she cried out, looking around for her younger sister. The floor swayed underneath her, and to her horror, she realized she was hanging in an iron basket from the side of a castle. She rubbed the bump on her head, still feeling like her skull had been split open by the English soldier when he knocked her senseless after she’d tried to defend their gypsy camp.

“Effie?” she heard her sister’s small voice, and turned to see that she, too, was hanging like a bird in a cage. “I’m scared.”

Effie jumped to her feet, nearly hitting her head atop the grates of her confinement. She wasn’t tall by any standards, and their cages were barbaric, crude and small. She looked down to see the English soldiers looking up and them and laughing. They were on display for all to see, and the thought of this sickened her as well as made her very angry.

“Let us out o’ here!” Taking hold of the bars, she tried to shake herself free. She glanced down to her bedraggled clothes, now torn and dirty from her scuffle when the men attacked their camp. Relief washed through her when she realized the soldiers hadn’t stolen the MacDuff brooch of her grandmother that held closed her arisaidh - the long cloth wrapped around her and fastened at her shoulder. The metal, round brooch was engraved with a lion embedded with an amethyst eye, holding up its paw with a sword. Around its head was the clan’s motto, Deus Juvat, or God Assists. It was all she had left to remember her family by, since the death of her mother years ago. By the grace of God, her descendants had passed down to her the MacDuff brooch. So now all she had left was this, and Coira, her younger sister.

“You’ll stay put until we get word to King Edward that we’ve caught the descendant of that traitorous bitch, Isabel MacDuff,” sneered one of the guards.

“Effie, what are they talkin’ aboot?” asked her sister from the iron cage beside her.

For her entire life of twenty years, Effie had lived the life of a gypsy, keeping the secret her dying mother had told her the day she lost her life birthing Coira. Effie had only been six years old at the time, but she knew her life was never going to be the same after what her mother confessed to her that day. She missed her mother dearly, and only wished she were here right now.

“Dinna worry aboot it,” she told her sister. “I’ll get us out o’ here, I swear.”

“But they took yer dagger as well as yer bow and arrows. We have no way te protect ourselves from these bluidy bastards.”

“Coira, watch yer words, as they arena thet o’ a proper lassie.”

“Ye canna tell me thet when I learned e’ery foul word I ken from ye, big sister.”

Effie knew this was the truth. She’d learned to fight to protect them, and had hardened her heart the day she lost her mother. Her mother had warned her that the English would find them some day. Although they were MacDuffs, they were also descendents of a woman who angered the English years ago, and now they were the ones who were going to pay for it.

“Where are we?” Effie called down to the guards.

“You’re in Liddel Castle,” the guard told her.

“But . . . thet’s a Scottish castle,” she said, knowing of its whereabouts just north of the English border.

“Not anymore. Lord Ralston the Bold has seized it, and I assure you he is English, not a wretched Scot.”

“What do ye want from us?” she called down to the guards. Her heart thumped in her chest and she knew it didn’t look good for either her or her sister. If she couldn’t strike up some kind of bargain, they would most likely die in these cages. She only hoped they wouldn’t be tortured, or perhaps kept in a cage for four years the way the English had done to her grandmother, Isabel MacDuff. “What did ye do with the rest o’ our clan?”

“What clan?” asked one of the guards. “You mean that band of gypsies you travel with? Hah! That’s no clan, they were nothing but common thieves and swindlers.”

If she weren’t in such a dire situation, she’d almost find that amusing, since that’s exactly what she’d been thinking about the English. “They are our family. Now let me loose, I demand you.” She pulled on the grates again, causing the cage to rattle. A crow settled itself atop her sister’s cage, reaching its beak through the bars, just waiting to be able to peck their eyes from their bodies as soon as they were dead and shriveled from the sun. Her sister screamed and hid her face in her hands.

“You have no gypsy family anymore,” the guard relayed. “They tried to attack us when we came for you and your sister, and we had to kill them all.”

“Nay!” she cried, the anguish inside her starting to boil over. Her heart felt hollow, and she mourned for the lives of the gypsies that were taken, because they did naught but protect Effie and her sister since the death of her mother. “I’ll kill ye bastards, e’ery one o’ ye, I swear. Ye willna get away with this.”

“Effie?” She looked over to see her sister crying, and she wanted nothing more than to gather her into her arms and comfort her the way she’d always done through the years. But she couldn’t. She tried to reach through the grates, and her sister reached for her as well, but while their hands were close, they could not touch each other. “They’re goin’ te kill us, arena they?”

Effie’s heart broke to see the fear in her sister’s eyes. Though the girl was already four and ten years of age, she’d been weak and sickly most her life, and her heart was not strong. She often fell victim to fevers, and Effie could already see her sister’s frail body shaking. Though it was summer, come nightfall her sister would be cold.

“Nay, stay strong,” she told Coira. “They canna win unless we give in te them, and lose our will te live.”

“Why are they doin’ this?” she asked again. “What did we do te deserve this kind o’ treatment?”

“We did nothin’,” she explained. “’Twas an act o’ our grandmathair thet has them so roiled.”

“I kennawhat ye mean.”

“I’ll take care o’ it, now jest get some sleep.”

She saw her sister’s eyes closing, and she knew the girl was exhausted. Effie swore she’d do whatever it took to right this situation. No more MacDuffs would live in a cage in front of the public eye the way her grandmother had. Her mother had told her in order to ensure their safety, they had to keep their identity a secret. She had no idea how the English found out about them, after all these years of thinking Isabel MacDuff died without issue.

The gypsy man, Tasgall, walked into view, and suddenly it was clear what had happened. Since the English did naught to confine him, she was sure this man had spilled their secret.

“How does it feel te be up there?” Tasgall asked, and flashed a quick smile.

“Ye traitor,” she called down and spit at him out of the cage. She never did trust the old coot, ever since the day she found him stealing food from one of the bairns. He was over forty years of age and had a big nose and beady eyes. Effie thought it was shameful to even call him a Scot after what he’d just done. “Why did ye do it? Why did ye tell the English our secret?”

“Becooz I have a secret too, me little bird. Only mine is one thet the English like. Ye see, I am a descendant of the Comyns. And in case yer mathair didna explain te ye, yer grandmathair was married to a Comyn before she decided te betray the English crown.”

“Ye have it wrong, ye fool. Me grandmathair wasna the one te do the betrayin’. She was loyal to Robert the Bruce, and also her country. Too bad I couldna say the same fer the Comyns.”

“Aye. Too bad thet Comyn and Bruce were enemies, but then again ye have The Bruce te thank fer killin’ Red Comyn so many years ago, so mayhap he’s te blame fer ye hangin’ in thet cage after all. Jest like what happened te yer dear auld grandmathair.”

Effie knew only too well what he was talking about. Her mother had explained their roots, and that Isabel had left her brother being fostered in England, as well as her husband who had befriended the English king, to crown Robert the Bruce at Scone, as was the hereditary right of a MacDuff. She was a very brave and honorable woman. If she hadn’t been captured by the English, things might be different for Effie and her sister today.

Effie’s father was from the MacDuff clan and had come to her mother to couple in secret. He was a coward though, or he would have done something about rejoining them with the clan. She actually felt no remorse the day she held her mother’s hand and looked down at the dead body of the father she never knew on the bloody field after the Battle at Neville’s Cross. As far as she was concerned, the man got what he’d deserved. She was only too glad that Coira never had to experience this, as he’d died before she was actually born.

“Tell me what ye want,” she cried out to the Englishmen. “I’ll do anythin’ at all, but please, jest set me sister free. She is no’ well, and canna be treated this way.”

“Anything?” asked the guard, and Effie could already feel her skin crawling at the thought that he’d probably defile her. Still, she would say whatever it took to get him to release her from the cage, and then perhaps she’d have half a chance of fighting him off or coming up with a plan to free her sister.

“Ye ken what yer lord wants,” said Tasgall to the guards.

“Aye,” said one of the guards, nodding his head. “But I think we should have our way with the girl first. Lower her down,” he ordered another of his men.

The cage was lowered slowly to the ground, and the guard twisted the key in the lock, releasing the hinged door. He opened it and grabbed her by the hair and pulled her out into the dusty courtyard. He had the look of lust in his eyes, and may have tried something if the lord of the castle hadn’t walked out at that moment.

“Good, Dempster,” he said to his captain of the guard. “I see you’ve got the wench ready to go. Now take her to the Glasgow fair immediately, and don’t let her out of your sight.”

“Lord Ralston,” complained the guard. “I thought we could have a little fun with her first.”

The man named Lord Ralston reached out and grabbed Effie by the chin. His grip was tight and she could feel the pressure biting into her flesh.

“I’ll be the first one to have her once she’s delivered to us the information we need. Now, Scotsman,” he said, looking toward Tasgall, “where did you say you heard talk of the Stone of Destiny?”

“I heard the Highlanders talkin’ aboot it in the pub when they were well in their cups,” Tasgall told him. “I think they have the real stone, and the one King Edward stole is only a fake.”

“Just as I thought,” said Lord Ralston, nodding his head. “For years I’ve believed the English had a fake stone but couldn’t prove it. But now, with any luck we’ll not only have proof, but the stone itself.”

“Shall I send word to King Edward that we’ve found information that the English have been tricked years ago?” asked the guard.

“Nay, not yet. Not until the girl gets us the information of its whereabouts,” said Lord Ralston, releasing his hand from her chin and running his fingers through her hair. “With her looks, any Scot will tell her whatever she wants to know. And with that MacDuff brooch she’s wearing, all of the Scots will trust her.”

Now Effie knew why they hadn’t taken her brooch. It was the symbol of a brave Scottish woman that all the Scots revered. They were going to use such an iconic symbol against her. It turned her stomach to even think of it.

She pulled away from Lord Ralston, and held up a hand to block him from touching her again. That’s when his fist shot through the air, and though she moved aside, he still clipped her on the jaw for her actions. She fell to the ground, hearing her sister screaming from up in the cage.

“You stupid wench,” he growled. “Don’t you see if you don’t do as I command, you’ll pay for it dearly?”

“Do whate’er ye want te me,” she said. “I willna betray Scotland by givin’ ye any information. It is me homeland and I will be as loyal to it as me grandmathair was.”

“Can we take her now?” asked Dempster.

“I said no,” he spat. “You will get the information I request,” he warned Effie. “Because if not . . .” his eyes roamed upward and stopped as his gaze landed on her sister. “If not, then your sister will pay for your incompetence. First with her body . . . and then with her life.”

Effie looked upward to see her sister was not sleeping after all. Instead, she was holding onto the bars of her prison, peering at Effie with all the hope in the world in her eyes. She was frightened, but also trying to be strong. She shook her head, tears flowing from her eyes.

Effie had been more like a mother to Coira than a sister, after the death of their mother. She would protect her with her life, and never allow harm to come to her. Coira was her only family now. Her only reason to live. And though it pained her to do anything against Scotland, she would do whatever it took to save her sister’s life.

“I’ll do it,” she said, trying to ignore her sister’s wailing from behind her. “Tell me what information ye need, and I will get it fer ye. Just dinna do anythin’ te harm me sister.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER THREE

Aidan stepped out of the Horn and Hoof pub in Glasgow, followed by Onyx and Ian. He had his squirrel on his shoulder, and held up a crumb, feeding it as he walked.

“God’s eyes, Aidan,” said Ian, following him out into the midst of the fair. “Are ye goin’ te be sore at us fore’er jest fer teasin’ ye aboot yer dream?”

“Aye,” said Onyx. “We’ve already been here fer two days now and ye’re still actin’ like a bairn aboot the whole blame thing.”

“I jest wish ye two would take me dreams seriously,” said Aidan.

“We do,” answered Onyx.

“Howe’er, it is a wee bit tryin’ when ye tell us such a . . . tail,” said Ian. Ian looked at Onyx and they both burst out laughing.

Onyx slapped Ian on the back. “Let’s get another dram o’ auld Callum’s mountain magic.”

“Guid idea,” said Ian. “Aidan, are ye goin’ te join us?”

“Nay. I’m goin’ te take Reid to the forest te root around. I’ll meet ye back at the pub in a wee bit.”

He headed off toward the edge of the forest, in no mood to drink with his friends. It wasn’t usually like him to stay sore at them for so long, but something about the dream had him feeling very unsettled inside. Although he couldn’t really remember the face of his angel anymore, one thing about the dream did not fade from his mind. The English soldiers in his cottage. He wondered if it was some sort of warning.

“Go on, Reid, and root around but hurry back.” He put his squirrel on the ground, and the animal took off to the treetops. He sat down at the base of the tree and had only closed his eyes for a few moments when the squirrel started screeching, telling him that something was wrong.

Aidan opened his eyes and looked around, then heard a noise coming from deeper in the forest. It sounded like the voice of a woman, and it sounded as if she were in trouble. Grabbing his sword from his side, he jumped up and rushed through the forest.

“Let go o’ me ye brute,” Effie said to the English guard, Dempster, who was trying hard to accost her. He was supposed to just bring her to the fair so she could find out information, but unfortunately, she could see that he had other plans. Especially when his friend appeared to help.

“I’ll hold her for you, and you hold her for me,” said the second guard, approaching quickly. Dempster threw her to the ground and his friend straddled her, pulling up the end of his tunic as he did so, untying his hose.

“Get off o’ me, ye bastards!” She bit Dempster in the hand, and the second guard reached out to hit her, but was stopped by the strong fist of a Scottish Highlander as he shot out from the forest and twisted the man’s wrist. Her attacker cried out in pain and she heard the bones in his hand snap.

“Get away from the lassie afore I kill ye,” the Scotsman warned.

Dempster released her quickly, unsheathing his sword at his side. The Scotsman met him with his own sword, and when the second guard stood to join him, the Highlander kicked him, sending him sprawling across the ground.

Effie jumped up and backed away from the fight, seeing the second guard pulling his sword and rushing toward the Scot.

“Behind ye,” she cried out, and with one motion the Scot disarmed Dempster and had the point of his sword under the chin of the Englishman’s friend.

“Did they harm ye in any way, lassie?” asked the Scot. “Becooz if they did, jest tell me and I’ll run me blade through both o’ them right now.”

“Nay,” she said, not wanting the guards killed, knowing that if that happened, Lord Ralston would probably take it out on her sister. “They didna harm me, now please jest let them go.”

“Are ye sure?” he asked over his shoulder, but not taking his eyes from the men.

“I’m sure.”

“Then I want the two of ye te leave quickly and no’ come back te the fair. If I ever see ye again, I swear it’ll be the last time we e’er meet, and it’s no’ me own deith I’m talkin’ aboot.”

The guards looked at her, and since she knew the Scot couldn’t see her, she just nodded her head, signaling to them that she’d try to get information out of the Highlander.

“Fine,” said Dempster. “Just let us go.”

The Scot moved his blade from the soldier’s neck and they both scurried away quickly out of sight.

“Thank ye,” said Effie, when the man turned to look at her.

“What are ye doin’ alone in the woods te begin with?” He replaced his sword in the scabbard at his waist.

“I . . . was using a bush,” she said for lack of anything else coming to mind.

“Then ye better go on back te yer clan afore those English curs cause ye any more trouble.”

“I dinna think they will.”

He looked surprised by her comment as he walked up to her. “Why would ye think a thing like thet?”

“Because . . . ye scared them away. And I ken I’m safe now thet I’m with ye.”

He seemed to like that answer, as the corners of his mouth turned upward into a smile of satisfaction. She knew that Highlanders thought highly of themselves, and a few compliments would get her far.

“Me name is Aidan. Aidan MacKeefe,” he said. His tawny brown eyes studied her, and she saw a kindness within them. His blond hair hung down to his shoulders, lifting in the slight summer breeze, making him look like some sort of pagan god. Stubble shadowed his face in a slight mustache and beard, adding to the ruggedness of his composure. He wore a white leine, long tunic down to his knees, with the lacings untied, showing his sturdy chest. His plaid was wrapped around him and thrown over one shoulder. He seemed to have large muscles, and looked to be very strong. She liked that. She hadn’t been so close to a handsome man . . . ever.

“Are ye a Highlander?” she asked, surveying his rugged looks. She was from the Lowlands, and knew that Highlanders were said to be barbaric and mad.

“I am,” he said, and before she could say anything more, a squirrel dropped down from the tree above and landed on his shoulder. She screamed and jumped back, but he didn’t even flinch. He reached out for the animal, and it scurried from one of his arms to the other before settling on his back, peering over the top with wide eyes.

“There’s – a squirrel on yer back,” she said, just in case he hadn’t noticed.

“I ken,” he said, his eyes never leaving her for a moment. “Thet’s me pet, Reid.”

Now she knew he was one of those crazy Highlanders she’d heard about. This point proved it. “How nice,” she said and forced a smile.

“So are ye goin’ te tell me yer name, me bonnie cailin?”

“I’m Effie,” she said, finding herself getting lost within the swirling depths of his eyes. His perusal of her drew her in, making her feel excited. He was not only ruggedly handsome, but he was also looking at her as if her presence excited him as well. She’d never felt anything like this in her life.

Tasgall stepped through the trees making his presence known just then, and ruining her magical moment. “She is Effie MacDuff and she is here with me,” he said, and shot her a sickening smirk.

“Ye are a MacDuff?” Aidan asked in surprise.

“Aye, I am Effie MacDuff,” she admitted, and smiled, hoping the MacKeefes and the MacDuffs weren’t in the midst of some kind of feud.

“And who are you?” he asked, surveying Tasgall from head to toe.

“I’m Tasgall. I am a gypsy,” he said. “Effie and I are the last ones left o’ our little family, as the English have attacked and killed off the rest jest the other day.”

“A gypsy?” He looked confused. “But I thought the lassie was a MacDuff.” His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and Effie knew he didn’t trust them.

“It’s true,” she said, stepping in between them. “Me mathair was once a MacDuff but broke away from the clan. I was raised as a gypsy, a traveler, jest wandering the land.”

“I dinna understand,” he said, still eyeing up Tasgall cautiously. Effie could see she would never get any information out of any Scot if Tasgall decided to tag along. He had a face that could not be trusted, and his eyes were shifty. He also wore raggedy clothes. No one trusted a gypsy in the first place, and it was going to be hard enough to gather information now that the Highlander knew she was a gypsy as well. The idiot, Tasgall, may have very well just ruined her chance to save her sister.

“Me throat is parched,” she said, clearing her throat. “Aidan MacKeefe, would ye mind takin’ me somewhere so I can get somethin’ te drink?”

“I kennawhat ye like te drink, but Callum MacKeefe is the owner o’ the Horn and Hoof pub and he brews a mean mountain magic,” Aidan told her.

She had no idea what he was talking about, but he was offering to take her to a pub, and she was sure there’d be lots of loose tongues in there. Hopefully she could gather the information she needed to help save her sister.

“Thet sounds good te me,” said Tasgall.

Effie just scowled at him. “Dinna ye need te go fetch our supplies so we have somethin’ te eat tonight?”

When Aidan turned to look at the man, Effie motioned with her head for him to leave them alone.

“I’ll meet ye at the pub in a wee bit then,” Tasgall said, nodding and hurrying away.

“Well then,” she said, releasing a deep breath and brushing the leaves and dirt from her clothes, “shall we go and get us some o’ thet mountain magic?” She grabbed onto Aidan’s arm, and almost laughed when he jolted in surprise.

“All right,” he said. “Let us go get te ken each other better.”

He led her to the pub, and once inside, she saw a bunch of rowdy Scots gathered around a table hooting and hollering as two of the men arm-wrestled. Coins hit the table as people placed their bets, and the roar in the room grew.

“What’s goin’ on?” she asked.

“Oh, thet’s jest me friends foolin’ around, havin’ had too much te drink as usual.”

She watched a dark-haired man with two different colored eyes collecting the bets as a big, ugly old Scot with rotten teeth arm-wrestled another very handsome Scot with dark hair and bulging muscles. The latter won the competition and jumped up and shook a fist in the air in triumph. Then the pubkeeper passed out drinks for everyone. Aidan grabbed one and downed it in one move, then took another off the server’s tray and handed it to her.

“Try it,” he said. “It’s mountain magic. But until ye’re used te it, ye’d –”

She downed it the way he had, and plunked the drinking vessel back down atop the server’s tray. Then she felt it - fire raging like a hot poker in her throat, blazing a trail down her chest all the way to her stomach.

“- better jest take a sip,” he added, a little too late.

She clutched her throat and gasped for breath, bending over, feeling like she was going to die.

“Are ye all right, lassie?” he asked, patting her on the back. His squirrel scampered off his shoulder and down her arm to the drink board, scaring her out of her wits. She jerked upward quickly and ended up falling into his arms.

The heat of his embrace engulfed her as his arms wrapped around her in a protective manner. His strength was evident, and she felt more protected than she’d ever felt in her entire life. She was short, and he was tall, and her head rested against the bare skin of his chest peeking out from his untied leine.

“I tried te warn ye,” he told her with a smile.

“I’m fine,” she gasped out in a breathy voice. “Jest fine.” Her head dizzied and she held onto him as her body swayed.

“Aidan, ye take on Ian now, as he’s been undefeated all night,” shouted out the man with two different colored eyes.

Aidan was going to object to the challenge, until Effie urged him on.

“Come on, do it,” she said.

He looked down to her, and noticed the dazed look in her eyes from the potent whisky.

“I dinna think so,” he said, which only earned him shouts from the drunken crowd.

“What’s the matter, afeard te let me see those big, bad muscles?” Effie snaked her hand under his leine and squeezed the top of his arm. “I like the feel of it,” she said with a big smile. Aidan knew it was the whisky talking, but he never turned down a chance to impress a bonnie lassie. If he played his cards right, he may just have this one in his bed by tonight.

“All right,” he said, sitting down and facing Ian.

“Who’s the lassie ye picked up?” asked Ian, clasping hands with him as Onyx started counting down for them to start.

“Her name is Effie.”

“If she’s a hoor, mayhap ye’ll share her when ye’re done?”

Effie leaned up against the back of him, and he could tell that she was having a hard time standing.

“She’s no’ a hoor,” he said, hoping he was right, because he rather liked her, and she was very pretty. He also didn’t want to share her – especially with Ian who had a charming way with women that he knew he could never match.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . . go!” shouted Onyx, letting loose of their hands.

It was an even challenge, neither of them being able to move the other’s hand, and then Ian looked up and winked at Effie.

“Stop thet,” warned Aidan.

“Greetin’s, lassie,” Ian said to her. “Me name is Ian, and me friend here is Dagger,” he said nodding toward Onyx. “Will ye come and hang on me next the way ye’re clingin’ te Aidan?”

“I’ve had enough.” Aidan slammed Ian’s hand to the table in anger, and Onyx declared him the winner.

“Quit bein’ so sore,” said Ian, laughing. “I was only tryin’ te see if the lassie would consider a threesome with us later.”

That did it. Aidan lunged over the table, taking his friend to the ground. They rolled around on the floor until Ian got Aidan in one of his headlocks once again.

“What did ye do thet fer?” asked Ian.

“I dinna like what ye said aboot the lassie.”

“Och, I thought ye liked threesomes,” Ian said in his defense.

“No’ with another man,” growled Aidan. “And no one is havin’ a threesome with Effie.”

“What’s the matter with ye, Aidan?” Onyx walked up to them.

“I willna let Ian steal this one,” said Aidan. “She’s mine, I tell ye, so back off.”

He didn’t normally act so possessive over a girl he’d just met, and normally didn’t mind sharing. However, something about this one touched a place in his heart. He felt like he knew her from somewhere, as she seemed familiar, but he just couldn’t place her. He also felt as if he needed to protect her. Not understanding why he was feeling this way, the only thing that was clear was that he didn’t want Ian anywhere near her.

“Aidan, ye picked yerself a feisty one this time,” said Onyx.

“What do ye mean?” he said from under Ian’s arm.

“Dinna look now, but she’s arm-wrestling one o’ the pub’s hoors.”

“She’s what?” Aidan pushed out from under Ian’s arm, and they both joined Onyx in standing there with their mouths gaping open as Effie sat in the same spot the men just vacated, with her sleeve rolled up, and arm-wrestling one of the pub’s whores.

Coins flew in all directions, and the men in the pub made a big ruckus, falling over each other as they ran to the table where the women competed.

“Effie, what’re ye doin’?” asked Aidan, walking up behind her, pushing a few men to the side in the process.

“I think thet mountain magic has gotten me bluid flowin’,” she said with a flushed face and a very big smile. “I’m feelin’ lucky, I tell ye. I’m goin’ te win.”

Then in one slam to the table, Effie brought the whore’s arm down, and they declared her the winner. She jumped atop the chair and raised her hands above her head in triumph. Aidan stepped next to her just as she lost her balance and fell. He caught her, and when he did, her arm with the rolled up sleeve was right in front of his face. His eyes opened wide as his gaze settled on a strawberry birthmark on the inside of her forearm. It looked like a skull. Now he knew exactly why he felt as if he knew her. He did.

“Ye are the lassie from me dream,” he said aloud.

“What dream?” she asked with a giggle.

“The dream I had when I slept on the Stone o’ Scone.”

“The what?” she asked.

“Ye ken. The Stone o’ Destiny.”

“The Stone o’ Destiny?” Her eyes widened and she stopped laughing. “Ye ken where it is?”

“O’ course I do,” said Aidan. “And now I ken why ye seemed so familiar. Ye are the lassie from me dream. Me Scottish angel.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER FOUR

“Aidan, ye didna really jest say thet to a stranger?” Ian stood in front of Aidan with his arms crossed.

“This is Effie,” he said, placing her on her feet. “She is a MacDuff, so we can trust her. After all, the MacDuffs guarded the stone a few years ago, isna thet right?” he asked Effie.

“Oh. . . . I suppose thet’s right,” she agreed, and giggled.

“Excuse me, me bonnie cailin, but we need te steal Aidan fer a moment.” Ian dragged Aidan away from her with a grip on his leine, and Onyx followed as they hauled him to a darkened corner.

“Get yer bluidy hands off me afore I break yer wrist,” Aidan warned him.

Ian let go and just shook his head. “Ye jest told a perfect stranger aboot the stone. What were ye thinkin’?”

“Aye,” agreed Aidan, looking in her direction and smiling. “She is perfect, I agree.”

“We dinna ken her at all,” said Onyx. “Fer all we ken she could be some sort o’ spy and workin’ fer the English.”

“Och, ye two worry too much.” He looked at them when he spoke now. “She is no’ goin’ te tell anyone.”

“How can ye be so sure?” asked Onyx.

Aidan looked over to see the girl now trying to balance a wooden cup on her head and walk a straight line atop the table at the same time. The Scots in the pub were well in their cups and coaxing her forward.

“Becooz, she is no’ thet kind o’ lassie. I saw her in me dream. I think I am supposed te help keep her safe.”

“Ye think thet aboot any bonnie cailin,” scowled Onyx.

“Aye,” agreed Ian. “And dinna ferget ye also saw English soldiers in the dream too.”

“But I saved her from two English bastards tryin’ te couple with her against her will. I am sure thet’s what the dream meant.”

“What aboot the tail?” asked Onyx. “Ye, yerself, pointed out the old sayin’ thet our enemies have tails.”

“Blethers, ye two were the ones who scoffed at me dream in the first place. Ye also reminded me thet the tail was naught but me squirrel sleepin’ on me chest. So dinna fash yerself, I am sure she will keep our secret.”

“I hope ye’re right,” said Onyx. “Becooz if she runs back and tells anyone, the Chieftain will have our heids. No’ te mention, the MacKeefes will ne’er be trusted again, especially as guardians o’ the stone.”

“Who is she here with, anyway?” asked Ian.

“She says she’s a gypsy and the English killed off her traveling companions. She was with only one man, but I dinna ken where he went.”

“Then ye’d better keep an eye on her and make sure she hauds her wheesht,” said Onyx. “After all, she seems like she could have a loose tongue right now, since she obviously canna hold her whisky.”

“I’ll make sure she disna leave me side tonight,” Aidan assured them. “After all, I wouldna want te lose me dream angel.”

“Well, if she starts sproutin’ a tail, be sure te tell us,” said Ian very seriously. Then he looked at Aidan and just smiled.

Aidan swung at him, but Ian ducked, and Onyx took the brunt of his fist to the face instead. In a matter of seconds, the three of them were in a brawl, and the drunkards in the pub joined in, breaking chairs and pouring drinks over each other’s heads.

Effie looked up at the sound of the commotion, her quick movement causing the wooden cup to fall from her head to the floor. When she lowered herself from the table to get it, a bottle whizzing through the air just missed her and hit the drink board, smashing into pieces. She stood up straight and almost fell over from still not being stable from the whisky. That’s when Aidan appeared through the crowd and grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door.

“Stop it, all o’ ye,” called the pubkeeper. “Ye madmen are goin’ te pay fer this, I swear.”

“Fast, we need te get goin’,” Aidan told her.

“I just got here,” she said, almost tripping over a broken chair as Aidan pulled her toward the door. “Where are we goin’?”

“Anywhere away from here,” he said, pulling her out into the sunlight and quickly closing the door. The door to the pub burst open behind them, and she looked over her shoulder to see Ian and Onyx being dragged out by their ears by the feeble old pubkeeper.

“Are yer friends goin’ te be alright?” she asked.

“Och, lassie. Me and me friends have been in worse situations than this afore.”

He pulled her to the stables and into a stall, and started to saddle a horse.

“Are ye takin’ me somewhere, Aidan?”

“Aye. I’m takin’ ye somewhere fer the night where ye can sober up before ye do anything doitit.”

“Me do somethin’ doitit?” she asked, finding humor in the situation. “I am no’ the one who started the brawl in the pub.”

“Well, it’s no’ the first time me and me friends have been thrown out o’ the Horn and Hoof by old Callum MacKeefe, and it willna be the last time, I promise.”

“Ye make me smile,” she said, when he turned to help her atop the horse.

“I’m glad someone finds me amusin’ tonight.” He put his hands on her waist to lift her up, and Effie found herself enjoying the intimacy of it. She could smell the Highland air in his hair and the whisky on his breath. Or mayhap that was her, she wasn’t sure.

“I ne’er thanked ye fer savin’ me from those English curs,” she said, and before he could respond, she reached over and kissed him on the mouth. He pulled back and looked at her in shock, and then to her surprise, he put his hand at the back of her head and dipped down for another kiss.

Effie was lost in the sensual act, knowing she’d lost her mind, and no longer caring. She’d never felt this way from a kiss before, but then again, the only kisses she’d ever gotten in her life we from gypsy men, not strong, handsome Highland warriors.

His lips were soft and pleasurable, as he claimed her in a lover’s embrace. There was nothing shy about his kiss. She could tell by the way his tongue entered her mouth that he was very experienced with the lassies.

Her head dizzied and she didn’t know if it was from the kiss or the whisky. Either way, she liked it, and wrapped her arms around Aidan’s neck, pulling herself closer. When she tried to repeat the action, wanting more, he just lifted her up and hoisted her into the saddle.

“We need te get movin’,” he told her. “There’ll be time fer thet later.”

“I’ll be lookin’ forward te it,” she answered boldly.

He climbed up behind her, reaching around her to grab the reins and direct the horse from the stall, and she felt like a caterpillar in a cocoon, enclosed in his warm embrace. Leaning back against him, she once again felt safe in his arms. She hoped what he said was true, as she really wanted another kiss from the madman sitting behind her.

Thinking he would head in the opposite direction of the pub where the fighting was still going on, she was surprised when instead he rode right up to the door and hopped off the horse.

“What are ye doin’?” she asked. “Ye’re mad if ye plan on goin’ back in there right now.”

“Aye, some people say thet.”

“Let’s jest keep goin’.”

“I canna jest leave me friends,” he said, and headed for Ian and Onyx who were standing outside the pub.

“Dagger,” said Aidan, “I am sorry fer hittin’ ye in the jaw.”

“Dinna worry aboot it.” Onyx rubbed his face. “But if I dinna go back te me wife in one piece ye may have te worry aboot her comin’ after ye instead. After all, a bairned lassie has many moods thet I’ll ne’er understand.”

“Why is she on yer horse?” asked Ian, looking over to Effie who was smoothing down her hair, and almost lost her balance and grabbed quickly for the saddle horn.

“Becooz I canna jest leave her here.”

“Becooz she’s yer angel?” Ian scowled at her.

“Nay. Becooz she had one wee dram o’ mountain magic and canna stand straight. No’ te mention, I was thinkin’ o’ what ye two said, and I need te make sure she willna wag her tongue aboot the stone.”

“I thought ye said ye trusted her,” said Onyx.

“I do.”

“So takin’ her with ye is just an excuse te bed her?” asked Ian. “After all, we ken yer ways with the lassies.”

“Me ways are no different than yers, Ian,” he said with a shake of his head. “But thet’s no’ why.” Aidan looked over to Effie and she smiled and waved slightly. He waggled his fingers in the air and smiled back.

“Aye, we can see thet.” Onyx rolled his eyes.

“Nay, really,” said Aidan. “It’s becooz I willna leave her alone after those English bastards tried te defile her earlier.”

“Well, where’s the gypsy man ye said was with her?” asked Ian. “Surely, he can take care o’ her.”

“I dinna ken, and I dinna care. He had shifty eyes and I’d rather no’ see him again tonight, nor do I feel he can protect her. Now I’m goin’ inside the pub te find Reid and then I’m headin’ back to camp.”

“Ye canna go in there right now,” said Ian. “Old Callum is madder than a hornet at all the damage thet’s been done. He’s blamin’ us ye realize.”

“Thet’s right,” said Onyx. “And ye ken the MacKeefes are all stayin’ at the fair fer at least the rest o’ the week.”

“I’ll go back and guard the stone and give Renard and Niall a chance te come te the fair, then,” said Aidan.

“Then we’ll go with ye,” said Onyx, and Ian nodded.

“Guid, now give me the money ye won from the arm-wrestlin’,” Aidan said, looking at Onyx.

“I kennawhat ye mean.”

“Hand it o’er,” said Aidan, holding out his palm.

“I need the extra coin. After all, I have a bairn comin’ soon.” Onyx did not want to give it up.

“If we dinna pay fer the damages, ye ken our chieftain will have us shovelin’ jobby from the stables fer the next month.”

“He’s right,” said Ian. “With Callum bein’ Storm’s granda and all, we willna have a moment’s peace back at camp until we’ve made guid fer the loss.”

“Fine. Take it,” said Onyx, pulling the pouch of coins from his waist and shoving it into Aidan’s hands.

“Now, go get yer horses and let’s head out o’ here before any o’ the Scots inside decide they want another match at tryin’ te win back their coins.” Aidan turned on his heel, and headed into the pub.

Effie waited from atop the horse, watching as a pouch of coins was exchanged and Aidan headed inside the pub. His friends hurried toward the stable.

“What did ye find out?” came a voice from the ground.

She looked down to see Tasgall standing there. Not the person she wanted to see right now, or ever.

“Dinna talk so loud,” she said, looking back toward the pub, hoping no one had heard them. “I lucked out. The Scot thet saved me, kens where the stone is.”

“Lord Ralston will be happy te hear aboot it,” said Tasgall. “Well, where is it?”

“I dinna ken yet, but I’m guessin’ it’s back at their camp since he said somethin’ aboot sleepin’ on it. Go report te Lord Ralston and then ask around where te find the MacKeefe camp, and follow with the soldiers.”

“It’ll take several days te do thet, and I dinna even have a horse.”

“Then go find the bluidy curs thet tried te accost me and get them te give ye a ride. I’m sure they’re lurkin’ around here somewhere. Now go back and tell that bluidy bastard, Lord Ralston, thet I’ll get him the information he needs, but if he harms me sister in any way, I’ll make sure he ne’er gets his hand on the stone. Do ye understand?”

“I canna let ye outta me sight. Thet was orders from Lord Ralston himself.”

“Why no’? Ye ken I willna run. Me sister’s life means more te me than anythin’. I am goin’ te try te get the Scot te show me the stone. Now do as I say and be gone from me sight, as I dinna want such a filthy, traitorous liar in me presence.”

“Ye are aboot to become no better than me, so I wouldna point fingers if I were ye. All right then, I’ll go. But if ye are tryin’ te trick me, I assure ye yer sister will no’ live te see ye again, so dinna cross us. Do ye understand me?”

“If I wasna so dizzy from the whisky, I’d jump off this horse and bury yer face in the ground jest fer threatenin’ me. Now go,” she said, seeing Aidan coming out of the pub. “I dinna want him te see us talkin’.”

Tasgall had no sooner stepped away from the horse than Aidan was mounted behind her with his squirrel on his shoulder.

“Isna thet the gypsy man ye came with?” he asked.

Too late. He saw them talking. She just hoped he hadn’t heard their conversation.

“Aye,” she said.

“Where is he goin’?”

“Tasgall has decided te go find a new band o’ gypsies fer us te live with, or mayhap a horse and supplies anyway. He said he’ll catch up te me later.”

“Was he yer lover?”

The thought of this almost caused her to retch. “Dinna make me laugh,” she said. “If Tasgall e’er tried te touch me, I’d have severed his head from his body with me dirk.”

“Really? I find thet interestin’ since ye dinna seem te carry any weapons.”

“The English guards took them from me,” she said, thinking quickly. “However, I plan on replacin’ me weapons soon.”

“With what?”

“What do ye mean?”

“I dinna see a sporran o’ coins at yer waist, and ye said ye just lost e’erythin’ when the English attacked yer camp. Ye dinna plan te hoor yerself out te get them, do ye?”

“If thet’s what ye think o’ me, Aidan MacKeefe, than let me off this horse right now, as I’ll no’ be comin’ te yer camp with ye after all.”

“Who said we were goin’ to me camp?”

“Well . . . I jest assumed ye would want te get a good rest. That ye’d want te sleep on thet stone thet gives ye guid dreams.”

“I ne’er said the dreams were guid.”

“Nay? I thought ye said I was in yer dream.” She turned to look at him and his lips were so close to hers that she wondered if he was going to kiss her again. She really wanted him to, but to her disappointment, he just turned his head and looked the other way.

“Ye were in me dream, but if it was guid or no’ is yet te be seen.”

Effie wasn’t sure what that meant, but liked the fact that she was in his dreams, and also the fact he’d called her his dream angel.

“So do ye have somewhere te stay, Effie?” he asked her.

“Nay,” she admitted. “I am homeless and have no friends.”

“Couldna ye go back te the MacDuffs?”

“I dinna ken them. I told ye me mathair wasna a part o’ the clan, though she had the bloodright te be there. I dinna think they would want me, tho.”

“Then ye’ll come with me te the MacKeefe camp until we can find ye a place te stay. I willna leave ye alone, as the English soldiers might come back and try te cause ye trouble again.”

“I’d like te come with ye,” she said, as they rode up to meet Aidan’s friends. She smiled to herself thinking how easy this was going to be. She’d collect the information of where the stone was, then direct her sister’s captors right to it when they arrived. Aye, before she knew it, Coira would be free and they’d head overseas or somewhere to start a new life – just the two of them together.

AIDAN

CHAPTER FIVE

Making it back to the MacKeefe camp couldn’t be done in a day, so Aidan decided they’d stop and camp for the night at the north edge of Loch Lomond. The sun was just setting. The day had been hot, and they were all weary, and Aidan wanted nothing more than to wash off the dust from his travels, taking a swim in the water.

After the horses were taken care of, and the supplies unloaded that they’d picked up at the trade fair, Aidan continued to set up camp by tending to a fire.

“We’re goin’ up te the bluff te take a swim,” said Onyx. “Did ye want te come with us, Aidan?”

He wanted it more than anything, but didn’t want to leave the girl unattended.

“Nay, I’ll hunt something fer us te eat,” he said.

“Go ahead, join them,” said Effie. “Just give me that bow and arrows you brought from the fair and I’ll take care of huntin’ fer our dinner.”

“Mayhap ye’d better stay after all,” said Ian, giving him a look that Aidan knew meant he didn’t trust the lassie.

The two took off up the cliff, and Aidan just added more kindling to the fire. His squirrel rooted around in the dirt, looking for food.

“I ken ye want te go with them,” Effie said. “Just go.”

“Nay, I dinna want te leave ye alone.”

“I’m a gypsy, I live off the land. We dinna see anyone followin’ us, so I’ll be fine.”

He just looked back down to the fire and shook his head. He was torn, and though he trusted that she wouldn’t leave, he was trying to proceed with caution, as his friends had warned him to do. Aidan always was the most trusting one of the three of them, and had on more than one occasion been burned because of it.

“I dinna ken if it’s a guid idea.”

“Oh. Ye dinna trust me, jest like yer friends.”

He looked over to her and saw the disappointment on her face. He didn’t want to make her feel this way, he only wanted to please her. She was the most beautiful lassie he’d ever met, and he loved her fearlessness. He got to his feet and went over to the supplies and pulled out a bow and arrows.

“Ye can use these,” he said. “I willna be gone long. Dinna go too far from the camp as once ye get away from the fire, ye may encounter a wildcat or a wolf.”

“I can protect meself,” she said.

“Aye. I saw how well ye did thet with those English guards.”

“If I’d had a weapon, they’d be deid right now.”

“I’m no’ so sure, lassie. Now jest do me a favor and dinna shoot any squirrels, as I dinna want me pet killed. Reid, go on up and hide in a tree,” he said over his shoulder. The little red squirrel scampered up a tree and away from them.

Effie watched in amazement as the man’s squirrel seemed to understand him, and on command disappeared into the trees.

“Thet is a strange pet fer anyone te have,” she said, shaking her head.

“No’ as strange as Onyx’s pet,” Aidan mumbled, walking away.

“What does he have? A pine marten or somethin’?” she called after him.

“Nothin’ thet tame, I assure ye. Now jest call out if ye need me, as I won’t be far. And if ye think ye’er goin’ te catch somethin’ te eat, ye’d better hurry, as it’s startin’ te get dark.”

She watched him disappear into the thicket, thinking there must be some sort of pond they were going to swim in up on the cliffs. She had no idea why they just didn’t swim in the lake. She’d never understand these men.

Effie picked up her bow and arrows and used her senses to tell her where she might find prey. It wasn’t going to be that easy once it got dark, Aidan was right. The sun was starting to set now, so she’d have to hurry.

She didn’t have to hunt long before she spotted and took down a carrion crow that was irritating her with its squawking. She also managed to shoot a red grouse as well, just before it got dark. The men would surely be impressed with her ability to use a weapon and hunt. Not too many women could do what she’d just done and in such a short amount of time. They would eat well tonight. It might not be a deer, but it was still a meal.

Planning on heading back to camp, the lake looked inviting, so she decided to stay. She was hot and felt so dirty, not only from the road but from being locked in a cage and also pawed by the English guards.

Effie looked around but didn’t see the men, and figured she had time for a quick dip before she headed back. Throwing down the dead birds at the edge of the lake, she quickly removed her clothes and slipped into the water. That’s when she heard shouts – and they were coming from up at the top of the cliff.

As darkness started to cover the land, she looked upward to see three naked men diving off a cliff into the waters below – not far from where she was. They were laughing, shouting, and having fun. She knew immediately it was Aidan and his friends.

“What in the clootie’s name are they doin’?” she asked aloud. It was dangerous enough to dive off a cliff during the day, but to do so when it was nighttime was only something a madman would attempt.

She decided to get dressed and head back and start the meal, but when she stepped naked from the water, she was greeted by a low growl. Some kind of wild animal, possibly a wolf or a hound was there on the shore. Not able to see it well in the dark, all she could really tell was that is was very large. It had its head lowered as it moved into the moonlight, enabling her to see it better now. Long legs led to scraggly grayish hair on the animal, the hair so long and matted that she could barely see its eyes. It was moving quickly toward the dead birds. When it saw her, it looked up and showed its teeth, then changed its direction. The thing looked gaunt and possibly injured, as it had dried blood on its fur and limped when it came toward her.

She didn’t know what to do. Her clothes as well as her weapon were on the other side of the animal. She’d never be able to get to them before it attacked her. She should have backed up and slid back into the water for safety, but if so, she knew the animal would probably steal both of her birds. She couldn’t have that. She was hungrier than hell since Lord Ralston hadn’t fed her much. Besides, she wanted Aidan to like her, and she wanted to impress him with what she’d caught for dinner.

So instead of walking away from the animal, she shouted at it, waving her arms in the air, and daringly moved forward.

* * *

Aidan was already swimming, making his way toward shore when he heard Effie shouting. He looked through the darkness and spotted her on the shore just a short distance from them.

“Haud yer wheesht,” he called out to his friends. “I think Effie is in trouble.”

Onyx and Ian stopped their splashing and looked toward the shore as well.

“Is she naked?” asked Ian, squinting his eyes, trying to see through the darkness.

“Aye, I think so,” said Aidan. “But what is she doin’?” Then he saw the animal coming toward her, and instead of backing away, the fool girl was going straight for it. “She’s bein’ attacked!” He swam full force through the water with his friends right behind him. He made it to the shore first, being the best swimmer of the three of them, and ran down the water’s edge as fast as he could to save Effie.

Effie made her way closer to the dead birds on the ground, planning on grabbing at least one of them before the wild animal stole them, when out of nowhere, Aidan darted out from the darkness, hitting her like a stone wall, taking her down with him into the water. The water splashed over her head and she sputtered for breath.

“What the hell are ye doin’?” she shouted, now down in the water with Aidan’s body – his naked body - covering hers.

“I’ll protect ye, lassie. Jest stay here.” He jumped to his feet and headed toward the animal, taking it down to the ground as well. He had no weapons on him, no clothes, no anything, but wrestled with it as if he were doing naught but arm-wresting another Scot at the pub.

Then his friends darted out of the shadows as well, both of them naked, too. She just sat there in the water with her mouth open, as the moonlight spilled over their bodies. Each of them just as fit as the next, and she could only think this was one of her lusty dreams. No woman she knew would ever be witnessing what she was seeing in front of her very eyes.

The animal growled and snapped at Aidan, and twisted, kicking up its legs as Aidan tried to hold it down.

“Aidan, put it in a headlock,” shouted Ian.

“I’m no guid at headlocks the way ye are, Ian. And this is no’ a person, it’s an animal with sharp claws and even sharper teeth.”

“Jest let it go,” called out Onyx, coming toward the animal with a big stick in his hand. “I’ll get it.”

“Nay, I got it,” Aidan called back, and Effie thought it was for her benefit that he refused to let it go. Then he did something that both surprised and amused her at the same time. He leaned over, his long, blond hair falling over his face, and he . . . bit the animal on the ear.

The animal whimpered, and he let it go. Then he got to his feet with his arms spread out wide. His friends were doing the same. Aidan’s bare doup was facing her now, and she realized he had muscles everywhere on his body, and not a bit of fat. He was the perfect image of a woman’s fantasy man. His friends may have been as mesmerizing, but since her eyes were fastened on Aidan, she really wouldn’t know.

The chattering of a squirrel was heard and Effie saw Aidan’s pet, Reid, making its way toward him over the ground.

“Go away, Reid,” shouted Aidan. “Shoo, afore ye are this beast’s dinner.”

To her horror, the animal lunged at the squirrel. It may have caught the squirrel if Ian hadn’t picked up the dead grouse and thrown it as a distraction. The animal stopped, its head low, its eyes focusing on Ian. She thought for a moment it was going to attack him, but instead, it grabbed the dead bird and quickly limped away.

That angered Effie, as there went half their dinner. So, not caring that she was naked, she got up out of the water and stormed to the shore.

“What did you do thet fer?” she shouted at the men.

Aidan turned around to see Effie standing there in the moonlight, naked, and looking like a goddess of the sea. Her small form didn’t matter, as she made herself look intimidating with a scowl on her face and her hands on her hips. Her red locks were wet and the strands stuck to her chest, sending water droplets running in rivulets over her firm, perky breasts. Her nipples were cold and taut, and the nest of red hair between her firm and shapely thighs was just as red as that on her head.

All three men just stood there staring with their jaws dropped open, and then Aidan realized that she was seeing his friends naked as well. He didn’t like any of this. He took a step to block her, and looked over to his friends.

“Go get our clothes, and we’ll meet ye back at the camp.”

“O’ course,” said Onyx, turning to leave. But when Ian was still standing there, he reached over and grabbed his arm. “Come on, Ian, this one isna yers.”

Aidan didn’t turn back around until they were gone. When he did, he felt the sharp sting of a slap to his face.

“What was thet fer?” he asked, his hand going to his cheek.

“Fer givin’ away our dinner.” Effie stormed over to the dead crow that was being inspected by Reid. The squirrel scolded her and scampered away as she picked up the bird by the feet. “I caught this as well as a grouse, but now thanks to ye three, thet wolf is goin’ te be eatin’ better than us tonight.”

“Thet was no wolf, believe me. It looked te me like a wolfhound tho, and I think it was wounded.”

“Whate’er it was, it has our dinner.”

“Well, ye’re welcome thet I saved yer life twice in one day,” he said. “And I wasna the one who gave the grouse te the hound, if I must remind ye. That was Ian.”

“Ye three are fools!” She stormed over to her clothes and started to don them. Aidan would have loved to look at her perfect, alluring body longer, but she quickly hid it from his sight.

“Why do ye say thet, lassie?”

“Becooz ye’re standing there naked, arena ye?”

“So were ye.”

“But I wasna divin’ off the cliffs in the dark. Ye coulda killed yerself.”

“Nay. We do it all the time.”

“In the dark?” She was fully clothed now and pulled on her shoes as she spoke.

“It’s more o’ a challenge in the dark. How do ye think we earned our titles o’ being madmen?”

She turned to him then, and her eyes scanned down his body. Her perusal caused him to become excited, and he felt his manhood growing quickly.

“Like what ye see?” Aidan smiled. “Becooz if ye do, we can do somethin’ aboot it.”

“Ye are no better than those English curs who tried te take me in the forest.”

“What?” he asked, totally confused. “Effie, I am askin’, no’ takin’ like they were.” He held up his hands in a mock form of surrender.

“Well, dinna ask me again, fer I’m no’ interested.” She picked up the crow and headed through the dark forest, making her way to camp. Hopefully, Aidan believed her statement of not wanting him, because she wanted him badly but didn’t want him to know it. She was trying her hardest not to fall for him, because she knew in a matter of time she was going to have to betray not only him but her country as well. The last thing she wanted to do was to break a heart. Especially if it was her own.

AIDAN

CHAPTER SIX

The next morning, Aidan busied himself breaking down camp and preparing the horses rather than have to talk to Effie. She finally gave up trying to talk to him, and headed down to the lake a while ago. After the way she made all three of them feel so guilty, they’d all given up their portion of the crow last night in order for her to eat.

“I’m starvin’” grumbled Ian, coming to join him by the horses.

“Well, mayhap ye shoulda thought o’ thet before ye went and gave our dinner te the hound,” Aidan pointed out.

“The poor thing looked so skinny and hungry,” said Ian. “Did ye see the way it limped and had blood on its fur? It was hurt. Mayhap attacked by wolves. With the shape it was in, it probably didna even make it through the night.”

“Jest another reason why ye shouldna have fed it.” Aidan secured the travel bags to the horses. The bags were filled with supplies from the fair.

“Mayhap we can find the hound’s deid body and eat it te break the fast,” said Onyx, rubbing a weary hand over his face and coming to join them.

“Dinna say thet!” Ian seemed disturbed by the suggestion. “I couldna eat thet poor animal, no’ after seeing thet sad look in its eyes.”

“Well, ye had no qualms aboot wantin’ te eat me squirrel when we first found it.” Aidan looked around, realizing he hadn’t seen his squirrel since it fell asleep on his chest by the fire last night. “Where is Reid anyway? We’re almost ready te go.”

“Guid mornin’,” came Effie’s cheerful voice as she made her way up from the lake and toward them, with a string of dead fish in her hand and Aidan’s squirrel on her shoulder. Aidan couldn’t believe his eyes.

“How many fish have ye got there?” asked Ian eagerly, his eyes fastened to his next meal.

“Ferget the fish, what are ye doin’ with me squirrel on yer shoulder?” Aidan reached out and took his pet back from her and placed it on the ground.

“Well, Reid seems te like me,” she said. “And Ian, I got up early te fish in the loch. Would ye care fer a bite te eat afore we leave?”

“Aye,” said Ian, quickly reaching out for the fish.

“Nay!” Aidan stepped in front of him and took the fish from Effie. “We’ll take these back te camp and share them with the boys who stayed behind te guard the stone.” He turned and started tying them to the side of the horse.

“I shoulda ate yer damn squirrel,” mumbled Ian, making his way to put out the fire.

“Too bad the supplies we are bringin’ back from the fair arena food,” grumbled Onyx, going to his horse.

“So . . . is this stone thet the boys are guardin’, the Stone o’ Destiny, by any chance?” asked Effie.

“Dinna worry aboot it.” Aidan was in no mood for talking, nor to give her any information she wanted after she’d rejected him last night. He held out his hands to help her get atop the horse. “Let’s go.”

She let him help her atop the horse, and he wondered what happened to the grouchy girl from last night who’d sat there glaring at him and his friends and hadn’t even bothered to thank them for helping her with the hound.

He pulled himself atop the horse, settling in behind her, and they headed toward MacKeefe territory. With any luck they’d be there by this afternoon, and he’d be able to take a nap on his dream stone since he’d laid awake all night, watching for the hound to come back, determined to guard his angel even if she said she didn’t want him.

This, for some odd reason, only made Aidan want her even more.

Effie knew she’d been harsh with Aidan last night, as well as his friends. She felt the tension between them all, and that’s why she’d woken up early and decided to fish. She wanted to make amends between them. Aidan’s feelings were obviously hurt when she told him she didn’t want him last night. Still, he couldn’t deny the fact he’d wanted her, because his body didn’t lie. She’d seen his immense desire to lay with her, and actually that was another reason why she’d denied him.

He scared her - and she didn’t scare easily. She’d had a hard life, and even with all her trials and tribulations, she’d always managed to keep her head about her. With Aidan, things were different. She couldn’t stop thinking of the kiss they’d shared and the way he’d risked his life twice now to save her.

She supposed she was so mean to him because she didn’t feel as if she deserved his acts of kindness. He’d even convinced his friends to give their portion of the crow last night to her. She’d gladly eaten it, even though she hated eating crow. She’d been so hungry after not having really eaten in the last few days, that she accepted the offer.

Wanting more than anything to eat the fish this morning, she ended up deciding she wasn’t going to fight with Aidan if he said they needed to be on their way. It was probably better that they just get to camp as fast as possible and get this all over with. She’d been so upset thinking about her sister trapped in that English bastard’s cage last night, that she didn’t sleep a wink, even though she was dead tired.

Stifling a yawn, Effie ran a finger over the back of the squirrel now sitting on the horn of the saddle. The cute little thing had taken a liking to her for some reason.

“Reid likes ye,” she heard Aidan say from behind her.

“Well, I like him, too,” she said, not turning her head to talk. If she did, her face would be pressed up against Aidan’s and she’d want to kiss him again. “So, tell me aboot yer dream stone,” she said.

“What’s there to tell?”

“Have ye had it long?”

“Why do ye keep askin’ me aboot it?”

She froze. “I’m jest tryin’ te make conversation.” She hoped he didn’t suspect what she was up to.

“I’d rather talk aboot yer family instead,” he said.

“I told ye . . . I have no family.” She truly wished to avoid this conversation. “Me faither died in battle and me mathair died givin’ birth to me sister.”

“So ye have a sister? What is her name?”

Damn, she didn’t mean to tell him that. She had to be more careful. “Her name is Coira. But she . . . died,” she lied. “When the English attacked our camp.”

“I’m so sorry. I didna realize. I ken how hard this must be fer ye. If I can do anythin’ te help ye ease the pain –”

“I dinna want te talk aboot it.” Why did he have to be so nice? No one had ever been so nice to her in her entire life, and now that she found someone, she knew it wouldn’t last. As soon as she did her dirty deed, Aidan would hate her forever.

They rode in silence for awhile, then she started wondering about him.

“Do ye have siblings?” she asked.

“I do,” he said. “Me sister’s name is Kyla. She is aboot yer age I’d guess.”

“Is she married or have bairns?”

“Nay. She lives with the clan.”

“I see. Are yer parents still alive?”

“Nay. I lost them both when I was very young.”

“In a battle?” she asked, curiously.

“Me faither died when he was thrown from a horse ten years ago, and me mathair died from fever when Kyla was only six. I am verra protective o’ me wee sister and dinna like her bein’ with any laddie.”

“I am sorry fer yer loss as well,” she said, “but Kyla is old enough te be married and have several bairns by now. Ye need te let loose with her, Aidan.”

“I dinna ken. She will always be me wee sister, and I promised me mathair I’d watch o’er her.”

Effie wanted to tell him that she and her sister were in a very similar situation. But she didn’t. She didn’t want him to know much about her, and nothing at all about her sister. It would only make things worse in the end.

“How old are ye, lass?”

“I am twenty summers . . .  tomorrow,” Effie answered.

“Tomorrow is yer birthday?”

“It is. But it no longer matters, as I have nothin’ te celebrate.”

“I’ll make certain ye do,” he said with promise to his voice.

“Nay, really. I dinna want anythin’ done fer me. I dinna deserve it.”

“How can ye say thet, Effie? Ye have lost yer whole family and e’erythin’ to the English. I am goin’ te make it up te ye. Especially since this will be yer first birthday without yer sister. I ken it’ll be hard since ye’ve lost her just recently, but I will do me best te try te fill thet empty spot in yer heart.”

She should have told him right then and there that her sister was still alive, but she couldn’t. Lord Ralston’s threat kept echoing in her brain. If she told anyone about her sister in the cage, the man would kill poor Coira. She couldn’t take the chance. She had to keep it a secret for now, especially since she was so close to giving the bloody English what they wanted. Though it pained her to have to deceive Aidan and the MacKeefes, as well as turn traitor to her own country, she would do whatever it took to save her sister’s life. Even if it meant gaining the trust and then deceiving a man who had been nothing but kind to her. Still, she’d never find someone like Aidan again in her life, and it pained her to be in this position.

He said he wanted to fill that empty spot in her heart, but little did he know that he already had.

AIDAN

CHAPTER SEVEN

As soon as they got back to the MacKeefe camp, Renard and Niall came running out to join them. The MacKeefe camp had grown in the last few years, and now they had not only the cottage for the chieftain and his family, but also the hospice, as well as a dining cottage they used mostly in the winter, and nearly a dozen other cottages dotting the land that were for the other inhabitants. They were made of stone and had thatched roofs. There was a stable as well as a weaver’s hut, and also a building that housed the homing pigeons that were kept by Wren for her brother, Madoc, who resided in Devonshire.

“Ye’re back so soon?” asked Niall. The boy was the nephew of their chieftain, Storm MacKeefe, and was ten and six years of age. He wasn’t very tall, but had a huge personality to make up for it.

“We are,” he said, feeling Effie stir in his arms, as she’d fallen asleep for the last hour and he’d held her tightly as they rode, to ensure she didn’t fall from the horse.

“Who is she?” asked Renard, Storm’s red-haired son who was two years older than Niall. He took the reins of the horse as Aidan dismounted. Onyx and Ian rode up right behind him, their horses loaded down with goods they’d either traded for or purchased at the fair.

“She is his dream angel,” mumbled Ian, but it was loud enough for Aidan to hear.

“Dinna start thet again, Ian or we’ll get into another rumble,” warned Aidan.

“What’s a dream angel?” asked Niall, going to Onyx’s horse and helping him untie the travel bags.

“She’s a lassie Aidan saw in a dream, by usin’ the Stone o’ Destiny,” Onyx explained.

“Should ye be sayin’ thet aloud?” Renard looked cautiously toward Effie as he went to help Ian unload his horse as well.

“He already told her aboot the stone, so there’s no need te keep it a secret.” Onyx threw a travel bag over his shoulder.

“I’d love to see this Stone o’ Destiny,” said Effie, as Aidan helped her from the horse.

“I’ll show it te ye,” said Niall, coming to her and smiling. “Me name is Niall, and me friend’s name is Renard.”

“I’m Effie, and pleased te meet ye,” she said with a smile. “Niall, I’d love to take ye up on yer offer te see the stone.”

“No’ now,” grumbled Aidan, starting to feel irritated that she kept asking about the stone. He was also starting to get an uneasy feeling in his gut and hoped Onyx and Ian weren’t right about her. If she were deceiving him, he’d never forgive himself for opening his mouth and telling her about it to begin with.

“Renard, ye and Niall take care o’ the horses and supplies, and then ye are free te go join the others at the fair,” Aidan told him.

“But Da willna like if we leave our post of guarding the stone.” Renard shook his head.

“We’ll take care o’ thet now,” he told him. “Ye two go and have some fun.”

“Aye,” said Onyx. “Mayhap if ye’re lucky ye can find a dream angel at the fair as well.”

“Jest dinna bring her home if she has a tail,” Ian called out.

They all started laughing, and Aidan decided he needed to get away from them all right now. He stormed away, but Effie followed.

“Where are ye goin’?” she asked.

“Anywhere away from them.” He headed up the hill where the clan’s long-haired sheep were grazing in the fields of green grass. His squirrel followed him on the ground.

“So who exactly are those two fine laddies I jest met?” asked Effie.

“They are the chieftain’s son and nephew,” he said.

“Where is e’erybody else?” She looked around the deserted camp.

“There are all at the fair in Glasgow. They willna be back until the fair is o’er.”

“What a shame. I would have loved te meet yer clan.”

He settled himself atop a hill, and Reid climbed onto his lap. He ran his hand over the squirrel’s fur as he spoke.

“Ye sound as if ye dinna plan on bein’ here long, lass. I thought ye said ye had no home, so where do ye plan on goin’?”

“Oh, I didna mean it thet way. I jest meant thet . . . thet I am happy fer yer hospitality but dinna want te overstay me welcome.”

“Ye are welcome te stay with the MacKeefes as long as ye like.” His squirrel left his lap, and he reached out and pulled Effie towards him. She laughed and settled on the ground next to him. He then fell backwards onto the soft grass and looked up to the blue sky. She lay down next to him and did the same.

“Who are ye, Effie?”

“What do ye mean?”

He turned to look at her and drank in her beauty. He loved her smile. Her green eyes lit up like the early morning sun splashing across the rolling green mountains, and her whole face shone with life. The sunrays bounced off her bright red locks, almost seeming to make her hair glow. She intrigued him more than any lassie he’d ever met. He wanted to get to know this mysterious woman, and his heart ached for the losses she’d encountered lately.

He decided he’d be her family now that she had none. He would protect her and ask Storm when he returned if she could join the MacKeefe clan. He could give her a family again, and wanted to do that more than anything. He was sure that’s what his dream meant. That she needed him. Needed his protection. And he would do just that because she was special. The Stone of Destiny showed her to him, so he knew that they were destined to be together.

“When I see ye smile like thet, Effie, it makes me want te reach out and kiss ye.”

“Then why dinna ye do it?” she asked.

“Ye’re sayin’ ye want me to?” He never expected this after the cold reception he’d received from her last night.

“Do I have te ask?”

“But ye made it so clear last night at the loch thet ye didna want me in any shape or form.”

“I was angry at the time, Aidan MacKeefe. And distracted. Ye and ye’re friends had no’ only given away our dinner, but were standin’ there naked. It’s no’ e’ery day a lassie is surrounded by three naked, handsome men.”

“Ye think we’re handsome?” he asked. “So who do ye think is the most desirable out o’ the three o’ us, since ye’ve seen us scuddy and all?” he asked, holding his breath and waiting for her answer.

She pushed up to her elbow, reaching over and kissing him. Her long hair encompassed them, making a private tent around them as they shared their intimate moment.

Her lips were so soft and tasted like sweet nectar, and her skin was smooth and milky white. When she pulled back, she smiled again, and he saw the clouds above reflecting in her eyes. Freckles trailed across her nose and down to her cheeks, making her seem so young and innocent. He reached out and ran a finger over her freckles. Then he reached up and kissed them, trying to do it one at a time.

“Ye are so silly, Aidan MacKeefe,” she said with a giggle.

“So, what is yer answer, me bonnie cailin? Who out o’ me and me friends do ye find most desirable? After all, ye’ve seen us without clothes, so there is nothin’ we can hide from ye.”

“Ye’ve all seen me scuddy as well.”

“I dinna like thet fact.”

“I kent ye didna like it, by the way ye blocked me naked body from the eyes o’ yer friends. I must say thet I didna even notice the others, as me eyes were fastened only on ye. If ye haveta ask who I desire, then ye really dinna ken lassies at all.”

With that, she rolled over atop him and covered his body with hers. He wrapped his arms around her, and they kissed again. He found himself warming quickly, and his manhood hardened beneath her. She noticed, and daringly reached down and ran her fingers over the bulge beneath his clothes.

“Ye keep doin’ thet, me angel, and I will be the one tryin’ te defile ye, and no’ the English.

“And I wouldna stop ye, Aidan.”

“Ye wouldna?” This was too good to be true. He reached down and caressed one of her breasts as they shared another kiss. Then he rolled her off of him and straddled one leg over her. His hand was under her skirt, and he daringly slipped it upward, feeling her firm leg. She raised her leg, giving him access to explore more, and he probably would have if he hadn’t heard the squeaking of his squirrel from lower down the hill. He pulled back quickly and sat up.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, sitting up next to him.

“I hear Reid. He is in trouble.”

“Ye mean yer squirrel? Now?” He could tell by her voice that she wanted to continue what they were doing. He did as well, but it would have to wait.

He looked across the grass and spotted Reid at the top of the hill – in the mouth of Onyx’s pet wildcat.

“Nay!” he screamed, jumping to his feet. The wildcat looked up and then darted down the hill toward camp and Aidan ran after it, with Effie following.

“Ian . . . Dagger,” he called to alert his friends at camp. They looked up and saw what was happening. “The damn cat is goin’ te kill Reid!”

His friends rushed toward the animals too, but Tawpie, Onyx’s wildcat, made a turn and headed back up the hill – and stopped when a wolfhound met her head on. The hound snarled at the wildcat and showed its teeth, and Tawpie dropped the squirrel to the ground. The wildcat’s fur stood on end, and she showed her sharp teeth as well.

“Look, it’s thet wolfhound that almost attacked me last night,” shouted Effie.

“I’ll protect ye.” Aidan pulled his dagger from his belt and rushed forward, but before he could make it there, Ian ran up the hill and threw himself atop the hound, bringing it to the ground. He wrestled it with his bare hands. Onyx rushed over and picked up the squirrel, and the cat slinked away towards camp.

“Use yer dagger,” called out Aidan, rushing to join his friends. “The thing is possessed.”

“Nay, I dinna want te hurt it,” Ian called back, rolling over and over on the ground with the wolfhound in his hands. The animal snarled and tried to bite him, but eventually gave up in a whimper. It lay there under Ian’s hold, and slowly he released the animal. It just looked up to him with wide eyes and Ian carefully reached out and ran a hand over its head.

“What are ye doin’?” asked Aidan, coming to his side. “Thet thing is dangerous.”

“Nay,” Ian said stubbornly, sitting down next to it. The animal got up quickly, looked at them with wide eyes and hurried away with a slight limp over the hills.

“Reid!” said Aidan, collecting the squirrel from Onyx. It was bleeding and barely moving. “Yer damned cat almost killed me squirrel,” he shouted.

“But it didna,” said Onyx.

“Only becooz the wolfhound saved it,” added Ian.

“Ye shoulda killed thet feral thing yesterday.” Aidan felt furious at this whole situation. “Now it followed us te camp and we have more problems.”

“Nay,” said Ian. “It is already injured and I was tryin’ te help. The hound is all alone. I feel sad fer it. I think it’s only tryin’ te attack becooz it’s scared. And mayhap Onyx’s cat shoulda killed yer squirrel instead.”

“Me cat didna mean any harm,” said Onyx in his pet’s defense.

“Stop yer bickerin’ ye dunderheids and give me the squirrel.” Effie stood with her arms outstretched, waiting for Aidan to hand over his pet.

“He’s almost deid,” said Aidan sadly.

“I can see thet,” she said, pulling it from his hands. “If ye three fools keep up yer bickerin’ it’s goin’ te be deid afore we can help it.”

“Do ye ken how te heal animals?” asked Aidan.

“I told ye, I am a gypsy. I ken a lot o’ things ye have no idea aboot. Now there are some herbs and things I’m goin’ te need, and I need ye three to get them fer me. Aidan, get some hot water and rags, and Onyx, ye start a fire and cook some food, as I’m famished. Ian, I’ll tell ye where the herbs are and what they look like, and ye make sure te keep thet hound away from here. And if I see that wildcat anywhere near this squirrel again, I swear I’ll be servin’ it roasted on a spit fer our next meal. Now do ye all understand what ye’re te do? If we’re goin’ te save this poor animal’s life we need te move quickly.”

“She took off at a good clip down the hill toward the cottages with the nearly lifeless, bloody squirrel in her hands, not bothering to wait for an answer.

Aidan and his friends just stood there with their mouths open and stared at each other.

“What jest happened?” asked Ian.

“Get a move on it,” she shouted over her shoulder, “we don’t have all day.”

“Did she jest really tell us what te do?” asked Aidan.

“I think she did,” said Ian, shaking his head in disbelief.

“And I thought me bairned wife was moody and demandin’. Aidan, ye got yerself a live one there.” Onyx scratched the back of his neck and watched Effie rushing down the hill.

“I guess so,” Aidan said.

“What’re ye goin’ te do aboot it?” asked Ian.

“Reid’s life is in danger,” Aidan replied. “Do we really have a choice? Ye heard her, now let’s get movin’.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER EIGHT

Effie woke the next morning, taking a moment to realize where she was. She looked around and found herself lying on a pallet in a darkened cottage. A small table with a few chairs were across the room as well as several other pallets, and some personal belongings such as trunks and clothing. There was a firepit in the center of the room but with no fire, as it was summer. Above it, there was a thatched roof that came to a v, with holes in the sides at the top to let out smoke, but yet keep the hut protected so that rain would not enter.

She felt something on her chest, and looked down to see Aidan’s squirrel curled up atop her. She’d spent all night holding it outside by the fire, applying her poultices and herbs, and trying to save its life.

She couldn’t have done it without the help of the three madmen, and had almost laughed at the way those three big, strong men were jumping at her command, and running around collecting the things she needed. She knew now that they all had a side to them that wasn’t as harsh as they sometimes let on.

The last she remembered she was dozing off, leaning back into Aidan’s protective embrace with the squirrel curled up on her lap as they sat under the stars. Aidan must have brought her here to sleep, and she’d been so tired that she hadn’t even noticed.

The door to the cottage opened, and there stood Aidan with a smile on his face and holding something behind his back. In his other hand he held a bowl of food and a spoon.

“Guid mornin’ me bonnie angel,” he said, entering the room.

“Thank ye fer bringin’ me here last night.” Sitting up, she took the squirrel off her chest. She removed the wrapping of cloth that she’d put around it to hold closed its wounds.

“How is Reid?” he asked, entering the room and closing the door with his foot extended behind him. The sunshine that had been streaming into the little cottage disappeared.

“He is goin’ te survive, thanks te the help ye and yer friends gave me last night.”

The squirrel shook its head and stretched. Then it licked its wounds, flicked its tail, and scurried off the pallet to inspect the floor.

“I dinna ken how I can e’er repay ye fer savin’ me pet’s life.”

“Ye dinna have to. I only did what anyone would.”

He put the bowl of food and spoon on the table and headed over to the pallet. “I brought ye food te break the fast. It is cabbie claw. I made it meself from the rest o’ the fish ye caught.”

Effie was familiar with the dish, which was cod fillets covered by an egg sauce and topped off with horseradish. “Well, that sounds wonderful, but I could join the rest o’ ye at the fire. I dinna need me food brought te me.”

“Happy Birthday, me angel.” He whipped out a large bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back and handed it to her. It consisted of purple heather, pink foxglove, and even a large lilac-colored thistle sticking up from the center.

“Och,” she gasped in delighted surprise, taking it from him but being careful not to touch the prickly thistle. “They’re beautiful.” She started to get up, but he sat down on the pallet next to her instead. He took her hands in his, and raised them up so she could smell the flowers. Closing her eyes, she took a sniff and then let out her breath. “No one has e’er given me flowers fer me birthday,” she said with a tear in her eye.

“I told ye I want te fill thet empty void in yer life. Since ye have no one left from yer family or yer clan o’ gypsies, I am goin’ te be the one te take care o’ ye today.”

“Oh, ye really dinna have te do thet.” She felt horrible now for lying to him, and she didn’t deserve any of this. She tried to get up, but he took the flowers, placing them down, and held her on the pallet. Reaching over, he kissed her. She found herself lost not only in his kiss, but in the kindness of someone caring for her and making her feel special.

“I want te take care o’ ye, Effie. Ye saved me squirrel, and I am e’er so grateful.”

“Well, ye saved me life, twice now, so I guess we are even.”

“I have a present fer ye, too.”

“A present? Och, no, I couldna accept it.”

“Aye, ye can.” He reached over to the foot of the pallet and opened a trunk. He pulled out a woman’s long white leine with billowing sleeves and a sleeveless kirtle. The skirt was brown but the bodice was made from the same beautiful purple and green plaid that he wore.

Her hands reached out instinctively, and she took them. “What is this?” she asked.

“Yer own clothes are soiled and ripped. Ye need somethin’ clean and nice te wear on yer birthday, lass.”

“But . . . these are the clothes of someone from yer own clan.” The thought of it warmed her heart and scared her at the same time.

“They are only clothes, lass.”

“It is the same purple and green plaid that ye wear, as well as the rest o’ the MacKeefes.”

“Our auld weaver only kens how te make one type. Thet’s why the MacKeefes all have the same plaid.”

“The dyes for the wool alone must be so expensive.”

“Nay, our weaver dyes the clooth herself. She uses things such as nettle and bracken fer the green and her favorite is makin’ the purple dye from bilberries, whortleberries and even seaslugs, believe it or no’.”

“Seaslugs?” she asked, laughing.

“Come on, Effie, jest put them on.”

“But . . . I am no’ part o’ yer clan, Aidan.”

“Ye will be part o’ the clan as soon as I talk te our chieftain when he returns, and ask him if ye can join the MacKeefes.” He smiled and looked so happy that she thought she was going to die.

“Aidan . . . I dinna think I could.”

“O’ course ye can, me angel.”

“Where did you get them?”

“They are extra clothes o’ me sister, Kyla, but she willna mind, I assure ye.”

She looked down to the clothes, thinking how much she wanted to belong to a family again. To his family – his clan. She missed that sense of belonging, but she couldn’t take them and wear them. Not when she was about to deceive him, and be a traitor to Scotland as well.

“I’d rather no’ wear them.” She pushed them back into his hands.

“Then I will dress ye meself,” he said, reaching out to touch her. She was going to object, until she felt his hot breath on the side of her cheek as he placed sensual kisses on the back of her neck and then around and down to her collar bone.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she held her breath. It felt good. Too damned good, and it scared her.

“What’s the matter, lassie, dinna ye want me te do this?”

“I . . . I’m fine,” she said with a deep sigh. She looked into his eyes, seeing that he trusted her and that he had feelings for her as well. She felt the same way about him. If only she could tell him about her sister and what she had to do to save her. But if word got out, her sister’s life would be endangered.

Besides, if Aidan knew the truth, he was just mad enough to go with his friends to Liddel Castle and try to save her sister himself, and in the process he would most likely be killed. She couldn’t have that. These men didn’t deserve to lose their lives, especially for someone they didn’t even know.

No, she decided. She’d keep her secret and just go forward with the plan. Once her sister was free, she’d be able to tell Aidan everything. Only, by then, sadly, it might be too late to save what they had between them.

“Jest say the word, and I’ll stop,” he told her, his mouth now on her chest with his tongue shooting out to taste her. “Ye are me angel, Effie, and nothin’ can change thet. I have waited a lifetime te find someone like ye.”

“How can ye say thet, when ye’ve jest met me?” Her breathing deepened as he took his finger and drew a circle over her nipple right through her clothes.

“I ken ye are special and thet ye were meant te be with me, becooz ye came te me in a dream.”

“Mayhap it was someone else.” She felt her nipple tighten, and a bolt of desire shot through her as he slid his hand inside the neckline of her bodice and his cool fingers caressed her breast. The hot skin of her body against his cool hand made her arch her back, pushing herself further into his embrace.

“Nay, it was ye, I am sure.”

“How can you be sure?” She let out a soft whimper as Aidan gently pushed aside her bodice and lowered his head to her bosom. He took her into his mouth and his tongue teased her peak, about driving her out of her mind. Gripping his hair tightly in anticipation, she was frightened for more reasons than one. She’d never made love to a man before, and she didn’t want to disappoint him.

He raised his head slightly, his eyes looking up to her. “I ken it was ye, becooz I saw in me dream the birthmark on yer arm.” He reached over and grabbed her arm and pulled away her sleeve to prove his point.

“Well, a lot o’ people have birthmarks.”

“No’ like this one, lassie. Yers looks like a skull.”

“A skull?” When she turned her arm to look at it from his direction, she realized what he said was true. She also felt like it meant death, and she didn’t want anyone dying because of her.

“I better get up now,” she said, trying to sneak out from under him.

“No’ until I give ye yer birthday present.” He gently pushed her back down on the pallet.

“But ye already have. The clothes and the flowers.”

“Nay, there is more.”

“What more could there possibly be?” Her body was tingling and she was trying to ignore it.

He unfastened his weapon belt and threw it to the floor. His clothes followed. He didn’t wear any braies, and her eyes dropped to his straightened manhood that was hot, hard, and ready.

“I am yer present, me angel, if ye’ll have me.”

Her body shook with anticipation, and she felt a wetness between her thighs that was brought on by his foreplay as well as the fact he was straddling her in the nude, offering himself as her present.

She was far too old for never having had a man, as most girls her age were married while very young and had at least several children by now. She had no husband, and no children, and she didn’t want to die without feeling the ecstasy of coupling with someone at least once in her lifetime. All thoughts of her sister temporarily were swept from her mind, and she knew this may not be moral right now, but she also knew she had to have him.

“This’ll be the best present I e’er got in me life,” she said with a slight smile.

“Then let me help ye.” He reached out and pulled her clothes from her body so quickly that she knew in the back of her mind that he was very experienced with women.

“I . . . I’m scared,” she blurted out, and he just stopped and looked at her with an odd expression on his face.

“I am no’ goin’ te hurt ye,” he assured her.

“I didna mean it thet way.”

“Then what did ye mean?” He settled himself atop her, and she almost cried out in passion when she felt his warm, naked body pressed up against hers. The proof of his desire prodded her, and she suddenly realized he was so big and she so small, that she didn’t know if she could actually take him into her body. She clamped her legs together quickly.

“Effie, what is the matter?” he asked. “Ye are shakin’ like a virgin.”

“I am.”

“Ye are . . . shakin’ . . . or a virgin?” he asked slowly.

“Both.”

“Och!” He sat up suddenly and ran a weary hand through his long, blond hair. “I’m sorry, I didna ken.” He started to scoot off of her, but she reached out and clasped her hands around his arms.

“Nay! I dinna want ye te leave.”

“Effie, I dinna think I am the man ye want te take from ye somethin’ thet ye’ll ne’er be able te get back.”

She thought about that, and knew that she would be taking something from him that he’d never get back either once the stone was gone. She also knew that if she only made love once in her entire life, she wanted it to be with Aidan.

“Ye’re exactly who I want te take me virginity. Now, please, give me the present ye promised me fer me birthday.”

“Are ye sure, lassie? Becooz it is no’ too late te change yer mind.”

“I am sure. I want ye, Aidan. I want ye more than I’ve e’er wanted anyone in me life. Now please. Just be gentle, but show me how it feels te make love. Please.”

“Gladly.” He smiled just then, and for one glorious moment she felt like everything was going to be all right. Even if it wasn’t, she didn’t want to believe it right now. Instead, she decided to embrace the moment and make this so special that she’d never forget it for as long as she lived.

“I’m no’ really sure how te do this,” she admitted.

“By the rood, are ye tellin’ me a stoater like ye ne’er even had a man touch ye?”

“I am glad ye think I am stunnin’, but I assure ye while many laddies have tried, I warded them all off.”

“Why would ye?”

“Becooz, I was busy bein’ a mathair to me wee sister.”

“Well, ye no longer need te do thet, so now ye need te think o’ yerself. Just lay back and close yer eyes.”

“Close me eyes?” She didn’t want to do that. “I dinna want te miss a second o’ this, after I’ve waited so long fer this day.”

“All right. Mayhap thet is a better idea. Instead, I want ye te take a look at e’ery wee bit o’ me.” He stood then, spreading his legs on each side of her, and shaking his pelvis slightly, letting her see all of him. Then he turned slowly and showed her his backside too, shaking his doup as well.

“I like what I see,” she admitted. “And believe me, no bit o’ ye is wee anywhere. Now tell me. Do ye like what ye see as well?”

“I dinna ken. Stand up here and join me and shake what ye have, and I will tell ye.”

“All right,” she said, laughing, standing atop the pallet and holding on to him so she wouldn’t fall. She moved slightly, and he just smiled and shook his head.

“Blethers, thet is no’ a shake, but a shimmy. Now shake it like a wench who is tryin’ te lure me to her bed.”

“Like a hoor, ye mean?”

“Och,” he said and smiled. “I suppose I’m no’ goin’ aboot this right.” He reached out and filled his hands with her breasts, and she liked the way it felt. “I was jest tryin’ to make ye ready.”

“Let me try te do this.” She pushed his hands away slightly, then shook her shoulders, which caused her breasts to bounce back and forth. She smiled when she noticed his eyes widen in delight. “Is this excitin’ ye?”

“Dinna ye see me mansword o’ love?” he asked, which caused her to giggle more. “If ye keep shakin’ yer diddies like thet, I’ll no’ be able te wait much longer.”

“Then dinna wait,” she said, reaching up and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Make love te me now, Aidan.”

She didn’t have to ask again. He reached down and took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. Then he let his hands slip slowly down her back and he gently lowered her to the pallet.

“I feel somethin’ happenin’,” she said, throwing back her head as he straddled her, letting his hand slide up between her legs.

“Yer body is gettin’ ready te take me,” he explained.

“Is thet – ye?” she asked, her heart racing in her chest, as she felt herself being entered.

He laughed then, and pulled back his hand. “Nay, lassie, thet was only me finger. Then he replaced his finger with a part that she didn’t even question was him. He entered her and stopped, reaching down to fondle her breast, and kissed her atop the head at the same time.

“Thet is ye now, I can tell,” she said in a breathy voice.

“No’ all o’ me.” He pushed slowly into her, stretching her small form to take all of him into her body. She knew the emptiness within her had been filled in more ways than one. Then he started moving his hips slowly in a thrusting action. His breathing deepened and she looked up to see passion on his face. He entered her and retreated, the motions starting slowly, and then becoming faster as he pushed into her over and over again.

She felt a new feeling encompassing her being as her body cried out for him, and she felt as if she couldn’t get enough of this wonderful, glorious man.

“Aidan, I like this,” she admitted. Her body was vibrating and she felt so reckless. Every bit of her tingled, and she had never felt so alive in her entire life.

“I told ye, ye would,” he said through heavy breathing. Before she knew what was happening, her head was spinning and she was trying to take him into her more than he would go.

“Och, Aidan, this feels so guid.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself toward him.

“Now let yerself release any fears, lassie and ye will feel the closest thing te heaven thet ye’ve e’er felt.” He picked her up while on his knees and settled her legs around his waist as they continued.

She did as he said and together they found release, and she felt for the first time in her life that she’d found the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Her heart raced and her chest heaved as she struggled to regain her breath from her wonderful experience. He pulled away then, and lay her back down on the pallet, and when he did, her head fell back on something hard.

“Ow!” she said, pushing up and looking behind her. “What was thet?”

“’Twas nothin’, angel,” he told her. “Jest me pillow.”

“Pillow?” she said and laughed. “Thet’s no pillow, as it felt like a rock.” She moved the pallet aside and looked underneath, and there embedded halfway into the ground was a thick, black stone. She knew exactly why it felt like a rock now, because it was a rock. She’d just found the very thing that would free her sister, and it was right there in Aidan’s bed as they made love. It was the exact thing she’d been searching for and also the last thing she wanted to see at this intimate moment. This was the object that could save her sister yet make her lose Aidan forever. “Thet’s no pillow,” she said. “Thet is the Stone o’ Destiny.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER NINE

“Aye, thet is the Stone o’ Scone, or the Stone o’ Destiny as most people call it.” Aidan lay next to Effie, feeling sated and happy. He knew now it was no mistake bringing her here, as he felt like they were meant for each other. And if he had anything to say about it, she was never going to leave.

“Ye really sleep on it,” she said with a smile, rubbing her head.

“Ye get used te it after six months,” he told her, and pulled away the pallet so she could view the coronation stone better.

“’Tis beautiful.” She reached out cautiously and ran her fingers over it. “And there’s some sort o’ etchings on it.”

“They say they are hieroglyphs, or some sort of auld writin’ from ancient Egypt,” Aidan explained.

“Egypt?” she asked. “Ye dinna really believe thet?”

“Why no’? After all, Jacob from the Bible used the stone as a pillow and had dreams o’ angels, and thet’s exactly what happened te me.”

“Ye dreamt o’ me, no’ an angel,” she reminded him.

“Thet’s why ye are me angel, Effie.” He ran his fingers softly over her cheek, and she closed her eyes and shuddered slightly. “Isna it hard te believe thet stone is so auld thet it was used in the coronation o’ e’ery king o’ Scotland, fer the last five hundred years?”

“So this must be the stone me grandmathair used te coronate Robert the Bruce, after King Edward stole the fake stone,” said Effie in admiration.

“Yer grandmathair?” asked Aidan, pushing up to a sitting position on the pallet. “Effie, are ye sayin’ ye are related by bluid te Isabel MacDuff?”

“Aye,” she answered with a nod of her head. “So ye’ve heard o’ her?”

“Me angel, e’eryone kens aboot Isabel. If it wasna fer her, Scotland would most likely be ruled by those English bastards right now. Ye should be honored te be her kin. I heard the poor lassie was kept in a cage fer four years out in all kinds o’ weather, and in view of all fer what she’d done. I canna even imagine a lassie put in a cage. Thet is horrible. But I didna ken she had bairns after thet. I thought once the English released her, she died.”

“Thet is what she wanted e’eryone te think, Aidan. She went inte hidin’ and lived with the gypsies, birthin’ me mathair before she truly passed away.”

“Did ye e’er have a chance te meet her?” asked Aidan with wide eyes.

“Nay, but I wish I had. She was a strong woman who stood up fer what she believed. She even went against her own husband, John Comyn. When he sided with the English, she came back te Scotland te crown Robert the Bruce king, since it was her birthright, being a MacDuff and all.”

“I kent there was somethin’ special aboot ye, Effie. Now thet yer sister is deid, ye are the only one te carry on the honors o’ yer grandmathair. I am proud te say I ken ye.” He reached over and kissed her, but she seemed suddenly tense. “What’s the matter, angel?”

“Nothin’,” she said and her head dropped down, almost as if she were ashamed of something, though at this moment she should be very proud. “I . . . guess I’m jest missin’ me sister, thet’s all.”

“I am sorry fer yer loss,” he said. “It’s no’ easy te lose a loved one. But at least ye didna have te watch her hang in a cage, like what the English did te yer grandmathair.”

Effie tried her hardest to keep her emotions hidden, but it wasn’t easy with the way Aidan was praising her as if she were a hero when she was about to be one of the biggest traitors Scotland ever had.

She wanted more than anything to carry on her grandmother’s legacy, and be the savior of Scotland so to speak. But because of her actions, instead the MacDuff name would go down in history as being blackhearted, traitorous and an ally of the bloody English.

“Is thet a tear I see?” Aidan reached out and brushed away the tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Lassie, what’s the matter?”

“Aidan – I was jest thinkin’ aboot what ye said, and how horrible it must o’ been fer me grandmathair te be in thet cage and all.” She couldn’t stop thinking of Coira, and hoped she was all right. “If ye had someone ye loved hangin’ in a cage – a lassie – what would ye do?”

“I’d free her and kill those English bastards in a heartbeat.”

“But . . . what if there were too many o’ them, and ye would possibly lose yer life in the process?”

“If it was someone I loved, and she were a helpless lassie who had risked her own life te help her country, the way Isabel did, I would gladly give me life te save her.”

“Thet’s what I thought ye’d say.” She knew now she couldn’t tell Aidan about her sister, or that she, herself, had been imprisoned in a cage. If so, he’d be a madman enough to try to go after the bastards, and would surely lose his life in the process.

“I dinna want ye so sad on yer birthday, me angel.” He got up and walked to the table to get the bowl of food. “Reid, get away from the birthday meal I’ve prepared fer Effie. Ye dinna eat cabbie claw, now shoo.” He brushed the squirrel away from the food, and the animal scolded him in return, flicking his tail. “Well, I’m glad te see ye are back te yer ornery auld self.”

He brought the food to the pallet and settled down beside her. “Try this, I made it meself.”

She felt so awful right now, that a knot formed in her stomach. She looked back to the Stone of Destiny, knowing this stone would be her destiny after all. “I dinna think I could eat right now,” she told him.

“Then let me help ye.” He took a spoonful of food and popped into her mouth. Wonderful flavor exploded on her tongue, and she realized this man was talented with cooking. “It’s . . . really guid,” she said, swallowing and licking her lips. “I had no idea ye had such talents.”

“I’ll show ye more talents as soon as we’re finished. I am goin’ te practice me caber toss this mornin’ so I can beat Storm at the Highland Games competition. He has held the title fer the last ten years.”

“I’d like te see thet,” she said, feeling better, and digging into the food.”

“Then ye will join us at the festival.”

She stopped chewing and looked up slowly. She wanted to be there more than anything, but she knew her stay here was going to be short. Any day now, Tasgall would show up with the English and her time with Aidan would be over.

“I . . . dinna ken if I’ll be here then,” she said.

“O’ course ye will, Effie. As soon as I ask Storm if ye can be a part o’ our clan, ye’ll be one o’ the MacKeefes. Ye’ll have a new family te replace the one ye lost.”

She just looked down and shook her head. She knew this would never be.

“Och, I’m sorry, lassie. I didna mean te make ye sad aboot yer family.” He took her hand in his and with the fingers of his other hand, he raised her chin and looked into her eyes. “I ken this is crazy, Effie, but I have always been a madman, so I’m jest goin’ te say it. I think I love ye, angel, and I dinna want ye te leave me side. So please, stay.”

“Love?” She jerked back so quickly that the food fell off her lap to the pallet.

“Did I say somethin’ wrong?” he asked, scooping the food back into the bowl.

“Nay . . . I jest didna expect thet.”

“I ken it is crazy, lass, but I feel as if ye’ve been brought te me fer a reason.”

“Oh, I can say thet is probably true.” Little did he know the real reason.

“The stone brought us together,” he said with a smile, rubbing his hand over the smooth rock.

“Again, I’d have te agree with ye there.”

There was a knock at the door, and Effie looked up quickly. “Dinna let yer friends in afore I’m dressed,” she said, reaching for her torn and worn clothes. “I dinna care te let them see me naked a second time.”

“Aidan, are ye in there?” came a girl’s voice from the other side of the door.

“Kyla, ye ken I told ye ne’er te come in unless ye knock and are invited.”

“Thet’s why I’m knockin’, now can I enter?”

“Dinna come in unless ye want te see yer brathair naked.”

“Is thet yer sister?” Effie asked.

“Aye,” he said, pulling on his clothes hurriedly. “She must o’ come back from the fair early.”

“Is Ian in there with ye, brathair?” His sister’s muffled voice was heard from the other side of the door.

“Nay, he and Dagger are huntin’ fer food.”

“Why do ye call yer friend, Dagger?” asked Effie curiously. “And why does he have such odd eyes?”

“I dinna ken why his eyes are two different colors. He was born thet way,” said Aidan, pulling his clothes into place. “Dagger is what Onyx’s close friends call him, e’er since he was found in a box with a dagger when he was a bairn.”

“He was?” asked Effie.

“I’ll have him tell ye the story sometime.” He didn’t bother to wear shoes, and stood up quickly. “Get dressed and meet me in the field outside the cottage, and I’ll show ye how I toss a caber.”

“All right,” she said, starting to don her old clothes. He reached out and grabbed the new MacKeefe clothes and held them out to her. “No’ those auld clothes, wear these instead.”

She looked up to him and saw the hope in his eyes. Wearing them would be like accepting the fact he’d just said he loved her and wanted her to stay with him. It would be like saying she wanted to be one of them – which she did.

“I dinna ken, Aidan.” When she looked up to him again, she saw sadness in his eyes, and his face took on a dour disposition. Something tugged at Effie’s heart and she felt as if she were going to cry. She didn’t want to disappoint him, but neither did she want to lead him on with hopes of something that could never be. She couldn’t wear his sister’s clothes when she was about to betray them. The MacKeefes were the family she always wanted, but she didn’t deserve these wonderful people in her life.

Her eyes went to her old clothes and settled on the MacDuff brooch, and she felt a whole new aching within her heart. How could she wear them after Aidan had told her how proud she should be after what her grandmother had done? She didn’t deserve to dress like a MacDuff either. Not with what she was about to do. The MacDuffs stood for the heritage of Scotland - pride, determination, and doing anything to show their loyalty to their king and the land they loved, not betraying their king and country.

Either way, she was doomed. She only wished she had a third option right now. Perhaps she should just walk around naked. She sat there just staring at the clothes, not knowing what to do.

“Aidan, what are ye doin’ in there?” came Kyla’s voice from outside the door. “I’m comin’ in.”

Effie quickly grabbed the MacKeefe clothes from Aidan and held them in front of her body when his sister opened the door and burst inside. The girl stopped, and jerked backward when she saw Effie.

“Ye werena jestin’ aboot all thet naked stuff, were ye?” she asked her brother.

“I told ye no’ te come in,” he said, scowling at his sister. “Why dinna ye go find and pester Ian and Dagger like ye usually do?”

“I’m Kyla,” the girl said, ignoring her brother and smiling kindly at Effie.

“I’m . . . Effie.” She felt very awkward.

“Are those me clothes?” she asked, looking first at the clothes in Effie’s hands and then back to her brother.

“She disna have anythin’ te wear, Kyla. I didna think ye’d mind.”

“Well, then I suppose ye willna mind thet I gave yer horse te Wren’s brathair, Madoc, either, will ye?”

“Me horse? Madoc? What are ye talkin’ aboot ye mischant lass?”

“I got a ride here with Madoc and came back from the fair early. He jest came te check on his birds and he is leavin’ again right away.”

“Ye canna give away me horse, Kyla. Why disna he use his own?”

“His horse went lame jest as we arrived, and he said he disna have time te wait and see if it’ll heal. His wife, Abbey is birthin’ their third bairn any day now, and he wants te get back te Blake Castle te be with her.”

“Bid the devil, ye are always causin’ trouble, Kyla. Where is Madoc? I’ll go talk with him.”

“He’s gone te the pigeon roost te take care o’ his birds.”

Aidan collected his squirrel from the table and rushed out the door, leaving Effie and Kyla there, just looking at each other awkwardly.

“So ye’re Aidan’s sister,” Effie said, surveying the girl. She looked to be around the same age as herself, and had light brown hair that was tied back and trailed down to her waist. Her big, brown eyes were round with wonder as she surveyed Effie as well.

“I am,” she said, closing the door behind her. “And who exactly are ye? Another one o’ me brathair’s hoors?”

“I’m no’ a hoor,” Effie snapped, though she felt no better than one lounging naked on the pallet with a bowl of food at her feet.

“Then why did Aidan bring food te his bed, no’ te mention give ye me clothes?”

“It’s me birthday,” she said. “He was jest tryin’ te be nice te me. He saved me from English curs who were goin’ te accost me. I’m a gypsy who jest had me whole clan killed by the English. I may be a lot o’ things, but I assure ye, I am no’ a hoor. This was me first time te e’er lay with a man fer yer information.” She jumped up from the pallet and threw the clothes at Kyla, and turned back and started to don her old, ripped and dirtied ones.

“Och, I’m sorry. Me brathair and his friends usually have a lot o’ lassies, and I dinna like it. I didna mean te judge ye.”

“It disna matter.” She pulled on the dirtied clothes and fastened her brooch into place.

“What is thet brooch?” asked Kyla.

“What does it matter?”

“Let me see thet,” she said, walking forward, but Effie held out her hand and stopped her.

“Ye may as well ken. I am Effie MacDuff, and this brooch was me grandmathair’s,” she said, running her hand over it lovingly.

“Ye’re a MacDuff?” Kyla asked. “The MacDuffs are revered by the rest o’ the clans becooz o’ a lassie named –”

“Isabel MacDuff,” said Effie. “I ken. The lassie was me grandmathair, but I assure ye I am no’ te be admired like her.”

Kyla walked over and held out the MacKeefe clothes. “Wear these,” she said. “Ye shouldna wear those torn and dirtied clothes. I would be honored fer the granddaughter o’ Isabel MacDuff te wear me clothes.”

Effie stopped and looked at the girl. She was smiling now, and her features reminded Effie a little of her own sister. She missed Coira so much and worried about her every minute. She had always confided in her sister when she was feeling sad, and it felt good to have another woman around right now.

“Are ye sure?” she asked. “They are yer clothes, and I really dinna deserve them.”

“I’m sure o’ it. I like ye. Ye are different than the rest o’ the lassies me brathair usually beds. I can see why he likes ye. Put them on and let’s go find Ian.”

“All right,” she said, taking the clothes gingerly and doing as the girl suggested. “But dinna ye mean let’s go find Ian and Onyx too?”

“Och, aye. Thet’s what I meant.” The girl’s face blushed and she looked the other way.

“I heard ye ask fer Ian at the door as well.”

“It was nothin’, she said. “I jest wondered where they were.”

“Does Aidan ken how ye feel aboot his friend, Ian?” She busied herself dressing in the MacKeefe clothes, liking the way they felt. Then she took her grandmother’s brooch, and carefully placed it on the table. There was no way she could wear it right now.

“I didna say thet.” Once again, Kyla’s face blushed.

“Ye didna have te say it. I have a younger sister, and ye remind me o’ her. I’ve seen her act this same way o’er a laddie she once liked.”

“Ye have a sister? What’s her name?”

“Coira.”

“Where is she? Is she here too?”

“Nay, she’s been taken captive by the English.”

Suddenly, Effie realized her mistake. She’d been so distracted with the clothes and the fact she actually had another female to talk to, that she’d accidentally told Kyla about Coira. And it was too late now to take it back.

“She has?” gasped Kyla. “Thet’s terrible. Mayhap Aidan can help ye get her back.”

“Nay. Kyla, dinna say anythin’ aboot this te anyone. Please.”

“Why no’? she asked. “I’d think ye’d want some help in tryin’ te free her.”

“I dinna need anyone riskin’ their life fer me or me sister. Now, please promise me ye willna say a word aboot it. Especially te Aidan.”

“But I’m sure Aidan would want te help ye.”

“How would ye feel when Ian went with him, and if neither o’ them came home alive?”

“Och, I see yer point.” The girl’s head lowered and she looked to the floor.

“Ye keep me secret aboot me sister, and I’ll keep yer secret thet ye have eyes fer Ian. Is it a deal?”

Kyla looked up and smiled. “It’s a deal. I dinna want ye te lose yer sister, but neither do I want te lose Ian or me brathair or any o’ his friends.”

“Neither do I,” she said, looking over to the Stone of Destiny. “Neither do I.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER TEN

Aidan was delighted when he saw his sister and Effie opening the door to the pigeon loft, and coming inside to join them. Effie had donned the clothes he gave her after all, and she looked good wearing them. Almost as if she were a MacKeefe. But for some reason, she hadn’t used her MacDuff brooch.

“Me angel,” he said, holding out his hand. She took his hand in hers and joined him and Madoc at the roost. Madoc raised homing pigeons, and also raced them.

“Your angel?” asked Madoc, laughing. “Now that’s the first I’ve ever heard that.”

“She is me dream angel,” said Aidan. “I saw her in a dream, while I was sleepin’ on the Stone o’ Destiny.”

“You sound so smitten with the girl. But if you really saw her in a dream, then I guess she is your destiny,” said Madoc. “Just like my wife, Abbey, was my destiny the day I robbed her on the road.”

“You robbed someone?” asked Effie.

“I used to be a thief,” he said, walking forward to greet her. He let go of one of the pigeons in his hand and it fluttered up high to the rafters. “My name is Madoc,” he said. “And who are you?”

“Effie.” Effie held out her hand and the handsome man took it and kissed it. He was tall with long, dark hair that fell around his shoulders. His eyes were bright green and mysterious, and he had a sword at his side, and the crest of an eagle on his tunic.

“Effie, this is Wren’s brathair,” said Aidan. “He used te be a thief afore he found out he was really o’ noble English blood.”

“I see.” She pulled her hand back quickly, hearing the part of him being English.

“You don’t seem to like the fact I’m English,” said Madoc.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didna mean te be rude, but the English jest killed off me family.”

“Your family?” he asked, surveying her clothes. “So you are not a MacKeefe?”

“Nay, I’m Effie MacDuff, and if ye please, I’d no’ like te talk aboot it any more.”

“Of course,” he said, looking at her oddly. “I’m sorry.”

“What are all these birds fer?” she asked, looking around. Effie was standing inside a small, wooden hut with a tall ceiling. Pigeons sat roosting on the rafters above their heads. There were other birds that looked to be nesting, and still more that were in separate enclosures.

“These are homing pigeons,” Madoc told her. “I raise them.” The pigeons in the separate cages are messengers. They are the ones that fly to my brother’s castle in Devonshire, to the MacKeefe’s castle, or to my twin sister’s home in Hythe.”

“Madoc has pigeons in e’ery place one o’ his siblings lives,” Aidan explained. “Thet is how they send messages between them, and from England te Scotland and back.”

“Fascinatin’,” she said. “So do ye have pigeons near the borderlands too?” She wondered if any of them were near to Liddel Castle where her sister was being held captive. If so, this may come in handy somehow.

“I do,” Madoc said with a smile. “The MacKeefe’s castle, Hermitage Castle, in on the border. And since my sister, Wren, sometimes dwells there, I have birds there as well. Actually, I am going there next, as I need to return pigeons that are trained to fly one way only. That will be my last stop. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Jest curious,” she said.

“It is several days ride to the border,” he said, looking at Aidan. “I’d like to leave as soon as possible. Since my horse went lame, I was hoping to borrow one of your clan’s horses, but I understand they are all gone, as your clan is still at the Glasgow fair.”

“Thet’s right,” said Aidan. “Why dinna ye jest stay til they return?”

“My wife, Abbey, is going to give birth soon to our third child,” he said. “I’m anxious to get back to her. We have both a boy and a girl already, and I’m hoping this one is another son. I really want to raise as many sons as I can, since I grew up without a father. Kyla offered me your horse, Aidan, but I really hate to take it on you.”

“Nay, take me horse,” said Aidan with sigh. “It is important te be there fer yer wife and new bairn. I’ll come te collect me horse and return yers when it’s healed. I’ll return it te ye personally at Blake Castle, and hopefully see yer new bairn as well.”

“My many thanks,” said Madoc. “I’ll be sure to have it back to you sooner than that, as I know you’re going to want it when you go to the Highland Games. And Effie, I hope to see you there as well?”

“I dinna ken.” She looked at Aidan, and he had that sad look upon his face again. “Well, mayhap I’ll jest do thet.” Aidan smiled at those words, and it did her heart good to see his face light up again.

“Madoc, join us fer a bite te eat,” said Aidan. “Afterwards, mayhap ye’d like te get inte the little competition we’re havin’, as we practice fer the Highland Games.”

“I’d be happy to eat with you and also to watch you practice, but I’m afraid I’m not skilled in much besides wielding a sword or racing pigeons,” Madoc answered. Actually, I have my brother, Corbett, to thank for me being a knight. He trained me well, since I was just a thief.”

“I’d love to hear about it,” said Effie.

“I’d be happy to tell you everything over a bite of food.” He looked at Aidan and grinned. “Unless it’s pigeon stew.”

“Dinna worry,” Aidan said with a chuckle. “The MacKeefes no longer eat pigeon thanks te yer sister.”

“Nor do we eat squirrel, thanks te ye,” said Kyla. “And squirrel stew was me favorite.”

Reid chattered away from outside the pigeon loft just then, causing them all to laugh.

* * *

Effie enjoyed the meal along with Aidan, Onyx, Ian, Madoc, and Kyla. They were all getting along wonderfully, laughing and enjoying some mountain magic. She was getting used to the strong whisky, and only took it in small amounts, but was surprised how Kyla kept up with drinking with the men.

“Kyla, how can ye drink so much o’ this brew and still be able to stand?” Effie asked, staring down at her cup.

“I grew up doin’ whate’er me brathair and his friends were doin’ so it disna bother me,” said the girl.

“Aye, she’s one o’ the boys, thet’s why,” said Ian. “And no lass, ye dinna do e’erythin’ we do, if ye ken what I mean.”

“Ye’d better no’ be doin’ e’erything,” said Aidan to his sister, “or I’ll be the first te make sure whate’er laddie is in yer bed disna make it out o’ here alive.”

The men laughed, but Kyla just crinkled her nose and shook her head. “Aidan, if ye keep me away from laddies much longer, I’m goin’ te die a spinster.”

Effie was starting to feel at home, and it was the best feeling in the world.

“Let’s jest hope no laddie e’er gives her a birthday present like I gave ye,” Aidan said to Effie softly, but Madoc overheard him.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me it was your birthday, my lady?” Madoc got up and walked over to her, bowing, and when he stood back up, he pulled a dove from behind her ear and handed it to her. She went to grab it, and it flew up into the sky.

“How did ye do thet?” she asked in surprise.

“Madoc is known as the Lord of Illusion,” said Kyla.

“Thet’s right,” said Aidan. “He kens all sorts o’ tricks, and can also make things disappear.”

“Really?” Effie wondered what she would be called once she made the Stone of Destiny disappear. She was sure it wouldn’t be anything so admirable.

“Ian, play yer bagpipes,” begged Kyla.

“Nay,” Ian said with a scowl on his face, putting down the bones of the pheasant they were eating, having caught it earlier that day. “I dinna feel like it.”

“Come on,” she said, getting up and pulling the bagpipes from behind a rock. “I happen te have them right here.”

“Kyla, what are ye doin’?” Ian rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Quit yer pesterin’ me already, will ye lassie?” He stretched out on the grass.

Effie could see the girl was vying for Ian’s attention, tho he wasn’t giving it to her.

“I’ll play them,” Effie offered, taking them into her hands, knowing the way to get a man to react.

“Ye ken how te play bagpipes?” asked Aidan.

“I do, but I’m no’ verra guid at it.”

“Thet’s becooz ye need te have a lot o’ wind aboot ye, like Aidan,” said Onyx from the other side of the fire.

“I thought you knew how to play them too,” Madoc said to Onyx.

“We all do,” he said.

“Then he’s not the only one with wind.”

They all laughed at that, and when Effie brought her mouth to the bagpipes and blew a sour note, that had them all laughing again, including her.

“Give me thet,” said Onyx, taking the bagpipes and placing them under his arm, blowing into it. His wildcat came out of the shadows and settled down behind him. Effie saw Madoc petting Aidan’s squirrel, and knew it would be safe from the cat.

The music was cheery and Effie found herself clapping her hands and keeping beat.

“Me lady,” said Aidan, bowing and holding out his hand. “May I have this birthday dance?”

“Oh, I dinna dance,” she said, shaking her head.

“It’s yer birthday, now get up and dance,” said Kyla, pulling her to her feet.

“Only if ye dance as well,” she told the girl. “With Ian.”

Kyla smiled and nodded her head. Effie winked.

“I’m no’ dancin’,” grumbled Ian from his position on the ground, his arm over his closed eyes.

“If the birthday girl wants ye te dance, then do it,” Aidan told him.

“Come on,” said Kyla, pulling Ian to his feet.

“Aidan, ye owe me fer dancin’ with yer wee sister.” Ian got to his feet, and shot a daggered glance to Aidan.

Effie danced with Aidan, and Kyla with Ian, and Madoc even kept the beat with his spoon against a log, as he used it as a drum.

“No’ so fast,” said Effie when Aidan took a hold of her and twirled her around.

“I bet ye canna do this, Ian,” said Aidan, as he did an even faster step, pulling Effie around in a circle.

“Dinna challenge me te somethin’ becooz ye ken I will win,” said Ian, taking a hold of Kyla and doing the same thing. Onyx played the bagpipes faster, and Madoc picked up the rhythm on his home-made drum.

Before Effie knew it, she was dizzy from turning circles so fast, and she fell to the ground atop Aidan. Ian fell as well, with Kyla in his arms.

Effie felt happy for Kyla, as well as for herself. She felt as if she never wanted to leave MacKeefe camps for the rest of her life.

“Come on,” said Onyx, putting down the bagpipes. “The caber is ready fer ye, Aidan, and I have a bet with Madoc thet ye’ll win.”

“What aboot me?” said Ian, getting to his feet, and pulling Kyla with him.

“I’ll bet on ye winnin’,” said Kyla proudly.

“Thanks fer the vote o’ confidence, lass,” he told her and patted her on the head as if she were nothing more than a child.

The men walked away toward the caber. Aidan’s squirrel was on his shoulder, and Onyx’s wildcat was sneaking behind in the shadows.

“He thinks o’ me as a bairn,” Kyla told Effie, putting her hands on her hips.

“Who?” she asked. “Ian or Aidan?”

“All o’ them.” Kyla threw her hands into the air in frustration. “I’ll ne’er be anythin’ but a bairn te them.”

“Men are no’ always thet aware o’ when a lassie likes them,” Effie told her. “Jest give it time, and I’m sure some day Ian will notice ye turned inte a woman.”

“Well, Aidan noticed ye, thet’s fer sure,” said Kyla. “And ye two jest met. I’ve kent Ian me whole life, and he still disna ken I even exist.”

“Sometimes, when someone is so close to another, they canna see the nose on their face,” she said, putting her arm around the girl. “Now let’s go watch the men make fools o’ themselves tryin’ te prove thet one o’ them is better than another.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Aidan stood with his arms wrapped around the trunk of a tree that they’d made into a mock caber. It was heavy and long, and took three people just to get it into position.

“Come on, Aidan, ye can throw a better caber than the one Ian just tossed like a lassie,” called out Onyx. It was a beautiful day, and the sky was clear blue with white puffy clouds high above the peaks of the mountains. Rolling green hills surrounded them, dotted with long-haired sheep feeding on grass in the distance. A field of purple heather trailed down to the loch. It all seemed so alive as the machairs, tall grass, speckled with bright-colored wildflowers, swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze.

“Ye say thet again,” Ian warned him, “and I’ll show ye how I can toss the sheaf, but it’ll be ye I’m tossin’ instead.”

“That, I’d like to see,” said Madoc, lounging in the background, with his head on a rock and his feet sprawled out in front of him. Aidan’s squirrel was on his chest. Effie and Kyla sat beside him.

“All right, I’m ready.” Aidan took a deep breath, and with Onyx and Ian’s help, hoisted the heavy pole into position, making sure Effie was watching. And he’d just taken a step forward when Reid scampered over and climbed upon his shoulder and then started making its way directly up the pole.

“Nay, get off o’ there, ye doitit squirrel,” said Aidan, moving back and forth with the pole teetering almost out of control. There was no way he could actually throw it with his squirrel now perched at the very top.

“Toss it,” shouted Ian.

“Nay,” cried Effie, “ye’ll kill the squirrel.”

“Reid, get down from there,” yelled Aidan, his muscles burning from holding up so much weight.

The squirrel moved down slowly, and finally scampered back to the ground. And with another step, and his muscles twitching, Aidan tossed the caber, end over end. It was an amazingly straight throw, and it settled much further than Ian’s caber toss.

“Ye did it,” cried Effie, running to him and throwing herself into his arms. “Ye were wonderful, Aidan.” She reached up and kissed him and he picked her up and spun her in a circle before putting her back on her feet.

“I was right,” said Onyx. “Aidan is the strongest when it comes to lifting weight. Too bad I didna place coin on the bet.”

“Thank you for everything,” said Madoc, coming and clasping arms with Aidan. “I need to be on my way before the day gets any later. Thanks again for the use of your horse.”

“Would ye mind if I travelled with ye?” asked Onyx. “I am goin’ te stop in Northumberland to see me sister, Amethyst, and her husband, Marcus, fer a bit afore I head on home te check on me bairned wife.”

“I’d be honored,” said Madoc.

“Ian, did ye want te come fer a visit as well?” asked Onyx. “I hear Marcus’s cousin, Matilda is visitin’, and she is a sight fer sore eyes, I assure ye.”

“Aye, I do,” he said anxiously, raising his eyebrows. “But I need te pick up some things at Hermitage Castle on the way if ye dinna mind. I’ll get me things.” Ian headed for the cottage. Hermitage Castle was the MacKeefes’ border castle that their chieftain, Storm, captured years ago. It was a place where they stayed when they weren’t in the Highlands.

“I’ll go too,” said Kyla, following him.

“Nay, ye’ll stay here with Effie and yer brathair and stop pesterin’ me,” growled Ian.

“Aidan, will ye and the lassies be alright here alone guardin’ the stone, or should one o’ us stay?” asked Onyx.

“I’ll be fine,” said Aidan with a wave of his hand. “The rest o’ the clan should be back any day, and the stone hasna been in danger in the last six months, so I’m sure it’ll stay secure fer another day or two. Besides, no one even kens it’s here.”

“So the three o’ us will be the only ones here te guard the stone?” asked Effie.

“Aye,” said Aidan. “Why do ye ask?”

“No reason,” she said, her face suddenly changing from laughter to one that seemed to Aidan a look of fear.

“I will protect ye me angel, as well as the stone, dinna worry.” He put his arm around her. “After all,” he whispered so only she could hear, “I would give me life if I had te no’ only te keep the stone from gettin’ inte the hands o’ the English, but also te protect ye and me sister. The lassies thet I love.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was early the next morning, and Effie awoke in Aidan’s arms after having spent the most wonderful day of her life with him yesterday. It was by far the most anyone had ever done to celebrate her birthday. Sure, her sister Coira had brought her bouquets of wildflowers and cooked her meals as well, but Aidan gave her a present that by far surpassed that. He gave her not only his body but also his heart. That meant the world to her.

The sun was just rising and she slipped away from him silently and dressed, wanting to go prepare a meal for him and bring it back and serve him in bed the way he’d done for her yesterday. Then she planned on telling him about her sister. She couldn’t keep this secret to herself any longer. He couldn’t do anything crazy today, because there was only one horse in the camp at the moment, and it was lame. Besides, he would never leave the Stone of Destiny unguarded.

That would give her a few days until the rest of the clan returned to try to explain to him what she’d planned on doing, and to tell him that she no longer wanted to lie and deceive people. Especially him. By the time the chieftain and the rest of the clan returned from the fair, she hoped she’d be able to talk to him sensibly and try to think of a plan to save her sister that wouldn’t get any of them killed. With a whole clan to back him up, mayhap Aidan could do something to save Coira after all.

She finished dressing and looked down at herself donned in her new clothes. Liking the way they felt, she wanted more than anything to be a part of this clan. She hoped they could get Coira and bring her back to be part of the clan as well.

She spied her brooch on the table and picked it up, wanting more than anything to wear it. Mayhap after she’d had her conversation with Aidan today, if things went well, she’d feel differently. But for now, she couldn’t bring herself to pin it on her clothes. She didn’t even want to look at it right now, so she reached down and slipped it under the pallet, and out of sight.

She glanced over to Aidan sleeping soundly on the pallet, his long, blond hair sprawled across the Stone of Destiny as he used it as his pillow. The stark contrast of his light hair and the black stone made her think how different the two of them were as well. Like day and night, in a way.

Aidan had said he’d give his life to protect the stone, but she was willing to give up the destiny of Scotland in order to save the life of her sister. He was so honest with her, but she’d been nothing but untruthful to him. He’d told her he loved her, but yet, she didn’t return the sentiment. And while he was planning their future together, she was only trying to get through another day, not knowing if she or her sister would live to see the morrow.

She kissed him softly on the forehead, then headed out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

“Guid mornin’,” said Kyla from behind her, scaring Effie and making her jump. She held her hands over her heart.

“Ye frightened me, Kyla. I didna ken ye were there.”

“I’m sorry, Effie. I jest wanted te say thank ye fer gettin’ Ian te dance with me yesterday, before I head down te the loch te bathe. I really wish I could o’ gone with them when they left.”

“It’s the least I could do,” she said. “After all, ye welcomed me here with open arms and even gave me yer clothes. Jest give Ian some room te breathe, as men dinna like lassies hangin’ on them.”

“I guess ye’re right. So where are ye goin’?” Kyla asked.

“I am sneakin’ out te make a guid meal fer yer brathair and surprise him by bringin’ it te him in bed.”

“Did he tell ye he loves ye, yet?”

“What makes ye ask thet?” Effie’s voice raised in surprise. Then she walked across the camp toward the center firepit that was used for cooking, and Kyla followed.

“Becooz I could see it in his eyes. It’s the same look he gets when he finds a new lassie thet he thinks is special, but it ne’er lasts.”

“So ye’re sayin’ thet Aidan has told lassies before thet he loves them?”

“He’s always sayin’ thet. Usually when he brings them te his bed, and then by the next mornin’, the lassie leaves and he fergets all aboot her.”

“Then it’s a guid thing he didna try thet on me,” she said, feeling her heart drop inside her chest. She’d thought Aidan had really cared for her, but now after hearing this, she knew it was nothing more to him than a reaction when he’d gotten a good bedding.

“Effie, I can see it in yer eyes,” said Kyla with a smile. “He said he loved ye, didna he?”

“Aye,” she admitted shyly, then felt filled with anger. “Thet bastard,” she spat. “He even told me he wanted me te stay here with the MacKeefes. I guess he’d say anythin’ te get me in his bed.”

“He asked ye te stay? I’ve ne’er heard him say thet te any lassie afore.” Kyla bent down and started collecting kindling for the fire. “It would be nice if ye stayed. Ye are like the sister I ne’er had. I like ye.” She stood up and put her arm around Effie’s shoulder, but Effie knew she couldn’t go on with this pretense any longer. Neither did she want to stay and hear Aidan’s lies if he really didn’t mean what he’d said.

She removed the girl’s arm from around her shoulder. “Kyla, I dinna think I’m goin’ te be stayin’. Matter o’ fact, I plan on leavin’ really soon.”

“What do ye mean? Does Aidan ken aboot this?”

Effie couldn’t have the girl telling Aidan she planned on leaving. She didn’t want to alert him to her plan. She had to say something to keep her quiet. “I mean, I really miss me sister and worry aboot her,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. “Aidan disna need te ken thet I’m no’ goin’ te stay. Especially since he willna care anyway, if he tells all the lassies he loves them.”

“I can understand thet.”

“So dinna say anythin’ te him jest yet. I mean . . . I’ll tell him later, all right?”

“If ye say so,” she said. “Still, I will miss ye.”

Effie almost cried out when she looked over Kyla’s shoulder and spied Tasgall peering out at her from behind a clump of trees. He was motioning with his hand for her to join him.

“So what shall we make te break the fast?” asked Kyla, her back toward the man, so she didn’t see him.

“Dinna fash yerself, I’ll make the food,” she said, getting to her feet. “Why dinna ye go and bathe in the loch now afore yer brathair awakes?”

“He’s usually awake by now,” she said, standing and straightening her skirts. “I’ll go wake him if thet lazy galoot is still sleepin’.”

“Nay, go get yer things and head out to the loch now.” Effie turned the girl and headed her in the opposite direction from where she’d seen Tasgall. “I’ll awaken Aidan.”

“Are ye sure?”

“Aye,” she said, picking up the bow and arrows that she’d left there yesterday. “I’m jest goin’ te go hunt fer a rabbit real quick, and then I’ll awake him as soon as I’m back. Jest let him sleep fer now.”

“Well, all right, but jest dinna shoot Aidan’s squirrel or he will have yer heid.”

“I’ll be careful,” she said, glad that Onyx had taken his pet wildcat with him on his journey, as that animal made her a little uncomfortable. She picked up the bow and arrows and hurried toward the woods.

“What took ye so long?” growled Tasgall once she’d joined him in the woods.

“What are ye doin’ here?” she snapped.

“Dinna be a fool. I brought the English soldiers like ye said.” With a wave of his hand, a half-dozen English soldiers appeared, bringing a horse and cart.

Her heart beat rapidly, and she was no longer sure she really wanted to do this. Even if Aidan had lured her to his bed with the words he probably used on whores, she still didn’t want to see him ending up dead. If they went for the stone right now, she knew he’d fight to the death to try to protect it.

“How did ye get te the castle and back so fast?” she asked the man.

“I didna have to. The soldiers came lookin’ fer us, sent by Lord Ralston. It seems he is in a hurry to get the stone, and will be sending a missive for King Edward to join him right there at Liddel Castle soon. Lord Ralston wants te present the stone to King Edward personally, as a surprise.”

“Surprise indeed,” she sniffed. “He wants to be the one to take all the credit for its return and probably thinks it’ll earn him a seat at court or a new title when this is all o’er.”

“Whate’er his reason, I dinna care.”

“What’s yer reason, Tasgall fer helping do this?” She eyed him curiously. “What did Lord Ralston promise ye when this is all o’er?”

“What makes ye think he offered me anythin’?” he asked, raising his chin when he spoke.

“I find it odd thet besides me and me sister who were the only true MacDuffs, they spared yer life when they attacked and killed the rest o’ the gypsies.”

“Thet’s becooz I had information about the stone,” he told her. “Now, enough o’ this clishmaclaver, we have a job te do. Is it safe te get the stone, or no’? We saw the rest o’ the MacKeefes still at the fair, and we hid when three men left this camp yesterday, so there canna be many left. How many are there?”

“Plenty,” she lied, wanting them gone. “At least a dozen or so men, so ye’d better turn around and leave if ye dinna want te be slaughtered. Highlanders are barbaric and will take all yer lives.”

“That many?” Tasgall peered over her shoulder toward the camp. “Then how come I dinna see a single soul?”

She was relieved Tasgall hadn’t mentioned seeing Kyla in front of all the soldiers.

“They’re – all inside. Sleeping.”

“Ye’re lyin’,” Tasgall growled. Then he looked over his shoulder to the rest of the guards. “She’s obviously changed her mind about helping us, so we’ll jest have to do it ourselves.”

“Aye,” said the soldier named Dempster from atop his horse. “We’ll get the stone and kill anyone who gets in our way.” He motioned with his hand for the others to follow and the entourage started to move toward the camp.

“Nay!” She said, wanting to stop them, because if she didn’t, she knew both Aidan and his sister would be slaughtered. “Stop!” she called out, but they didn’t listen. Then she raised her bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. She’d only meant to get their attention, but the arrow embedded itself in Dempster’s shoulder. He winced in pain and turned around in fury.

“You bitch!” he called out, breaking off the arrow and throwing the stub to the ground. “Kill her,” he said, but Tasgall pulled the bow from her hand and pushed her to the ground.

“Wait!” he said. “We may need her if we get in a bind on the way back with the stone. We’ll need another Scot along besides meself if we’re goin’ te pull this off. Unless ye want te chance it. But a bunch o’ English with a wagon travelling in the Highlands without a Scot te back up their story is goin’ te raise some suspicion.”

“I’m going back,” said Dempster, “as I’ll be no use to you now, and my wound will only cause more suspicion if we come across any Scots.” He ripped off part of his tunic and held it up to his wound to stop the flow of blood. “Get the stone and bring it directly to Lord Ralston. Don’t waste any time. Once you make it through the Highlands, kill her as we’ll have no use for her.”

“What aboot me sister?” she cried out. “Is Coira still alive?”

“She is,” sneered Dempster. “But as soon as I tell Lord Ralston you shot me with an arrow, he’ll kill her for sure. If not, I’ll do the job myself to make you pay for this.”

“Nay, dinna touch Coira.”

“Tie her up,” said Dempster, throwing a skein of rope to Tasgall.

Effie knew if she was going to save Aidan and Kyla’s lives she needed to do something fast, and it wasn’t looking good.

“I’ll help ye get the stone,” she said quickly. “Let me tie up the Highlander so he disna give ye trouble.”

“How many are there?” growled another guard.

“Jest the one,” she said, not wanting to tell them about Kyla, and hoping the girl didn’t come back from bathing any time soon. If the guards found her, especially naked, they’d defile her, and Effie couldn’t have that. She looked over to Tasgall, hoping he wasn’t going to say anything, and thankfully, he didn’t. “The Highlander trusts me, so I’ll sneak in and tie him up and then give ye the signal,” she added.

“I don’t believe her,” said one of the guards. “She just told us there was a dozen, now she changes her story. This is a trap.”

“It’s no’,” she said. “Ye need te believe me.”

“Why should we?” asked the guard. “You haven’t proved yourself to us.”

“Then let me do this te prove te ye thet me sister’s life means more te me then this stone. Besides, ye dinna ken where the stone is, and I willna tell ye unless ye let me help.”

She knew if she was able to tie up Aidan, it might just save his life. If not, he’d fight to the death, and she’d never forgive herself for losing the only man who ever cared for her in her life.

“All right, just let her do it, but keep an eye on her,” Dempster agreed, gritting his teeth in pain. “I’m heading back to the castle, because if I don’t do something about this wound soon, I’ll be dead.”

“We’ll collect the stone and bring it back,” said a guard. “Go on, we’ll catch up to you.”

“All right, then,” said Tasgall, pushing the rope into Effie’s hands. “Go tie up the Highlander, though it’s beyond me how ye think ye’re goin’ te do it.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Aidan was having that dream again. He was reclining on the pallet, and saw Effie coming into the room. The sun shone around her like a halo, and though her smile was bright, he noticed this time that something troubled her.

He tried to talk, to ask her what was the matter, but couldn’t seem to find the words. Reaching out to take her in his arms, he found once again he couldn’t move. Then she turned back toward the door and her tail swished him in the face. When he looked up, the English were storming into his cottage.

His eyes popped open, and he jerked backward when he saw Effie leaning over him for real. The weight on his chest told him his squirrel was sleeping on him again. Reid scooted off when he tried to sit up, and the squirrel ran up the leg of the table. Aidan realized he truly couldn’t move, and looked down to see his hands tied together with rope and his feet tied as well. He was naked, having made love to Effie during the night.

“What are ye doin’ to me, angel?” he asked in surprise.

“I’m . . . tying you up,” she said, looking away from him quickly, but not before he saw a tear in her eye.

“I dinna understand.”

“I didna think ye would.”

“Och, lassie,” he said with a chuckle and lay his head back down on the stone. “Ye want te make love te me tied up, dinna ye? I tried this once with a hoor and it was verra excitin’.”

“Nay, Aidan. Thet’s no’ it, and I’m sorry but I haveta gag ye too, so ye dinna call out fer Kyla.” She stuffed a rag in his mouth and tied it around the back of his head.

He tried to tell her that his angel was being a little devil and it excited him, but the words didn’t come out since his mouth was gagged. He figured he’d let her do what she wanted with him, as he was always up for something new when it came to games involving coupling.

“I’m sorry, Aidan, and I only wish this coulda been different. But I’m sure ye will jest find another lassie te say ye love on the morrow. Me sister needs me and I have no choice.”

“Yer sither?” he said through the gag, wondering what she meant, since she’d told him her sister was dead. He felt a knot in his stomach and a sickening sense suddenly overtaking him that she’d been lying. Aye, he had the awful feeling something was horribly wrong, and that this was not a love game after all.

The door to the room burst open, and like in his dream, the English soldiers marched in.

“Where is it?” Aidan recognized the Scottish man leading the soldiers into the room. He was the man that Effie said was a gypsy in her clan. The one they’d left back in Glasgow. He pushed his way forward, knocking over a chair in the process. “Where is the Stone o’ Destiny?”

Stone of Destiny? This couldn’t be happening. Aidan shook his head, willing this vision to leave, hoping it was still part of his dream. Effie couldn’t really be a traitor, could she? And after he’d brought her straight to the stone. He prayed he was mistaken, but when he looked back toward her and saw the tears streaming down her face, he knew that he’d misjudged her.

He should have listened to his friends from the very beginning, and never have trusted her. Now he knew what his dream meant. She wasn’t his dream angel after all. The tail she had in his dream should have made it obvious, but he was so infatuated with her that he didn’t want to believe it. She was a traitor, his enemy. Someone who’d only used him to get to the stone. Aye, his dream was turning into a nightmare of the worst kind.

“Naaaaaay!” came Aidan’s muffled cry as he struggled to sit up. He rolled over on the pallet, reaching his tied hands for his sword that was lying on the chair. Effie rushed  over and picked it up before he could get it. She turned it around with the heavy hilt of the sword facing him, and for a split second he thought she was handing it to him or going to help. But then his angel did something he never expected. She raised the hilt of the sword up high and brought it crashing down against his skull.

The last thing he heard was Reid scolding her from somewhere in the room, and then he saw stars as his eyes closed and his world blackened in front of him.

Effie’s heart broke at what she’d just done to Aidan, and she threw down his sword and fell to her knees crying.

“Where’s the stone?” asked Tasgall again, shaking her by the shoulders.

“It’s under his heid!” she cried out. “He uses it as a pillow.”

Tasgall and one of the guards rolled Aidan’s body off the pallet, and he landed right in front of her. She reached down and slowly touched him on the head, noticing the big bump and blood that accompanied the gash she’d given him.

She tore off a piece of her skirt and wrapped it around his head. She wanted to take the gag from his mouth and also untie him, but she couldn’t. If he awoke in the middle of this, he’d try to fight the English and she couldn’t let him do that.

“Here it is,” said Tasgall, moving the pallet and spying the Stone of Destiny. He ran his hand over the stone. “It’s beautiful!”

“It’s a damned rock,” said the guard, reaching down and trying to move it. “It’s heavy, too. It’ll take at least three of us to move this, now someone give me some help.”

They dragged it across the room, pushing things aside, making a mess and breaking things in the process. Reid scurried over to her and settled on her lap and she ran a hand over the animal’s fur.

“I didna mean te hurt him,” she whispered to the squirrel. “I was only tryin’ te save his life.”

“All right, load it into the cart,” said one of the guards from behind her.

She reached over to Aidan’s clothes and laid them over him to cover his naked body. It pained her to know she would never feel his arms around her or his body pressed up against hers ever again. She wanted nothing more than to cuddle up with him and make love all night long or to dance with him or just sit there and talk, but that was all over now. The worse part was, that she didn’t know if it really meant anything to him after all.

“Get his weapons,” she heard one of the guards call out. She quickly palmed his dirk and hid it beneath the pallet just under his leg. She couldn’t leave him defenseless.

Two guards rushed over and grabbed his weapons, and another pilfered things in the cottage and stuck them into his pouch. Then yet another guard walked over and dragged her to her feet.

“Come on,” said the guard, “we may need you.”

“What should we do with the Highlander?” asked the man who was stealing whatever he could get his hands on.

“Just kill him,” snapped the guard holding her arms and dragging her to the door.

She broke free from him and rushed back to Aidan and threw herself down to cover his body.

“Ye’ll have te kill me first,” she said, refusing to move out of the way. She wanted to leave some sort of sign for Aidan. To let him know she didn’t really want to betray him, but had no choice. She saw her brooch under the edge of the pallet where she’d put it earlier, and picked it up and hid it in his bound hands so the guards wouldn’t see it and take that too. Hopefully, this would give Aidan some sort of message.

“Let’s go,” shouted Tasgall from the door. “The longer we wait the more chance the clan will return and catch us. The stone is in the wagon, now bring the lassie and hurry up aboot it already.”

“Come on,” said the guard who was going to kill Aidan, and he put away his sword. “He’s not going to come after us without any weapons or clothes.” He reached down and tore the clothes away from atop Aidan’s body, and dragged Effie out the door. Laughing, he threw Aidan’s clothes onto the back of the cart with the stone. Then they pushed her onto the front of the wagon, and Tasgall slapped the reins against the horse and sped away, following the guards.

She looked back one last time as they left, and saw Kyla walking up from the loch. The girl saw her in the distance, and Effie turned around quickly, hoping Kyla wouldn’t call out for her.

“What are ye lookin’ at?” asked Tasgall, starting to turn around.

“Nothin’, now let’s move faster already.” She reached out and grabbed the reins and urged the horse forward. The cart jolted and Tasgall fell backwards, and Effie got the horse to move so fast, that they passed up the guards. She could only hope they hadn’t spotted Kyla, and that Tasgall wouldn’t say that he’d seen her.

The only thing that made her feel better was that she knew Kyla would be there for Aidan when he awoke. She tried to dismiss her thoughts of Aidan and Kyla, and focus on how she was going to save her sister. If she thought about Aidan any longer, she was going to want to turn the cart around and head right back to him, begging for his forgiveness.

AIDAN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Aidan awoke to knocking in his brain. He felt like he’d had too much mountain magic last night, and that his head was splitting open. His mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow, and he was so stiff that he felt as if he couldn’t move his hands or feet.

The knocking continued and his eyes slowly opened, and he found himself face down on the ground next to the pallet. When he tried to move, he realized his hands and feet were tied and then he remembered that Effie had done this to him right before she hit him over the head with the end of his own sword.

“Aidan, are ye in there?” came Kyla’s voice at the door.

He tried to call out to her, but there was a gag in his mouth. What in heaven’s name was going on?

“Aidan. I need te talk te ye, wake up.” Kyla pounded on the door again and he cursed himself for telling his sister never to enter unless she knocked and was asked to come in. But after she’d walked in on him and a whore at one time, she also wasn’t in a hurry to enter if she thought he was naked.

“Kya,” he called out, his tongue getting stuck on the gag. “O’en th’ dur.”

When she didn’t hear him and the knocking stopped, he knew he was going to have to do it himself. He pushed himself up on his bound hands, his eyes meeting those of his squirrel as it stared him in the face and scolded him. Something pinched at his fingers, and he moved his hands to see Effie’s brooch in his grip. He threw it to the ground in disgust, his body shaking in anger at what Effie had done to him.

Then he pulled his knees up and pushed them under him and managed to get to his feet. With one grip of his bound hands, he ripped the gag from his mouth. Wobbling while trying to stand, he hopped his way to the door. He used his bound hands and took a hold of the latch and pulled the door open. At the same time Kyla opened it from the other side, and Aidan stumbled backwards landing on his doup. Kyla caught herself on the door, and when she saw him, her eyes opened wide as well as her mouth. She turned away quickly and spoke to him over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I didna ken ye were in the middle o’ couplin’, I swear. I thought ye were jest sleepin’, especially since I saw Effie ridin’ away.”

Aidan was furious by this time, and nothing his sister said was making any sense.

“Kyla, what are ye talkin’ aboot?” he asked, using his fingers to untie the ropes at his feet.

“I saw Effie leavin’, in a cart with a man. I think there may have been others, but I couldna see thet far.”

“God’s eyes, what is goin’ on?” He looked around the room at the shambles and then his eyes darted to his pallet as the fog in his brain cleared, and he realized what they were after. Sure enough, to his horror, the Stone of Destiny was gone.

“Bid the devil, she took the stone!”

“What?” Kyla turned around, then hid her eyes as she saw her brother was still naked. “Put on some clothes, Aidan. I dinna want te look at me brathair naked.”

He rushed over to the pallet and realized his clothes were gone as well. His eyes searched for his weapons, but by this time it was no surprise when he didn’t find them. “She took me clothes as well as me weapons. How could she do this te me?”

Reid was playing with something at the edge of the pallet and he realized it was his dirk hidden underneath. He grabbed it and maneuvered it until he cut the ropes that bound his wrists.

“What are ye talkin’ aboot?” asked Kyla, still looking the other way.

“I’m talkin’ aboot thet no guid, gypsy. She lied te me, Kyla. She didna want me at all, though I wanted her. All she wanted was the stone.”

He ripped open a trunk and dug to the bottom, finding some of his extra clothes, and donned them quickly.

“She wanted the stone? What for?”

“Turn around sister, and talk te me already.”

“Are ye covered yet?”

“I am. God’s toes, ye act like ye ne’er saw a naked man before.” Then he looked at her as she turned around, and squinted his eyes. “Have ye?” He donned a pair of boots that covered his legs up to his knees. These were usually only worn in winter, but it was all he could find.

“Dinna fash yerself o’er thet, brathair. Like I said last night, becooz o’ ye bein’ so protective o’er me, I’m goin’ te die a spinster. Now tell me, how did ye get tied up?”

“She did it.”

“Effie?” His sister was smiling, but he didn’t think it was funny.

“She also hit me o’er the head with me own sword.”

“How did a wee lass like Effie manage te tie up a big, strong Highland warrior like ye and knock ye out as well?”

“I . . . thought she was playin’,” he said under his breath.

“Playin’? Playin’ what?” Then her eyes opened wide as she realized what he meant. “Ohhhhhh, thet. Well, thet’s what ye get fer being so adventurous when it comes te beddin’ a lassie.”

“Kyla, she was a traitor, and I ne’er saw it!” He stood up and pounded his fist into the door. “I was blinded by the deceitful bitch. I ne’er shoulda brought her right te the stone. I shoulda listened te Ian and Dagger when they said they didna trust her. But nay, I was a fool. I thought she was me dream angel. Hell, I even told her I loved her.”

“Calm down, Aidan. She musta had a guid reason fer what she did.”

“How could ye say such a thing?” He walked back and forth and ran his hand through his hair. “She stole the Stone o’ Destiny. She led the English right te us. I was supposed te be guardin’ the stone. I’ve let down the MacKeefes, and worse than thet, I’ve failed in me promise te Scotland.”

“I dinna think she wanted te betray ye.”

“The stone tried te warn me, with me dreams.” He kicked at things as he paced the room and Reid ran out of the cottage so as not to be hit.

“She would ne’er do anythin’ te hurt ye, Aidan. Believe me.”

“I told her I loved her, and what a fool I was. She had a tail jest like in me dream. She was me enemy, but I thought she was me angel.”

“Aidan, listen te me.”

“Damn her!” He picked up a chair and threw it across the room and it crashed against the wall. “I’m goin’ after them.” He slipped the dirk into his boot and ran out of the room.

“Wait!” called Kyla, running after him. “Ye canna go after them with only a dirk te protect ye.”

“Well, they seem te have stolen all the rest o’ our weapons. I’ll kill them with me bare hands if I have te. And then I’ll wrap me hands around Effie’s neck as well.” He headed to the stable and grabbed the horse Madoc left there, but when he pulled it out of the stall and it limped, he remembered it had gone lame. “I dinna even have a horse now te go after them. What else could go wrong?”

He took off back to the main firepit with Kyla running alongside him. And he kept on thinking aloud. “If only Dagger and Ian were here, we’d figure out somethin’. I canna believe I asked her te stay with the clan.”

“She said she was leavin’, but I had no idea why,” said Kyla, but he wasn’t listening.

“I was supposed te protect the stone and I led her right to it. Now thanks te me, Scotland has lost the coronation stone thet we’ve hid and protected from the English fer o’er five and sixty years.”

“Aidan, mayhap she had a guid reason fer doin’ what she did.”

“She was a traitor te her own country,” he said, looking at his sister. “And she was a MacDuff, can ye believe it? And after her own grandmathair risked her life and turned against her own husband te do the right thing.”

“It’s no’ what ye think, I’m sure. Effie isna thet kind o’ lassie, I jest ken it.”

“Och, I even gave her MacKeefe clothes to wear. What was I thinkin’?” He couldn’t stop himself from saying the same things over and over again. And each time he voiced his thoughts aloud, it only made him angrier.

“Haud yer wheesht and let me talk already,” Kyla said, finally getting his attention. “Effie had a sister thet was taken prisoner by the English, so mayhap thet had somethin’ te do with this.”

“Her sister is deid,” he said.

“Nay, she isna deid. She jest told ye thet becooz she didna want ye goin’ after her and losin’ yer life fer her.”

“I kennawhat ye say, wee sister. Ye make no sense.”

“Her sister, Coira, was taken captive by the English. She told me all aboot it.”

He suddenly remembered Effie saying something about her sister right before she hit him over the head.

“I’m sure it was jest another lie,” he grunted, rubbing the bump on his head and feeling some sort of cloth around his wound. He pulled it off and saw part of a skirt encrusted with his blood. He knew instantly it was from Effie’s skirt and that no English guard would have put it on him. And he did find her brooch in his hand. Mayhap this all meant something after all. He was glad to be alive right now, and was surprised the English didn’t just kill him in the process. “Do ye ken where they’re supposedly keepin’ her sister? If she really is a captive and no’ deid, thet is.”

“Nay, she didna say. Do ye think they promised te free her sister if she helped them get the stone?”

“I dinna ken what te think anymore,” he said, touching a hand to his head. It hurt too much to try to think right now, let alone blink. “Even if it was the truth, she’s a fool fer what she did. I assure ye, Kyla, thet the English will ne’er hold up a promise like thet. Once they get what they want, they will no’ bat an eye at killin’ them both.”

“Then ye need te go after them,” said Kyla.

Aidan thought about it for a second, and knew that was his only choice in the matter. He had to do something, not just sit there and let them steal the stone.

“Thet’s exactly what I plan on doin’. Now give me yer dagger, and any other weapons ye can find. Then go and hide yerself where the English canna find ye if they return. And be certain te take Reid with ye.”

“How will ye get te them without a horse?”

“I’ll walk all the way te England if I have to,” he said.

“If ye’d do thet te save Effie and her sister, then mayhap ye really do love her, brathair.”

“Who said anything aboot me savin’ them?” he asked. “I am goin’ after them but it’s only te save the Stone o’ Destiny and te do me duty te Scotland. No’ te do anythin’ te help thet traitor, do ye understand me, Kyla? I want nothin’ te do with Effie MacDuff, e’er again.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Effie bounced up and down atop the wagon as they travelled. The road they’d taken was not the main one, and it was very rough. Her body ached, and she wasn’t sure if it felt that way from travelling all day, or from making love several times to Aidan in the last day. Either way, neither mattered. She still felt disgusted that she’d just started having feelings for Aidan, and then she found out from his sister that he told every girl he bedded that he loved her. Why had she fallen for it? And why did he have to be so nice to her and bring her flowers and food and even give her MacKeefe clothes to wear? Above all, why did he have to be so alluring in bed and so good at his love making skills?

She longed for him, yet she hated him at the same time. She knew she’d never see him again, and she really shouldn’t care, but a part of her felt so lonely and empty without him.

“Why arena we takin’ the main road?” she asked Tasgall, having hoped they’d see the MacKeefes coming back from the fair. If so, they may have recognized her wearing their clothes, and she would hopefully be able to convince them to help her somehow. But now, with the side trails they were taking, they’d be lucky to come across anyone at all.

“We canna take the main road, ye fool,” said Tasgall. “We need te stay hidden from the Highlanders or we’ll ne’er make it back te the border with the stone.”

“We’re in the Highlands,” she told him. “It isna a guid idea te veer off the main path. Besides, the wagon will no’ be able te handle this rough road fer long with the weight of the stone in the back.”

“It’s getting dark,” said one of the guards, riding back to talk to them. “We’re going to camp up ahead at that lake for the night and continue on at first light.”

“Guid idea,” she said, wanting nothing more than to stop and try to think what she was going to do to not only save her sister, but to save the stone as well. A part of her wanted to just hand over the stone and not care that it stood for the kings of Scotland and their freedom from England. Another part of her kept saying that if she did this deed, all the pain and anguish her grandmother endured for crowning Robert the Bruce against her husband’s wishes would be for naught.

They stopped to make camp, and Effie knew that she’d never sleep, as all she could think about was her poor sister in that cage, as well as Aidan, and the look in his eyes when he realized what was happening. It was something that was going to haunt her for the rest of her life.

* * *

Aidan traveled on foot the entire day, running most the way, making his way toward Glasgow. He had hoped he’d come across travelers returning from the fair, and at least obtain a horse for his travels. However, it was already late in the day, and he knew he’d not come across anyone traveling in the dark.

He was tired and hungry, and had only a sheep’s bladder of mountain magic tied to his waist to get him through the night. He’d left in such a hurry, and was so angry, that he hadn’t cared about taking food. He’d have to travel all night long to have any hope of catching up with Effie and the entourage at all.

He stopped to catch his breath, leaning his body against a rock. The sun had just set and the sky was painted in beautiful colors of red and orange amongst the dark clouds moving in. He knew by the looks of the sky and the smell of the air that it would be raining soon.

“Damn,” he spat, leaning back on the rock and taking the bladder of whisky from his waist. If it rained and he still didn’t have a horse, he’d basically have no chance of ever catching them before they made it back to England.

He took a swig of mountain magic and swallowed it down, closing his eyes and reveling at the taste of fire as it made a path to his stomach, warming his insides and warding away his fatigue. Then, he heard a snap of a twig behind him, and his hand flew to his dagger, but not before he was met by the cold edge of a blade to his throat.

“Give me the ale,” a man said in a hoarse whisper from behind him.

He turned his head slightly, and noticed dried blood caking the man’s tunic. He could also see that this was an Englishman and not a Scot, and that he was wounded. It seemed as if the man was alone, and Aidan figured he must have a horse to have made it this far into the Highlands without being killed.

“It’s no’ ale,” he said, slowly, “it’s mountain magic.”

“I don’t care what it is, as long as it’s potent. Now hand it over.”

“Och, I wouldna use potent te describe it, but ye are welcome te have it if ye want.”

“Give it to me!” The man grabbed the bladder from him, and Aidan just smiled, knowing exactly what was going to happen.

He heard the Englishman take a big swig, and then gasp for breath. Aidan reached up and grabbed his arm, twisting it and disarming him, taking his sword. He pushed the man to the ground, and held the blade to his throat now. He could see it was the same English guard who had tried to accost Effie in the woods.

“As I was sayin’,” said Aidan, reaching down with one hand and taking back the whiskey before it spilled, “I’d call auld Callum’s mountain magic the fires o’ hell, no’ jest a simple potent brew.”

“I’m wounded,” said the man, “don’t hurt me.” The sound of a horse whinnying in the thicket brought a sense of relief to Aidan. He’d have a way to catch up with Effie after all.

He noticed the man’s bloody shoulder and could see that an arrow had pierced him and part of it was still embedded. He would never make it back to England alive, so Aidan didn’t feel bad that he was about to steal his horse. He also knew that no English guard would ever be traveling in the Highlands alone. That told him that this bastard had most likely just come from MacKeefe territory, and was involved in stealing the Stone of Destiny. Now he wondered if he should have saved Effie from him in the first place, or if the whole thing had been staged for his benefit. Effie had most likely been working with him all along. This made him feel even more miserable than he already did.

“Ye didna think twice aboot tryin’ te kill me, yet ye want me te spare yer life?”

“I wasn’t going to kill you. I only wanted your whisky.”

“Really? And how did ye get thet wound?”

“I was travelling alone when I was accidentally shot by a poacher.”

“I’d be willin’ te bet thet ye were involved in stealin’ the stone, and they left ye becooz ye were wounded. Now why dinna ye tell me where they’re takin’ it?”

“What stone? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mayhap this will help ye remember.” He reached out and punched the man in the face. “Now dinna lie te me again, or next time ye’ll no’ meet with me fist, but with the blade itself. Now tell me, where are they takin’ the stone and what path are they travelin’ by?”

When the man didn’t seem to want to talk, Aidan reached out and grazed his arm with the sword, drawing blood.

“Ahhhh!” the man yelled. “Fine, they’re taking the stone to Liddel Castle on the border. But you’ll never catch them, as they’ve taken a trail that the gypsy told them about that no one uses anymore. You’ll never find them.”

“The gypsy?” He figured the man was talking about Effie and this made him even angrier that she would tell them how to get to the border unseen.

“Ye bluidy bastard, I should kill ye right now fer what ye’ve done.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Becooz I want ye te suffer. Ye’ll ne’er make it with a wound and no horse and all alone in the Highlands, and I think ye deserve it. Now dinna try te come after me or I swear I’ll kill ye.”

He punched the man again, then headed for his horse. He was just about to mount when he heard the man running up behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see the man with a dagger raised and eyes wide, lunging right for him.

“I warned ye,” Aidan mumbled, turning quickly and raising his sword. With the man’s movement forward, the sword was impaled in his chest. His eyes bugged out and he fell to the ground. “If ye woulda jest stayed where ye were, ye may have had a chance o’ livin’.”

He retrieved his sword, and wiped the blood on the dead man’s clothes before unfastening the belt from the man, and taking the scabbard. When his sword was in place, he took the man’s dagger as well as the pouch of coins at his waist.

“Thanks fer the information.” He got atop the horse and headed away. He knew the exact path the English had taken now. It was an old road that he and Onyx and Ian had often traveled on when they were younger. It went right along the east side of Loch Lomond, and that’s where they were probably stopping for the night. With any luck, he could be there before sunup. He dug his heels into the sides of the horse and sped through the darkness, wondering how surprised Effie would be to see him show up and take back the stone that she’d worked so hard to steal.

* * *

Effie tossed and turned inside the wagon, not able to sleep a wink all night. She felt awful for what she’d done to Aidan. She knew how much the Stone of Destiny meant to him, and also that he considered himself the guardian of it.

The guards were sleeping around the fire and Tasgall was lying atop the wagon seat. She was in back with the rock. The sides of the wagon were high and the English had draped a covering across it to hide the contents within it. They’d also covered the stone with a blanket.

Effie scooted out of the wagon, and her feet had just touched the ground when someone pulled her backward and held a dagger to her throat, covering her mouth with their other hand.

“Dinna scream or say a word, do ye understand, me blackhearted traitorous angel?”

Her eyes opened wide when she heard the voice in her ear, knowing Aidan had found them. She nodded, and slowly his hand came away from her mouth.

“Aidan!” she whispered, turning toward him, but he put his hand back over her mouth and scowled. There was light from the moon, and she could see the anger in his eyes and also the disappointment on his face.

“I said te haud yer wheesht,” he ground out, and she heard malice in his words. It was a side of him she’d never seen before. He dragged her quickly out of earshot of the guards and into the thicket. He moved so fast that she tripped. His arm shot out and yanked her upward.

She looked up to him, facing him now, and wanted more than anything to fall into his arms and hug him. Then to her dismay, he released her quickly, and when she reached out to touch his arm, she could feel the tightness of his muscles beneath her fingers. She dropped her hand to her side, knowing he had the right to be angry with her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didna want te hurt ye.”

“Enough o’ yer lies already. I canna believe ye bedded me only te find the stone so ye could turn it o’er te the English.”

“It’s no’ like thet,” she said, but he kept on talking.

“I trusted ye and brought ye inte me clan. I told ye aboot the stone, and I believed ye cared aboot it as much as I did.”

“I do.”

“Ye ne’er cared aboot anythin’, no’ even me, though I said I loved ye.”

“Ye say thet te all the lassies ye bed.”

“What?” He crunched up his face and his eyebrows angled. “I dinna ken what ye’er talkin’ aboot.”

“Kyla told me thet ye say thet to a lassie and then ye go yer separate ways in the morn.”

“This isna aboot us, Effie. This is aboot the Stone o’ Destiny and how ye betrayed no’ only me but all o’ Scotland.”

“I had me reasons.” Angered by his words, she raised her chin in defiance.

“No reason is guid enough.”

“They have me sister prisoner in a cage and will kill her unless I bring back the stone.”

He stopped and looked at her oddly, and for a moment she thought he almost cared. Then he just took her arm and dragged her back toward the wagon.

“I dinna believe ye anymore.”

“Ye’ve got te trust me.”

He stopped quickly and she crashed into his back. He turned around and looked down at her, and the fierceness on his face was nothing like the gentle, caring, man who’d brought her flowers, cooked her food, and given himself to her as a present.

“Ye betrayed me and tied me up and hit me o’er the head with me own sword, and led the English right to the stone. Dinna e’er say I have te trust ye, becooz I willna trust ye e’er again.”

That cut her to the bone, but she knew she deserved it. All he’d been to her was kind, but yet she’d caused him some of the worst pain of all.

“What are ye goin’ te do?” she asked.

“I’m goin’ te take back the stone, what do ye think?”

“And how are ye plannin’ on doin’ that with a half-dozen men guardin’ it?”

“Well, why dinna ye tell me how to do it? After all, ye seem te be the devious one who kent how te steal it in the first place.”

“I willna help ye steal it, if thet’s what ye’er thinkin’.”

“Ye will do exactly thet if ye e’er want me te trust ye again. I dinna want ye alertin’ the guards either.”

“Thet stone is me sister’s future.”

“It’s also the future o’ Scotland. Now are ye goin’ te help me or no’?”

“I canna,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Fine. Then I’ll move it meself. But I swear if ye alert the guards, there’ll be a battle and I canna guarantee anyone will walk away alive. Including ye.”

She watched Aidan replace his dagger and sneak up to the back of the wagon and push the blanket off the stone. He was strong, but moving that stone was more than any man could lift alone. He didn’t care. He hoisted himself up onto the back of the wagon and bent down and started pushing it. His face turned red and his muscles bulged beneath his leine, and the stone moved forward slightly.

“Ye’re ne’er goin’ te move this yerself,” she whispered, her eyes searching to make sure the guards were still sleeping.

“Then hop on up here and help me, lassie. Thet’s the least ye can do,” he whispered back.

Aidan wasn’t going to stop until he had the stone, and she knew it would be virtually impossible to move it without the guards hearing. Tasgall shifted from the front of the wagon, obviously having felt it move. Then to her horror, he lowered himself to the ground and started to come their way. They both stopped and looked at each other and They were about to be discovered.

“Give him some mountain magic,” said Aidan, handing her the sheep bladder.

She grabbed it without thinking and rushed to the front of the wagon to give it to Tasgall.

“Have a drink,” she told him, directing him toward the fire and the other guards who were sleeping. The man took it eagerly, and had only one sip before he leaned back against a tree and started to snore.

She heard the creak of the wagon, and when she looked back she could make out the form of Aidan standing on the ground and lifting the stone off the back of the wagon and dropping it right in front of his feet.

“What’s that noise?” asked a guard, opening his eyes.

“It was me,” she said quickly, bringing the whisky to him as well. She managed to keep the guards from knowing what was going on, and when they were asleep again, she rushed back to the wagon to find Aidan lifting another large stone into the wagon instead.

“What are ye doin’?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“They’re goin’ te notice if the wagon is empty.”

“They’re also goin’ te notice thet the stone ye just put in here is no’ the same one.”

“No’ if it’s covered and ye keep them from lookin’ at it.” He flipped the blanket back over it and wiped his hands on his clothes.

“Where’s the Stone o’ Destiny?” she whispered.

“It’s right there.” He pointed to the ground nearby. “I need some rope.”

“There’s some in the front of the wagon,” she said, “but what are ye goin’ te use it fer?”

“I canna carry the rock back te the Highlands,” he told her. “I’m goin’ te drag it with me horse.”

“What horse? Where did you get a horse? I thought it was lame.”

“I borrowed it from an English guard who tried te kill me.”

“Was he wounded?” she asked.

“Until I killed him, he was.”

“I shot him with an arrow, Aidan. Thet should prove te ye thet I am no’ a traitor. No’ really.”

“Thet proves nothin’. Now get back o’er there while I get the stone away from here. Dinna let them look at the one in the wagon. With any luck, before they notice, they’ll be back te Liddel Castle and I’ll be far away from here with the real stone.”

Far away? He sounded as if he wasn’t coming back. Effie didn’t want to believe he wasn’t going to help her.

“Then ye’ll come fer me and me sister, right?” she asked.

By the look on his face, he didn’t have to answer for her to know he had no intentions of helping her after what she’d done to him.

“I’m sorry, Effie, but I canna help ye.”

“If ye dinna help, me sister will die.”

“I still dinna believe ye even have a sister. It’s probably jest one o’ yer schemes te get me inside the castle gates so they can torture me and try te get me te tell them what I’ve done with the stone. Well, I tell ye, it willna work.”

“Nay, I swear, what I’m tellin’ ye is true.” She felt the tears welling in her eyes.

“Guidbye Effie. I’m sorry it canna be different, as I really thought ye were the one fer me. Now I can sadly see thet ye are no’ me angel.”

Their eyes interlocked for what seemed like eternity. She felt the burning gaze of his stare down to her very soul. Disappointment shadowed his face, along with hurt because of her betrayal. She wanted to reach out and throw herself into his arms, and kiss him and feel safe in his protective embrace. She also wanted more than anything to hear him say he loved her again, even if he did say it to every girl he met.

“I am the one fer ye, Aidan. Please. I wanna be yer dream angel again. I . . . I love ye.”

She swallowed deeply, holding back the tears. She had hoped professing her true feelings for him would make him see that there still could be a future between them. But he didn’t reach for her like she’d hoped. He didn’t lean over and kiss her gently, nor did he take her in a punishing kiss. He didn’t even say a word.

Aidan just turned to finish the job he’d come to do, looping the rope through the handles on the stone, then securing it to the saddle of his horse. Then he mounted his steed and dragged the Stone of Destiny behind him slowly as he made his way through the woods. In the moonlight she saw his back as he kept on riding away from her, never once turning around. And it was at that moment that she knew she’d lost Aidan forever.

AIDAN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It rained on and off for the next few days, and Effie was cold and tired and felt as if she wanted to die. If her sister’s life hadn’t depended on her, she wouldn’t care right now if her life ended.

She’d wronged Aidan. Even if she’d had her reasons, she should have told him the truth in the first place. Mayhap if she had told him what she was going through, he’d still trust her right now. Or he’d still love her.

But now Aidan was gone, and she’d never see him again. Once the guards discovered the fake stone under the blanket and relayed the information to Lord Ralston, both she and her sister would most likely lose their lives. Still, Aidan just rode away, never looking back. He no longer cared.

The guards hadn’t thought to look at the stone under the blanket. Thankfully, because of the rain, they’d decided to keep it covered. Travel had been slow over the muddy, rocky path, but at least they kept hidden from the Scots, so there hadn’t been any trouble. One of the guards had always foraged ahead, and when he saw travelers, they had taken cover. Once they were past Glasgow they had made good time, having gone back to the main road, heading for the border.

She hadn’t spoken much to any of the guards or Tasgall for the rest of the journey, and they hadn’t tried to talk to her either. Once or twice the guards seemed interested in possibly using her for their manly needs, but oddly enough Tasgall had seen to it that she wasn’t touched.

She saw the castle up ahead now, and knew this was the end. She felt a sinking sensation in her gut as she wondered if her sister was still alive or what they’d done to her while she was gone.

The rain had let up, but the day was still gloomy. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth as they rode across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. She saw her sister immediately, hanging in the cage from the front of the keep. Her heart about broke when she saw how wet Coira was from the rain, and how thin she’d become. Her sister was curled up in a ball on the bottom of the cage and lifted her head slightly as they approached.

“Coira!” Effie jumped from the cart and ran across the bailey, stopping directly under her sister’s cage. “Sister, I’m back,” she said.

Her sister’s thin hand grabbed on to the iron bars and she raised her head slightly to see her.

“Effie?” she asked in a weak voice. “Please tell me ye found and brought back the stone.”

“Dinna worry,” she said, trying to reassure her though she knew all hell was about to break loose. “I willna let anythin’ happen te ye.”

“We’ve got the Scottish Stone of Destiny,” said one of the guards proudly as Lord Ralston hurried across the courtyard to meet them.

“Good, let’s see it. I can’t wait to give it to King Edward. I’ll send the missive inviting him here at once.” The man smiled and rubbed his hands together. “The king will be begging me to join him at court after this.”

The guard pulled away the wet blanket covering the stone and gasped. Effie just closed her eyes and tried to breathe and didn’t even turn around.

“What in God’s name is this?” said the guard aloud.

“That is no Stone of Destiny,” snapped Lord Ralston. “What are you trying to pull? I may not know what it really looks like, but any fool can tell that is just a river rock.”

Effie turned around then, spying the round stone covered with moss and bird droppings that Aidan had used to replace the true stone. It was smattered with mud, and dead leaves clung to it. It was only half as big as the true stone and smelled bad.

“Thet’s no’ the stone we stole,” said Tasgall, and then he looked over to Effie. “Do ye ken anythin’ aboot this?”

“Me? Nay. I dinna ken where the real stone is.”

“She betrayed us!” shouted the guard. “She must have told that Highlander to come and exchange the stone while we slept.”

“You left a witness alive?” growled Lord Ralston. “What were you thinking? Especially a Highlander. You know you can’t trust them. I’ll have all your heads for being so stupid!”

“Kill her, not us,” said the guard, pointing at Effie. “After all, she shot your best soldier with an arrow.”

“She shot Dempster? Where is he?” asked Lord Ralston, looking around.

“He came back early since he was wounded,” said the guard. “Didn’t he arrive yet?”

“You idiot, he’s probably dead.” Lord Ralston swiped his sword at the guard and managed to sever the man’s finger. The soldier cried out and fell to his knees.

“She made fools out of us,” shouted another guard, pointing to Effie. And then they all started shouting and moving toward her. Effie backed up toward the wall of the castle and held out her hands, wishing she had a weapon. But the guards had seen to it that all the weapons were kept far away from her.

“I’ll fight te the deith,” she shouted. “Do whatever ye want, but I swear I’ll take down whoever comes fer me.”

“Kill her,” said Lord Ralston with a wave of his hand. “Kill her sister as well. I don’t want to see any MacDuffs in my sight ever again.”

One of his guards pulled his sword from his scabbard and walked forward. Effie felt her heart beating furiously and wished she had at least thought to try to at least steal back her bow and arrows from the cart before she’d hopped off. Her sister cried in the cage above her head, and all Effie could think of was what would her grandmother have done in this situation? Then an idea came to her, and she called out to Lord Ralston.

“Stop! Ye dinna want te kill me. Becooz if ye do, ye’ll ne’er find the Stone o’ Destiny. But if ye set me sister free, I’ll tell ye where it is.”

The guard looked over at Lord Ralston who was walking away, but stopped in his tracks when he heard what she said. His head raised and he turned around toward her.

Then he walked back to her slowly, and with a wave of his hand, dismissed his guard.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said, then looked at her and smiled maliciously. “So you are saying that although we had a deal, you didn’t trust me?”

“I – I never said thet.”

“So, if you trusted that I’d set your sister free, then where is the stone?” he growled.

“I dinna think she kens where it is,” Tasgall interrupted.

“Aye, I do,” she said, still holding her hands in front of her.

“Let’s find out the truth, shall we?” Lord Ralston motioned to one of his guards. “Get the girl out of the cage and bring her to me.”

Effie was happy he was taking her sister from the cage. She figured she would make up a place where the stone was, and it would buy her some time until she could think of a plan.

The guard lowered the cage with the ropes and pulley, and took a key from his waist and unlocked her sister’s cage. Then he reached inside and pulled her out roughly, throwing her on the ground at Lord Ralston’s feet.

“Now, let’s find out where the stone is.” Lord Ralston grabbed Coira by the hair and shoved the sharp edge of his sword under her chin. Coira’s eyes closed and she whimpered.

“Nay, dinna hurt her!” Effie took a step forward, but stopped when Lord Ralston scraped her sister’s skin and blood trickled down her neck.

“So, tell me where the stone is, and my guards will go get it. But if you lie, then both of you will die.”

“It’s . . . it’s . . ” she was trying to decide just what to say, when a low voice from the top of the battlements called out.

“She disna ken, becooz I was the one te steal it.” Aidan stood atop the battlements with his hands on his hips. A ray of sun broke through the clouds just then, illuminating the area around him, making him look like Effie’s guardian angel.

“Aidan,” she said softly, knowing that what he was doing was mad. There was no way he could take on an entire English army, and though she was happy he’d returned to help her, he was going to get killed in the process.

“If ye want te ken where it is, ye’re goin’ te have to catch me te find out.”

“Get him!” shouted Lord Ralston, letting loose of Coira, and walking toward the battlements. “Bring the bloody Scot to me anon.”

A chase broke out, the guards running in a frenzy toward the battlements, and for the moment forgetting about their prisoners. Effie saw Aidan’s head disappear behind the tall merlon of the wall as the guards shouted and rushed up the steps. Lord Ralston was making his way over there as well, and she knew Aidan was doing this to distract them so she and her sister could escape.

“Get up,” she told her sister, pulling her to her feet.

“Who is thet, Effie?” asked Coira, shading her eyes and looking upward.

“No time te explain,” she said, dragging Coira across the courtyard, and toward one of the guard’s horses. “Can ye ride?” she asked.

Her sister stumbled and Effie caught her. She could see how weak she was, and knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

“I can barely stand,” cried Coira. “Save yerself, Effie, dinna worry aboot me.”

“Nay. I’ll ne’er leave ye, now put yer foot in me hand and get atop this horse and make it quick.”

Aidan looked down from the battlements, seeing Effie and a girl that he guessed to be her sister getting atop a horse. So she hadn’t lied to him about that part after all.

He had followed the wagon for the last two days, and hid the stone where nobody would ever find it. He decided he couldn’t leave Effie with those English curs after all, even if she had betrayed him. He’d watched at night to make sure the guards didn’t accost her, and all the while he’d followed in the shadows, struggling with what to do. Before he knew it, they were at the castle. There was no way Effie would be allowed to just walk away with her sister, even if she had delivered the real stone to them. No English lord who was deceitful enough to steal the stone in the first place would keep any promises he’d made to a Scottish lassie, whether she was betraying her country or not.

He was glad Effie figured out what he was doing by distracting them. Now he just needed to make sure the English didn’t look away from him until the girls were out of there and riding to safety.

An arrow whizzed past his ear and he stepped to the side, watching it bounce off the stone wall just behind him. “Is thet the best ye can do?” he called out, hopping over the wall of the battlements just as the guards rushed him.

He gripped on to a banner hanging down the side of the castle, and used it to slide to the ground. Once there, he picked up a torch stuck into the wall, and spying a small fire in the courtyard, he rushed over and dipped it in. Then, looking around, he spotted a wagon full of hay and threw it in, catching it afire to cause a bigger distraction.

Once the fire took the attention of everyone and they rushed around trying to put it out, he knew the girls must have had enough time to make it out the gate. He’d left the horse he’d pilfered from the guard hidden just outside the castle in the woods, and he would just sneak away now and join Effie and her sister.

He turned to go, and was met by the end of Lord Ralston’s sword.

“Going so soon?” he asked. “I think there’s something you need to tell me first.”

Aidan swiped the man’s sword away with his bare hand, getting cut in the process, and grabbed his own sword from his weaponbelt quickly. His sword clashed with Lord Ralston’s as they fought each other, and then to his dismay, a dozen guards rushed up with weapons drawn and he knew there was no way he was going to escape.

“Drop the sword, Highlander,” said Lord Ralston, “and mayhap I won’t kill the girls.” Aidan’s eyes shot upward to meet Lord Ralston’s, and the man lifted his mouth in a half smile. “Aye, I knew what you were doing the moment I saw you atop the battlements. Did you really think you’d get away with this?”

Then two guards pulled Effie and Coira forward, and Aidan’s heart dropped in his chest to think they hadn’t been able to escape after all. He didn’t want the girls’ lives endangered, and so he threw his sword to the ground.

“Aidan, I’m sorry,” said Effie.

“Nay, it’s me fault,” said her sister. “If I wasn’t so weak and frail I’d have moved faster and we’d have gotten away.”

“Effie, I’m sorry I that didna believe ye aboot yer sister,” Aidan told her.

“Enough with all the sentimental rubbish,” snapped Lord Ralston. “Now put them all in cages until we can put out this fire and get things back in order. Mayhap after hanging there like carrion in the sun, the Scot will tell us what we want to know.”

“I dinna care what ye do te me,” said Aidan, “I will ne’er tell ye where I hid the stone.”

“You know, I changed my mind. A cage is too good for you. Put him in the stocks instead,” he commanded his men. “Then, come morning, you will be in a wonderful position for watching as I take the lives of one girl and then another, until you decide to tell me the location of the Stone of Destiny.”

Aidan was grabbed on all sides by several guards as they pushed him forward toward the stocks, holding his arms behind him. He stopped when he got to Effie, and could see the tears streaming down her face. They just looked at each other and he knew he might never have the chance to hold her in his arms again. She hadn’t believed that he loved her, and though he knew he had often said it in the throes of passion, this time was different. This time he knew it was love. If it wasn’t, he never would have followed and be willing to lose his life to save Effie – his dream angel.

AIDAN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Looking down from her hanging cage, Effie’s heart about broke seeing Aidan bent over and locked into the wooden stocks. His hands through two holes, and his head through another, he couldn’t move. After awhile, it would be hard to stand in that position as well.

It was night now, and some of the English soldiers had been drinking, when one of them came by and threw his tankard of ale in Aidan’s face. She saw Aidan flinch and close his eyes and grit his teeth, but he didn’t say a word. From her position in the cage she could see a muscle in his jaw twitching in anger.

“What’s the matter, are ye still thirsty?” laughed the guard, slapping Aidan across the face. Once again, he stayed silent, but Effie knew if she didn’t intervene, something bad was going to happen.

“Excuse me,” she called down to the guard. “Can ye go inside and find me and me sister a scrap te eat?”

“You don’t deserve anything for what you did.” The guard was going to torment Aidan again, so she stood in the cage and hiked up her skirt, knowing full well the man would be able to see underneath.

“Are ye sure ye couldna find me a little . . . somethin’?” she asked. It worked. The drunken guard stumbled over to her and stood just under the cage, staring upward, his eyes fastened on her legs. “I’d be e’er so grateful te ye once I get outta this cage, if ye ken what I mean,” she said in a husky voice.

“Aye,” he said smiling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’ll get you something, now just stay right there and wait.” Then he started laughing at his own jest and hurried off into the keep.

She quickly scanned the grounds below, not seeing any other guards at the moment. There were a couple atop the battlements, but by the way they were laughing and out of sight, she figured they were well in their cups and probably playing cards or dice.

“Coira,” she said in a low voice, “are ye all right?”

“Oh, Effie, I dinna ken if I will live another day. I am weak and hungry and I think I am fallin’ fast te a fever.”

“Dinna worry. I’m sure Aidan has a plan.”

“Is he the Scot in the stocks?” she asked.

“He is,” said Effie. “He is a wonderful man. And I willna let him die trying te help us.”

Aidan heard every word Effie was saying to her sister. He licked his lips, trying to get the last drop of ale that slithered down his face after the guard threw it at him. Parched and hungry, his skin felt burnt from the hot sun earlier that day. His legs were cramped from standing in this position, and to make matters worse, his nose itched and he couldn’t reach it.

“Effie?” he called up to her in a soft voice. “I’m sorry aboot all this.”

“Nay, it is me fault, Aidan. I only wish I could change it all and be back in yer arms at the MacKeefe camp right now.”

“Ye do?” he asked.

“Aye,” she said. “I miss ye, Aidan. I miss yer friends and yer sister and even thet pesky little squirrel o’ yers, too.”

“He has a squirrel?” asked Coira.

“Aye, and his friend, Onyx, has a wildcat,” Effie told her. “If we ever get outta here, I’ll tell ye all aboot it and ye can meet them all.”

“Effie, we are goin’ te die, arena we?” cried her sister.

He looked up to see Effie reaching out of the cage and trying to touch her sister. Their fingers almost reached, but just fell short.

“Dinna talk thet way, sister. We’ll survive. Somehow.”

Aidan could see the love between the two girls, and also that Coira was not faring well from being in the cage in the elements for days now. He thought it was ironic how Isabel MacDuff was put in a cage for helping Scotland, and now her granddaughters were in cages as well, but for helping the English this time instead.

He kept thinking of his dream with Effie and the English soldiers, and how she’d had a tail. He should have realized right then and there that she was trouble. But if he had realized it, then he wouldn’t have gotten to spend time with her. He still didn’t trust her any further than he could throw her, but he knew that she and her sister didn’t deserve to die for what they’d done. It did seem now that Effie was only trying to steal the stone to save her sister.

Coira started crying again, and Effie tried to calm her. Aidan decided he’d had enough of this, and knew it was time to do something about the situation.

“God’s eyes, Effie, keep her quiet or the guards will be breathin’ down our necks again.”

“Dinna be so insensitive at a time like this,” she snapped. “Ye have no idea what me sister’s been through.”

Aidan looked around and when he knew no guards were watching, he shimmied around in the stocks, twisting and bringing his foot up to his hands. He had his dirk hidden in his boot and the fool guards hadn’t thought to check him for it.

“What’re ye doin’?” asked Effie.

“Haud yer wheesht, before they hear ye. I’m workin’ on getting’ us out o’ here.”

His fingers stretched toward his raised foot, and he could just reach it, but not the dirk inside. So he put his leg back behind him and raised it up high backwards so the dirk would slip to the top of his boot. Then he tried once again and was able to just reach it, pulling it from his boot and holding it in his fingers.

The lock to the stocks was just next to his hand, and with nimble fingers, he picked it, and it snapped open. Then he used the tip of the dagger to open it and flip it away, and it landed with a thunk on the hard ground. By using his shoulders and hands, he pushed against the wooden yoke, and it opened as well. He slipped out of the stocks quickly, and made his way over to Effie and her sister.

“Ye did it,” said Effie. “I canna believe what I jest saw ye do.”

“There’s many things I can do thet ye’ve no’ seen yet, lassie, and some o’ them I think ye would really enjoy.”

“Aidan, no’ now,” she said, scowling at him and nodding toward her sister, not wanting to talk about coupling in front of her.

“Hold on, I’m going te lower the cage,” he said, getting ready to turn the pulley that held the chains securing the cages.

“Nay,” she warned him. “’Tis too loud and they will hear it. Pass up yer dirk and I’ll see if I can open the lock.”

He handed it up to her, just able to reach her. She took it and struggled with it in the lock, but couldn’t open it. Aidan knew this was taking way too long, and that they’d be discovered soon. He looked around quickly, checking for guards.

“Stand back, Effie,” he said, and leaped up into the air and grabbed onto the cage from underneath.

Effie was surprised when Aidan just jumped up and caught on to the cage. He grabbed a hold of the bars and pulled himself up to the outside of her prison.

“Hand me the dirk,” he said, sticking his hand through the cage. She did as he told her, and he picked the lock and had the door open in a second.

“Give me yer hand, Effie.”

With one arm he held onto the cage, and with the other he grabbed onto her and slowly lowered her toward the ground. “I’m goin’ te drop ye, so be careful.”

“I will,” she told him, hitting the dirt softly, looking around the courtyard, making sure nobody saw them. “Coira, get ready, ye are next,” she said in a hushed voice to her sister.

“I’m ready,” her sister answered bravely.

Then, Aidan used his legs to swing the cage he was on over to Coira. He grabbed her cage and repeated the process. When her sister hit the ground, Effie ran over to her and gathered her in her arms and hugged her.

Coira hugged her as well, and hid her face in Effie’s shoulder, crying softly.

With a soundless entrance, Aidan dropped to the ground next to them, and put an arm around them and hurried them across the courtyard toward the orchard inside the bailey. “Come on,” he said, “I ken a way out.”

Effie helped her sister as they ran quickly to the orchard and through it, and to the back wall.

“How are we escapin’?” she whispered to him.

“O’er the wall,” he whispered back. “There are vines we can climb. When ye get te the top, drop inte the moat and swim across and make yer way te the woods. I’ve got a horse hidden there. It’s only one, but ye two take it and I’ll follow on foot.”

“Swim?” asked Coira. “Effie, ye ken I canna swim. I’ll drown.”

“Thet’s right,” she said. “Aidan, is there another way out?”

“God’s eyes, ye canna be choosey at a time like this. Now if ye want te live, ye’ll learn te swim. Up ye go.”

Before her sister could object, Aidan hoisted her up to the vine covered wall. Effie hurried behind her and climbed up as well.

“Ye need te move faster,” said Aidan. “It willna be long afore they realize we are gone.”

She’d left Aidan down at the bottom of the wall, but before she knew it, he’d climbed so fast, he was at the top of the wall and holding out his hand to help them.

“Give me yer hand, lassie,” Aidan said to Coira, and when she started to object, he just reached down and pulled her up.

“I’m afeard,” said Coira, looking over the wall. Before Effie knew what happened, she heard her sister gasp, and then a splash.

“Where’s Coira?” asked Effie, pulling herself up to the top of the wall.

“In the water.”

“She jumped?” asked Effie, surprised.

“Let’s jest say she had a little help,” Aidan answered with a slight smile.

Effie looked down to see her sister struggling in the water, being pulled under. She jumped off the wall to save her.

She had just hit the water when she heard a shout from a guard, and looked up to see Aidan in the moonlight, falling backwards off the wall with arrows flying all around him. He hit the water with a loud splash, and she saw him go under, but he wasn’t coming back up.

She got her sister to the shore and looked back, but still didn’t see Aidan.

“Come on,” said Coira, “let’s go.”

“Nay,” said Effie. “I need te go back and help Aidan.”

“But they’ll catch us,” said Coira, as the sound of the guards shouting was louder and she could hear the drawbridge being lowered. They would be out there looking for them at any minute.

“Go, Coira. Run te the woods and take the horse. Dinna wait fer us, jest get yerself te safety. I’ll try te stall the guards so ye can get away.”

“I’m no’ goin’ without ye, Effie.”

“Then we’ll die together, Coira. God’s eyes, dinna be so afeard and do as I say already. Take the horse and ride east along the Scottish border toward Northumberland. I heard Aidan’s friends say they were goin’ te stop at the MacKeefe’s other dwelling, Hermitage Castle. Ye’ll be safe with them.”

“But I dinna ken where it is.”

“Jest stay on our side o’ the border and head east and ye should be safe. Ask any Scot ye see, and they’ll tell ye where te find Hermitage Castle. Get yerself there te safety, and ask fer Ian and Onyx. They are Aidan’s friends and they will help ye. Now go!” She pushed her sister, and with one last fearful look backwards, Coira then turned and ran toward the woods.

Effie prayed she’d make it to safety. She turned and headed back to the moat, and dove in where she’d seen Aidan fall. She swam through the wretched water that was dirtied from garbage and dead things she couldn’t identify, and then she saw his plaid floating atop the water. When she made her way to him, he was face down. Grabbing him and turning him over, the wound in his shoulder was evident. Looking closer, she realized the arrow had passed right through him. He also had a gash on his head from hitting a rock when he fell.

“Och, Aidan, please dinna be deid,” she said, pulling his body to the shore. She was out of breath by the time she dragged him out of the water, and could see the guards heading quickly toward them. His eyes were closed and she didn’t even know if he was alive. With no idea how to help him, she felt like she was too late.

She couldn’t live without him. She needed him and wanted him and never should have deceived him in the first place, and none of this would have ever happened.

“Nay, ye canna die,” she cried, throwing herself atop his chest. Then she reached out and touched his lips with hers for one last kiss.

AIDAN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aidan was having that dream again. The dream about Effie, his angel. This time she was kissing him, and she had tears in her eyes. And when she pulled away and turned around he saw the English guards again, but this time something was different. Aye, he now realized what it was. Now, she didn’t have a tail.

“Aidan, get up, we have to go,” he heard her cry out. Although he felt as if he wanted to just lie there and sleep and not move at all, he heard the terror in her voice, and it caused his eyes to open.

“Effie?”

She turned back, looking down at him, and a smile lit up her face. “Ye’re alive!” she said, reaching over and hugging him. He wrapped his arms around her, and it felt good. So damned good that he never wanted to let her go. Then his blissful moment was cut short as he heard the wretched voice of Lord Ralston.

“Well, you won’t be alive for long if I have anything to do with it.”

Aidan looked up to see Lord Ralston and his guards surrounding them with their swords drawn.

They pulled Effie off of him, dragging her to her feet. Aidan reached out for her, but it was too late, they had her. Wincing in pain from the arrow that had gone straight through his shoulder, he was bleeding profusely and already felt light-headed.

The guards pulled him to a standing position, and he felt like he weighed twice as much with his wet woolen plaid weighing him down. He knew now that even if they did manage to escape again, they’d never be able to outrun them with him in this condition.

“We can’t find the other one,” said one of the guards.

“Dinna worry aboot her,” said Tasgall, coming to join them. “She is weak and with fever and will be deid by mornin’. Let’s go for the stone and get it back before the king’s arrival.”

“Lord Ralston?” asked the guard. “Should we split our forces and half of us go after the girl?”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “We’ll have the stone before she can tell anyone a thing. Go get the wagon and a dozen soldiers, as the Highlander is going to take us to the stone right now.”

“I willna,” Aidan said, then heard the cry of Effie. He turned to see a guard holding his dagger to her throat.

“If the Scot refuses once more,” said Lord Ralston, “slit the girl’s throat.”

“Nay!” Aidan cried out, not wanting anything to happen to Effie. “I’ll bring ye te the stone, jest dinna hurt her.”

“Tie them both up and put them in the wagon,” said Lord Ralston. “And bind up the Scot’s wound as I don’t want him leaving a bloody trail for anyone who may come looking for him. Be sure this time to check the Scot for any hidden weapons, as I’ll not have him escaping again.”

The guards tied Aidan’s and Effie’s hands behind them, and Aidan’s wound was wrapped haphazardly by a soldier. Then they started pushing them roughly toward the castle.

“Leave her here,” said Aidan. “She disna ken where I hid the stone. She is innocent.”

“Hah!” spat Lord Ralston. “She is far from innocent, I assure you. After all, she was the one who led us directly to you and the stone in the first place. I can’t trust that you won’t try to escape, so we’re taking her along for assurance. You lead us to the wrong place, or try to fight us or get free, and your little lassie there will be dead before you know it.”

“Nay, dinna harm her. I’ll take ye te the stone,” Aidan told him. “I’ll do whate’er ye want, just dinna do anythin’ te hurt Effie.”

* * *

Effie sat in the back of the cart as it jolted over the rough road, heading in the direction that Aidan had told them to go. Both of them had their hands and feet tied, and Aidan lie in the wagon with his eyes closed. She could see him wince in pain every time the wagon hit a bump or rock in the road.

She scooted over to him, using her knee to try to get Aidan’s head on her lap. “Put yer head on me lap, Aidan, and it willna hurt as much when we hit a bump.”

His eyes opened slowly and he looked at her. She couldn’t read his thoughts, but by his expression, she could see that although he just divulged information to get to the hidden stone to save her life, he still hadn’t forgiven her. She needed to do something to regain his trust and also to help not only save his life, but save the stone from getting into the hands of the English.

“Please, Aidan. I want te help ye.”

“Then why didna ye jest stay away from me te begin with? Thet woulda been the most help ye coulda given me.”

She managed to get him to lift his head slightly, and she quickly slipped her legs under him, cradling his head.

“I’m sorry I wasna honest with ye from the start,” she said. “I was scared for me sister’s life and I wasna thinkin’ clearly.”

“Thet’s fer sure,” he said, letting out a breath and closing his eyes again. “And I wasna thinkin’ clearly either, or I ne’er woulda told ye aboot the stone and brought ye back te the MacKeefe camp in the first place.”

“I’m glad ye did,” she said, feeling the tears in her eyes. “Ye have shown me a kindness and made me feel special. Nobody has e’er done thet fer me. I will cherish fore’er the time we’ve spent together.” She reached down and pressed a kiss against his forehead and realized his head was very hot and that a fever was starting to set in. If she didn’t think of something soon to help him, he would be dead.

“Sleep now, and save yer strength,” she told him, wondering what she could possibly do.

* * *

Aidan awoke with a jolt as he was pulled by his feet from the wagon and thrown onto the ground. His body hit the hard earth and he barely managed to keep his head from hitting against a rock as well.

“Arrrrgh,” he cried out, feeling the wound on his shoulder opening even wider.

“Leave him alone!” Effie struggled to get out of the wagon, but couldn’t, with her feet tied together.

“Set up camp for the night,” Lord Ralston ordered his men. “In the meantime, I’m going to get the Scot to tell us exactly where he hid the stone.” He pulled out his dagger and went over to Effie. He cut the ropes binding her feet, then dragged her over to Aidan and threw her down on the ground next to him. “This better not be a wild chase you’re leading us on, or you’ll be sorry.” He held the dagger to Effie’s throat once again. “Now tell me where the stone is, and I want to know exactly.”

Aidan saw the fear in Effie’s eyes, and although he wanted to lie and tell them it was somewhere back in the Highlands, he knew he needed to tell the truth. He felt the fever overtaking him. With his wound getting worse, he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d live. If they actually had the stone, they might spare Effie’s life.

If he’d not been wounded, they might have half a chance to escape. But with the shape he was in, he knew he’d never be able to fight all the Englishmen and survive.

“Jest let her go, and I’ll tell ye e’erythin’ ye want te ken,” he said, trying to make a deal.

“You’re in no position for bargaining, MacKeefe. Now tell us, or I’ll start by severing one of her fingers, and don’t think for a moment that I won’t.” He grabbed her hand and held it out, and Effie struggled against him.

“Dinna tell him, Aidan. Protect the stone, dinna worry aboot me,” she said bravely.

“If ye hurt or kill her, then I’ll ne’er tell ye,” said Aidan.

“Then you can just watch as I kill her a little at a time.” He traced the edge of his blade in Effie’s palm, drawing blood. She screamed out, and it was more than Aidan could watch.

“All right,” he said. “Jest leave her alone and I’ll tell ye.”

“I’m waiting, MacKeefe,” he ground out, holding out Effie’s hand to make sure that Aidan saw the blood.

Aidan hated himself for doing this, but he had to tell them the truth in order to have any chance of Effie surviving. “It’s buried at the crook where the River Annan and the Evan Waters meet,” he said, already feeling his betrayal to Scotland like a heavy weight on his shoulders.

“Good,” said Lord Ralston, letting go of Effie’s hand. She pulled it away from him quickly, holding it against her clothes.

“That’s halfway to Glasgow,” said one of the guards.

“At least it’s not halfway to the Highlands,” Lord Ralston answered back.

“Shall we kill them now?” asked the guard. “After all, we know the location so we no longer need them.”

“Nay.” Lord Ralston wiped the blood from his dagger on his tunic and replaced it in his weaponbelt. “I need them alive for leverage in case we meet any Scots along the way. Besides, I’m not exactly sure the Highlander is telling the truth. But if we get there and don’t find the stone, I will kill the girl, I swear. Now untie the girl’s hands so she can take care of the Highlander’s wounds. I won’t have him dying on me before I have the stone in my possession. Watch her, as I won’t have her doing anything to help him escape.”

“Aye,” said the guard, cutting the ropes around Effie’s wrists. She dove to the ground and cradled Aidan’s head in her arms.

“Aidan, ye didna really tell them where ye hid the stone, did ye?” she said softly so only he could hear.

“I had to. I didna have a choice, lassie,” he said, feeling like the biggest failure and also the biggest traitor Scotland ever had. “I did it so they wouldna hurt ye. But if they take the stone back te England, I swear I will kill meself rather than te live with what I’ve jest done te Scotland. I willna live as a traitor te me country. No’ e’er.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Effie had cleaned and rewrapped Aidan’s wound, and even convinced the guards to untie his feet and tie his hands in front of him, so it wouldn’t pull so badly on his shoulder. She could see he needed stitching, and she was afraid he’d lost so much blood that he would soon be unconscious. She’d bathed his forehead and chest all night long, hoping the fever would break. He’d had ale to sip on, but she wished it was mountain magic for his pain. Still, he looked no better.

It was morning when Aidan’s eyes flickered open, and Effie bent over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Effie, me angel,” he whispered, and his voice was so soft that she could barely hear him. “I will ne’er ferget ye.”

“Ye sound as if ye’re sayin’ guidbye,” she said.

“I am. I’m goin’ te try te catch them off-guard and kill them all, afore they find the stone.”

“Ye are mad,” she whispered back. “Ye canna do it, ye can barely talk let alone stand.” She felt his forehead, but he still had a fever. His wound looked bad, and she feared for his life. “Ye will be killed, Aidan, please dinna do it.”

“I would die fer me country, sweetheart. Thet’s somethin’ ye need te remember. Now ye need te escape afore anythin’ happens te ye. I’m goin’ te tell ye exactly where the stone is, in case I dinna make it to the river. When they go te look fer the stone, ye need te make yer move. Ye canna stay with these English bastards, becooz they will kill ye.”

“I willna leave without ye, Aidan.”

“Then ye will die at me side,” he said. “Now listen closely. The stone is in the water right at the base of a large Rowan tree. Try to sneak me a dagger and some weapons. I’m goin’ te need them te fight off these bastards.”

“What are you talking about?” A guard pulled Effie to her feet.

“Nothin,” she said quickly.

“Get up and get back to the wagon. As soon as everyone awakes and we break the fast, we’re going for the stone. With any luck, we’ll make it there by sundown.”

Effie knew now she needed to get away from here and do something to try to help Aidan. If she could escape, she may have half a chance to find some Scots along the way who would be willing to help her. Mayhap they could also save Aidan from doing something that would end up taking his life.

But in order to escape, she knew she needed a horse. She spied the horses tied up down at the water’s edge, and figured this might be her only chance. Daylight was just starting to break, and most the guards were still sleeping around the fire. And Lord Ralston was out of view, inside his tent. She knew this was risky, but she had to try. If she were going to do anything to help Aidan, it would have to be right now. She looked back to him lying on the ground, and wanted to tell him what she planned to do, but couldn’t. His eyes were closed again, and she couldn’t even give him a signal.

“I need to go wash the blood off of me in the creek from tending his wound,” she told the guard.

“Fine,” he said, “but I’m coming with you.”

She looked back one more time to make sure no one was watching, and headed toward the creek with the guard dragging her by the shoulder of her clothes. He held his sword in the other hand as a reminder to her not to try anything. Once there, he pushed her down to her knees and she pretended to be cleaning herself in the water.

The guard went to a tree, turning his back on her to piss, and she looked up, spotting his sword leaning against a rock behind him. She quickly got to her feet and walked quietly to get it. Then she picked up the sword in two hands and lifted it above her head and rushed toward him. He turned just as she plunged the sword downward, and it embedded itself into his chest. His wide eyes looked up to her in surprise and he fell backwards onto the ground – dead.

Effie’s whole body shook at what she’d just done. She’d killed a man, and now she knew she had to escape or they’d kill her in return. She placed her foot on the man’s chest and pulled the blade from his body and threw it to the ground. Then she took hold of his feet and dragged him into the water. The flow of the stream took his body, sending him floating away. Mayhap she’d be able to get away with this after all.

But all hopes were dashed when she turned around and bumped directly into Tasgall.

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Tasgall!” She felt her world crashing down around her.

“What were ye thinkin’, lass?”

“I . . . I had no choice. He tried to attack me.”

“I saw the whole thing. His back was turned te ye. Ye killed him in cold blood.”

“And I’d do it again,” she retorted, rushing forward and picking up the sword from the ground, gripping it tightly in her hands. She raised it and pointed it at him. “I’ll kill ye next if ye try te stop me from leavin’, Tasgall, I swear I will.”

The man just looked at her and chuckled. “I’m sure ye would,” he said. “So much spirit in ye, jest like yer mathair.”

“Dinna try to stop me,” she said, untying a horse from a tree with one hand, keeping the sword pointed at him, the weight of it so heavy that the tip of it was lowering.

“I wouldna dream o’ it,” he said. “But mayhap ye should take a weapon ye can handle instead. There is a bow and arrows tied on the horse ye are stealin’, as I jest readied it meself. Take thet instead.”

“What kind o’ trick is this?” she asked him. “I ken ye are up te somethin’.”

“I was goin’ te make an escape meself this mornin’, but ye beat me to it.”

“Thet makes no sense. Ye are one o’ them.”

“Effie, I admit I did what I had to in order te survive when the English attacked our camp. I made the mistake o’ befriendin’ some o’ them and I accidentally told them aboot ye being one o’ the original MacDuffs, and all aboot yer mathair and grandmathair.”

“Ye bastard! ’Tis yer fault then that the whole gypsy clan is deid and also thet the English are aboot te steal the Stone o’ Destiny.”

“Nay, the fact they found the stone is yer fault, lassie, tho I dinna feel guid aboot what I did either.”

“Thet’s no’ true. Ye were helpin’ them all along.”

“If ye didna notice, I was also helpin’ ye and Coira. If it wasna fer me interferrin’, ye’d both be defiled, and yer precious Highlander as well as the Scottish lassie I saw at the camp would be deid.”

She thought about this. He had seemed to step in more than once and sway the English from doing exactly what he just said. He’d told them not to waste time killing Aidan, nor did he say a word about seeing Kyla. Still, she didn’t trust him.

“If ye werena helpin’ the English then ye woulda done somethin’ te help me and Aidan escape by now. Instead, ye were only tryin’ te save yer own neck.”

“I admit, I was tempted te be on their side, Effie. It was the Comyn bluid in me thet swayed me te temptation. But I ne’er wanted it te come te this, I swear.”

“Then do somethin’ te try te change the outcome instead o’ bein’ such a coward. Think o’ someone else besides yerself fer a change.”

“Like ye’re doin’?” he asked. “I see ye tryin’ te save yer own neck as well.”

“I’m tryin’ te save Aidan’s life and also the stone from gettin’ inte the hands o’ the English. Now if ye truly did have a change o’ heart, then ye’ll help me escape and find help.”

“Ye’re right,” he said. “I’ve been a coward me whole life, and now thet I see how brave ye are, I feel even worse.”

“Then stop all the clishmaclaver, and get on a horse and come with me.”

“Nay,” he said with a shake of his head and she thought he was going to turn her over to the English after all. “I canna do thet. I am goin’ te stay here and do what I can te help Aidan as well as te help save the Stone o’ Destiny. Ye go on and ride fer help. I’m goin’ te pretend I am still on their side until I think o’ somethin’ that’ll fix all this. I’ll try te stall fer time and I’ll think up an excuse why they shouldna go after ye. Now hurry, and get goin’ afore they see ye.”

“Ye may want te try te sneak this sword te Aidan,” she said, handing it to him and getting atop the horse. “After all, he is so mad he plans on tryin’ te kill off all the soldiers, even with a wounded shoulder and with hands thet are tied together.”

“Ye two are in love, arena ye?”

“I do love him, Tasgall, though unless I redeem meself in his eyes, he’ll ne’er see me as anythin’ but a traitor.”

“I once loved yer mathair, Effie, though she ne’er even kent it. I was too much a coward te e’er tell her how I felt aboot her.”

“So thet’s what’s behind yer change o’ heart,” she said.

“Aye,” he said with a slight nod, “I suppose so. I’ve made a lot o’ mistakes in me life, and afore I leave this world, I need te do at least one guid thing. And I want thet te be savin’ the love between ye and Aidan.”

He looked up quickly, and she thought she heard movement from the camp as well. “Go, quickly,” he told her, “and dinna look back, lass. Find help as soon as ye can, or all o’ this will soon be fer nothin’.”

She nodded to him and then took off through the forest atop the horse, knowing now that what Tasgall had done had been no worse than her own actions. If Tasgall could change, then so could she. She would not let the MacDuff name go down in history as being traitorous after all. And she would do whatever it took to redeem herself in Aidan’s eyes, because if not, she would be losing forever the only man she’d ever loved.

Aidan looked up to see Effie riding away on a horse, and felt relieved that she’d heeded his warning and was escaping. It was a weight off his shoulders that he wouldn’t have to worry about her being killed now when he attacked the soldiers. He knew what he had to do. If they didn’t go after her and catch her, then he knew she’d be safe and he could continue with his plan to save the stone.

His heart was saddened by the fact he’d never see her again, as he was sure he was going to die trying to keep the English from getting their hands on the Stone of Destiny. But he was the guardian and he’d failed in his duties. He would try one last time to right a wrong, and would go to his death trying to keep one of Scotland’s biggest secrets.

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Effie rode like the wind, looking over her shoulder once more. The English guards had been following her for the last hour, but she’d veered off the trail and stuck to the creek, making her way towards Hermitage Castle. It wasn’t far and if she could make it there quickly, she might have half a chance of helping Aidan.

Then, after traveling for another hour or so and not seeing the soldiers following her anymore, she decided to stop and cool off and water her horse.

She had just bent down and splashed water on her face when she heard a noise of an animal from the thicket behind her. Her horse reared up, scared, and she jumped up to grab its reins, but it took off in the opposite direction.

“God’s teeth, I dinna have time fer this,” she said aloud, and turned to go after the horse, but stopped dead in her tracks when she was met head on by a Scottish wildcat. She froze, her heart skipping a beat, as the animal put its head lower and moved toward her. She wished now that she’d removed the bow and arrows from the horse. At least then, she’d be able to kill this animal before it attacked her. It might be small, but it was hissing and showing some very sharp teeth.

She stepped backwards slowly, meaning to run, and that’s when she heard a voice call out.

“Tawpie, get yer doup o’er here,” came a voice she recognized as Onyx’s. Then, through the thicket she saw Aidan’s friends, Onyx and Ian, riding their horses toward her.

“Effie?” called out Ian, jumping from his horse and running to her. She looked over her shoulder at the wildcat once more, and then ran to him, burying herself in his arms. She couldn’t hold back the tears, and started crying.

“Dinna fret aboot the cat,” said Ian. “Thet’s Dagger’s pet, Tawpie. She willna harm ye.”

“I am so glad te see ye two,” she said. “And I’m no’ cryin’ aboot the wildcat, me tears are fer Aidan.”

“He’s no’ with ye?” asked Ian, looking around.

“Nay. We were captured by the English and Coira escaped, but Aidan was hurt and we were taken as prisoners,” she blurted out.

“Take it easy, lassie,” said Onyx, dismounting his horse. “We ken thet ye were taken prisoner and thet ye were tryin’ te steal the stone te save yer sister. Coira made it to Hermitage Castle and told us all thet.”

“Thank God. Then she is all right?”

“She’s fine,” said Ian, still holding her in his embrace. “Lady Clarista is takin’ guid care o’ her, so dinna worry.”

“Thet’s right,” agreed Onyx. “And we came lookin’ fer ye as soon as we heard. But tell me, where is Aidan? I thought he’d o’ saved ye and helped ye escape by now.”

The wildcat stretched lazily and then went down to the water to drink.

“Nay, I am here alone as he was wounded and tied up and couldna escape. Besides, he wouldna go, as he told me he is goin’ te fight to the deith te keep the English from getting’ the stone.”

“Ian and I arena worried thet they’ll find it,” said Onyx. “After all, we ken Aidan isna daft enough te actually tell them where he really hid it.”

“Actually . . .  he did,” she said with a downward glance, stepping out of Ian’s embrace. “But he only did it te save me life, as they threatened te kill me.”

“Thet dunderheid,” said Ian. “What was he thinkin’?” Then Onyx cleared his throat and Ian looked back to her and said, “I mean, I’m sure . . . he did what he had te do, lassie.”

“Aye,” said Onyx. “I’m sure he did. And Madoc sent a homing pigeon te the Highlands telling the MacKeefes what happened, so as soon as they get the message I’m sure the rest o’ the clan will be on their way te help.”

“We canna wait fer them,” she said. “Aidan will be deid by then. We need te go help him right now afore he gets himself killed.”

“Calm down, Effie,” said Ian, putting his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll take care o’ it.”

“Did someone lose a horse?”

Effie turned to see Madoc, Wren’s brother, riding up with the horse’s reins in his hand from the horse Effie had lost.

“Madoc,” she said, running to greet him. “Thank the heavens ye found me horse.”

“Your horse?” He handed her the reins. “I’m English, sweetheart, and I can tell by the trappings that this horse belongs to an English guard.”

“It does,” she admitted. “I stole it from him right after I killed him, and used it to escape.”

“You killed a man?” he asked in astonishment.

“I did,” she admitted. “I’m no’ proud o’ it, but I’d do it again if I had te, if it meant savin’ the man I love.”

“The man ye love?” asked Ian with a chuckle. “Dinna tell me ye are as crazy aboot Aidan as he is aboot ye?”

“Do ye really think he feels thet way aboot me?” she asked.

“Well, if no’, then he’s makin’ a fool outta himself with what he’s doin’ lately,” said Onyx. “And I ken all aboot thet, as I was there meself no’ thet long ago.”

“Where is Aidan?” asked Madoc.

“He’s with the English, and they’re headin’ fer the place where the Evan Waters and the River Annan meet. Aidan told me he hid the stone in the water at the base o’ a giant Rowan tree.”

“Then let’s go get him.” Onyx mounted his horse.

“Wait,” she said with a raised hand. “First, I need te tell ye thet the Scottish gypsy, Tasgall is no’ te be killed. He was workin’ with the English, but he’s had a change o’ heart. Ye’ll ken him, as he’s the only other Scot there besides Aidan. He helped me escape.”

“He disna sound as if ye can trust him,” Ian pointed out.

“Well, it’s the chance we’ll have to take.”

“How many of them are there?” asked Madoc.

“Aboot a dozen guards, Lord Ralston and Tasgall.”

“Thet is no’ a problem,” said Onyx. “The three o’ us can take them down easily.”

“Thet’s four te one!” Effie exclaimed.

“Aye, but we’ll have Aidan there as well,” Ian reminded her.

“He’s badly wounded,” she reminded him. “Besides, Lord Ralston sends out scouts. Plus, when the guards who were following me return and tell him I escaped, they’ll be waitin’ fer us te come, I’m sure.”

“All right then,” said Ian. “We’ll take the scouts out first.”

“Ye dinna understand. Lord Ralston will be expectin’ us. They’ll be armed and ready, and will attack as soon as we ride inte camp. We need te catch them by surprise. If we can do thet, we’ll have a better chance o’ killin’ them as well as savin’ Aidan.”

“Then we’ll have to think of a way to get us closer and with the advantage, without them knowing we are there,” said Madoc. “And I think I know just the way we can do it.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Aidan was relieved when the guards came back saying they had lost Effie’s trail. Now that her life wasn’t in danger anymore, he knew he didn’t need to tell them the exact spot where he’d hidden the stone. He’d told them the truth that he’d hid it where the rivers met, but it would take them awhile to search for it in the water. He knew how difficult that would be now that it was getting dark, and that the English would probably wait til morning. Hopefully that would give him time to try to get the stone and move it while they slept.

He felt his fever getting worse, and knew his strength was weakening as well, but he had to try to do something before it was too late.

“Here’s the river where you said you hid the stone,” said one of the guards, as they arrived just after the sun went down.

“Tell us where it is,” said Lord Ralston, but Aidan just remained quiet. They had him tied up in the back of the wagon, and the ropes were biting into his flesh, adding to the pain in his shoulder. His body shuddered from cold, though he could see his flushed skin, as the fever was starting to consume him.

“Speak up!” said Lord Ralston, grabbing Aidan by the hair and pushing his own face close as he spoke. Aidan lifted his bound legs and kicked the man in the stomach, sending him to the ground.

“I will ne’er tell ye where the stone is, and I dinna care if ye kill me.”

“Don’t think I won’t,” said Lord Ralston, getting to his feet. He walked over and punched Aidan in the face, sending him backwards and falling flat in the wagon. “Once the sun rises, you’ll not only tell us where the stone is, but you’ll go and retrieve it for us yourself. If you refuse, then I’ll keep cutting off a part of your body until you tell us exactly where you hid it.”

Aidan pushed upward and spit in the man’s face, only getting himself another punch for his action, this time in his wounded shoulder. He cried out and clenched his teeth, wishing right now he were dead.

“Someone watch the man so he doesn’t escape. You’d better give him some water or ale. I don’t want him dead before he shows us exactly where he hid the stone.” Lord Ralston stormed away in anger.

Two guards came and pulled Aidan out of the wagon. Then they threw him down by a tree. He saw Tasgall watching him. The man had been acting a little odd ever since Effie escaped. Especially since Aidan saw him coming up from the stream as she rode away, but yet he’d told the English he didn’t see her at all.

Aidan wasn’t sure, but he hoped the man was going back to his roots after all. Because he could surely use an ally right about now.

* * *

Effie waited behind the tree until she saw the scouts heading out from camp. Then, as planned, she stepped out in front of them in the dark.

“Who goes there?” asked one of the guards. There were only two of them, and that was all they needed for their little plan to work.

“Dinna hurt me, please,” she cried out, trying to sound convincing. She could see Ian and Onyx sneaking up from behind them out of the corner of her eye.

“Hey, it’s the Scottish girl that escaped,” said one of the guards, getting off his horse.

“Grab her and let’s bring her back to Lord Ralston,” said the other.

“I dinna think that’s goin’ te happen,” said Onyx, stepping out of the shadows and stabbing his sword through the guard. Effie jumped aside as his dead body fell at her feet.

The other guard’s horse reared up, and when it did, Ian dropped down out of a tree and knocked him to the ground, killing him as well. They quickly pulled the dead guards off the main path, and Effie ran forward and collected their horses.

“Get those clothes off of them quickly before the blood soils them,” said Madoc, coming to join them. “We’ll have a hard time convincing them we’re all English if they see blood on us.”

Effie kept a lookout, with Onyx’s wildcat crouching in a tree watching from above her. Ian and Onyx pulled the clothes off the dead men, taking off their Highland attire, ready to put on their disguises. Being modest, Effie turned her head so as not to see their nakedness.

Her heart ached for Aidan and she wanted to be lying naked in his arms more than anything right now. “Hurry up,” she whispered. “Aidan’s life depends on it.”

“Och, this isna goin’ te work,” she heard Ian grumble, and turned around and couldn’t help but laugh. He stood there in the guard’s clothes, but he was much larger than the Englishman, especially with all his muscles. The tunic was so tight he couldn’t move, and it was much shorter than his leine, as it barely covered his waist. And since the Scots didn’t wear braies or hose, that left them naked from the waist down.

“I see what ye mean,” said Onyx, having the same problem. He leaned forward, and Effie heard the seams of their tunics splitting.

“We dinna have time fer this,” said Effie. “Jest put yer own clothes back on and wear their cloaks and keep them closed in front.”

“Aye,” she heard Madoc saying. “Wear their helms as well so they don’t see your hair and faces.”

Onyx and Ian did as instructed, pulling their long hair up under the helms.

“All right, let’s go,” she heard Ian say, so she turned back around to join them. She looked at them trying to keep the cloaks closed, but their plaids were very visible. And they looked ridiculous trying to fit the helms on their heads with pieces of their hair sticking out from underneath in every direction.

“Well, it’ll have te work,” she said. “Unless any o’ ye have a better idea.”

“I do,” said Madoc. “You’ve got an Englishman right here, so use me to your advantage.”

“How so?” she asked.

“I’ll bring you to them for reward money. Ian and Onyx stay behind us, and whatever you do, try not to speak. With any luck, this’ll at least get us into their camp before they figure out who we are.”

“We’ve still got a ways to go afore we get there,” said Effie. “What if they find the stone afore we have the chance te stop them?”

“The English aren’t going to go digging around in the water looking for anything until it gets light,” Madoc said. “Believe me, I know they don’t like to get their feet wet either.”

“Unless Aidan goes fer it in the dark,” said Onyx.

“Aye,” agreed Ian. “Then all o’ this will be fer nothin’, becooz I dinna think the English will just sit back and let him take it from them.”

“They had his hands as well as his feet tied,” said Effie. “I’m no’ sure he’s goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”

“Och,” said Ian, “we ken Aidan better than thet. I assure ye thet no ropes holdin’ him down nor the darkness o’ the night is goin’ te stop him once he makes up his mind thet he’s goin’ after the stone.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Aidan waited until the English were all asleep, then he started his plan for escape. If he could just get these ropes off of him, he’d sneak down to the river and somehow move the stone, and hopefully find a way to get it far away from here before they even awoke. He did it before, he told himself, and he’d do it again.

But when he tried fraying the ropes of his wrists against the rocks, every movement brought a searing pain shooting through him from the wound in his shoulder. He knew it was getting worse and he felt as if he were going to retch.

“What do ye think ye’re doin’?” asked Tasgall, stepping out of the thicket from behind him.

Aidan was just deciding how to shut him up when the man drew his dagger and came for him. Aidan kicked at him, and Tasgall backed away.

“Stop it, ye fool, I’m here te help ye.”

Aidan was leery of the man, but had no choice right now but to trust him. He stopped moving, and Tasgall reached forward with the dagger again.

“If ye try te stab me with it, I swear I’ll kill ye,” Aidan warned the man.

“Blethers! I’m only goin’ te cut the ropes,” he said, doing just what he said.

“Why?” asked Aidan, rubbing his wrists, once the ropes were off. Tasgall then went about removing the ones at his feet.

“Becooz I made a mistake, and I’m tired o’ bein’ a coward.”

“Ye helped Effie escape, didna ye?” Aidan stuck the ropes into his belt, knowing he would need them later. If he managed to get the stone, he’d use the ropes to pull it with the horse like last time.

“Aye,” he said with a nod of his head. “And hopefully I can help ye do the same. Now come on, get up and lean on me shoulder. I’ve got a couple o’ horses saddled and waitin’ in the thicket.”

Aidan got up and leaned on Tasgall, but when they mounted their horses, he started in the opposite direction, toward the water.

“What are ye doin’?” whispered Tasgall, moving his horse toward Aidan.

“I canna jest leave and let them get the stone,” he said. “I’m goin’ te get it and move it afore they find it.”

“Ye’re mad,” said Tasgall, stopping his horse.

Aidan turned his horse back toward him. “I could use yer help.”

“This is nothin’ but a deith wish,” the man said, shaking his head.

“Well, then we’ll both die fer a guid cause, willna we?”

“I’m no’ goin’ te help. I’m gettin’ out o’ here alive while I still can.”

“Go on then,” Aidan said, disgusted, and headed toward the water. Then he turned his head and talked to the man over his shoulder. “And ye said ye were tired o’ bein’ a coward.”

Aidan headed away, feeling like hell. His body was shivering from the fever and his wound was bleeding again. Dizziness overtook him, and knew he hadn’t the strength to pull the rock out of the water by himself, but he would at least die trying.

He made it to the Rowan and slid off the horse, tying the reins to the tree. He then slipped into the stream, feeling the cold water biting at his open wound. He hunkered down and felt around for the stone, then his hand brushed across it, and he found it right where he’d left it. He used the embedded handles in the stone and tried with all his might to pull the rock from the water.

“Arrrrgh,” he let out a muffled cry as he felt the fires of hell biting at his shoulder. He tried once again, but the rock was stuck in the muck at the bottom of the river and it weighed too much for him to move it himself, especially since he was injured.

“Could ye use another hand?”

He looked up to see Tasgall standing in the moonlight. This was just what he needed, as he’d almost given up hope.

“So ye decided te help me after all?”

“I canna be a coward me whole life.”

“And what if we die tryin’ te do this?”

“Then I’ll die alongside one o’ the bravest men Scotland has e’er seen.”

* * *

Effie nervously shifted on the horse in front of Madoc as they rode into the English camp. He held his arm around her, and a dagger against her to make it look as if he were bringing her back as a prisoner.

Ian and Onyx followed on horses behind them, wrapped in the cloaks of the English guards. She just hoped they didn’t have to talk, or the English would know at once their little ploy.

“Someone approaches,” she heard as they rode up, and immediately, two guards jumped up and pulled their swords from their scabbards.

“I found this girl on the road when I was passing through,” said Madoc. “Your guards told me you’ve been looking for her.” He nodded toward Ian and Onyx behind him. They nodded back, and Ian almost lost the helm, as it was too small and just sitting atop his head.

“Lord Ralston!” called the guard, and the man appeared from inside a tent. He took one look at Effie and smiled.

“Well, look who’s back. Where did you find her?”

“I found her . . . ” Madoc was cut short by Lord Ralston’s words.

“Who are you?”

“I’m just a traveler passing through on my way back to England.”

“By yourself, and on Scottish soil? And at night?”

“Aye.”

Effie felt Madoc’s arm stiffen around her, and she knew he was readying himself for a fight.

“Guards, is this true?”

Onyx and Ian just looked at each other, but didn’t answer, and this obviously made the man suspicious.

“Guards, I asked you a question.”

“Aye,” they both answered together.

“Guards, bring her to me.”

Ian stepped forward and helped Effie off the horse, but when he reached up to get her, his cloak opened, and when he tried to close it, his helm fell from his head to the ground.

“Something’s not right.” Lord Ralston looked through the darkness, and Ian tried to keep his back towards the man. “Where’s the Highlander?” He unsheathed his sword when he realized Aidan wasn’t there. Effie wondered where he’d gone as well. Then she realized Tasgall was nowhere to be found either. There was only one place they’d be, and that was at the river, getting the stone.

Before she knew what was happening, Lord Ralston reached forward and pulled her to him.

“Men, we have intruders,” he shouted.

Ian and Onyx threw off their disguises, and in one motion raised their swords, meeting with those of the English. Madoc fought from the top of his horse as a battle broke out between them.

“You won’t get away with this, bitch,” said Lord Ralston, dragging Effie to a horse and mounting, pulling her up with him.

“Help,” she cried out, struggling to get out of his hold, but Ian, Madoc and Onyx were busy fighting off several men each and couldn’t come to her aid.

“Get the cart and head to the river,” he shouted to several of his men, and they took off through the night, leaving the rest behind. Effie had a feeling that things were only going to get worse from here, because she knew that at the river was exactly where they’d find Aidan.

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

With Tasgall’s help, Aidan managed to get the stone on shore and also tied with ropes, trailing from the back of a horse. They were just going to ride away when out of the darkness and like a bat out of hell, came three riders. As they got closer, he saw that it was Lord Ralston and two of his guards, and to his horror they had Effie with them. One of the soldiers was driving the wagon.

“Och, nay,” he ground out.

Tasgall looked up as well, as the English came over the grass right toward them. “Should we make a break for it?” he asked Aidan.

“We canna outrun them draggin’ along the stone,” said Aidan. “And neither will I leave Effie in their bluidy hands. If ye want to make a run fer it, go. I willna think any less o’ ye, as ye’ve already risked yer life te help me.”

The man seemed to consider it for a second, then just shook his head.

“Nay. I am tired o’ runnin’ and I will stand me ground.”

“Spoken like a true Scot,” said Aidan, slapping him on the back.

“Aidan!” cried Effie as they stopped their horses in front of them and the two guards jumped off and came up to them with swords drawn. “I’m so sorry,” she cried.

“Effie, I told ye te get the hell outta here. What happened?” he asked.

“I came back fer ye, Aidan. Te save ye.”

“Why would ye think ye could do thet?”

“Because I have Onyx, Ian, and Madoc with me. They’re back at camp fighting.”

“They are?” Suddenly, Aidan saw a light at the end of the tunnel. If his friends were here, then he knew he might have a chance after all.

“Tasgall, you bloody bastard, you deceived me,” snarled Lord Ralston.

“And I’m proud o’ it,” said the Scotsman, raising his chin in the air.

“Put the stone in the back of the cart,” Lord Ralston instructed.

His guards moved toward it, but he stopped them.

“Not you two, you fools,” he said. “The Scots will do it.”

“And if we dinna do it?” asked Aidan.

“You know what will happen.”

“No’ this again,” he mumbled to himself as he saw Lord Ralston raise his blade to Effie once again. “I’m getting’ tired o’ this,” he said, taking hold of the stone, and with Tasgall, they struggled, but got it atop the back of the cart.

“Hurry,” Lord Ralston instructed. Then when they were finished, he looked at his guards. “Kill the Scots and let’s get the stone to safety.”

One reached out for Aidan, but even with his wound and with no weapons, he fought like a madman. And when the second came to help his friend, Tasgall jumped in front of the man’s sword, just as he was about to stab Aidan.

Aidan looked up to see the Scot lying there with the sword in his back, having blocked the killing blow. Aidan threw the first guard off of him and pulled the sword out of Tasgall and turned around and stabbed the second guard.

Then he spun around and killed the other one as well. When he looked up, Lord Ralston was getting into the wagon with his sword pointed at Effie. She was looking back with terror in her eyes.

Aidan looked down to the dead Englishmen, and then over to Tasgall. He bent down to see that the Scot was near dead.

“I’m sorry I didna help ye save the stone,” said Tasgall with his dying breath.

“Dinna worry, I will get it,” Aidan said laying his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I am sorry aboot all the wrong I’ve done. And now I will die without makin’ guid after all.”

“Nay,” said Aidan. “Ye will die with honor, me friend. And dinna worry, as I will tell e’eryone ye were no’ a coward in the end.”

Tasgall smiled. “Thank ye,” he said, then closed his eyes forever.

Aidan looked up to see Lord Ralston speeding away in the wagon with the stone and Effie in tow. He didn’t think twice. He hoisted himself atop one of the guard’s horses, and sped after them. When he got close, he jumped from the horse into the wagon, and holding on to the sides, he made his way to the front where he leaped at Lord Ralston, with sword drawn. The man turned and blocked him, punching Aidan in his wounded shoulder. Aidan cried out in pain, and lost his grip on the sword. They both fell out of the wagon and to the ground.

“Ye bastard, I have had enough o’ ye,” Aidan cried out, just before wrestling the sword away from Lord Ralston, and burying it into the man’s chest. When he was sure the man was dead, he stood. Effie had stopped the wagon and came to his side. That’s when he heard the MacKeefe war cry of Buaidh no Bas, Victory or Death, from the camp, and recognized the voice of Ian.

“Aidan, are ye all right?” asked Effie, rushing to him. He held out his arms and gathered her up, and then the pain from his wounds and the loss of blood was too much for him. He sank to the ground with Effie in his arms, and buried his face in her hair. His body, burning up with fever shook uncontrollably now, and he whispered to her. “I have ye now, me dream angel. Ye are safe with me, and I willna e’er let ye go.”

That’s the last thing he remembered before the pain from his wound and the fever overtook him.

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Effie pressed a cool, wet cloth to Aidan’s head as she had for nearly a sennight, watching over him in his cottage back in the MacKeefe camp in the Highlands. She was so glad that Lord Ralston and his men were all dead, and that the whole ordeal was over and her sister as well as the Stone of Destiny were safe again.

The MacKeefe clan had gotten the message from the homing pigeon that Madoc had sent and they’d come to find them. However, Ian, Onyx, and Madoc, had already killed the rest of Lord Ralston’s soldiers and were headed back with Aidan and the Stone of Destiny in the cart at the time. Aidan was close to death, and slipped in and out of consciousness and Effie wasn’t sure if he’d ever recover.

With the help of the entire clan, the stone was well protected as they brought it back to the Highlands. At Effie’s request, they’d placed it under Aidan’s head as he slept. She hoped he’d have some sort of a dream that would wake him and bring him back to her already.

Aidan’s pet squirrel nudged him with its nose, it’s furry little red head moving back and forth obviously wondering why Aidan wasn’t petting him. Then it carefully crawled atop Aidan’s chest and curled up into a ball, making small noises.

“I ken ye’re worried, Reid.” Effie ran a hand over its fur. “So am I.”

The door to the cottage opened, and Effie turned around to see Aidan’s sister, Kyla standing there.

“How is me brathair?” the girl asked.

“No better.” Effie turned back around, trying to keep from crying. “He may die becooz o’ me, Kyla.”

“Nay, thet’s no’ true.” Kyla rushed in and fell to her knees next to Effie. “Me brathair is strong and has been in many worse situations. He’ll pull through, Effie, jest give him some time.”

Effie reached out and ran her fingers lightly across the stitches in Aidan’s shoulder. “Ye are so strong, Kyla, and I admire ye fer it. And I only hope ye’re right aboot yer brathair. Ye ken Madoc was kind enough to sew up his wound afore he left, but he needed te go as his wife is havin’ a bairn.”

“I ken,” said Kyla.

“I woulda liked te have had bairns with Aidan some day. I wish thet things woulda worked out differently.”

“Ye ne’er ken what might happen,” said Kyla, putting her arm around Effie’s shoulder.

“Mayhap ye and Ian will have the chance someday,” Effie said with a slight smile. “Where is he, anyway? I havena seen him nor Onyx in days.”

“They came te get me,” came a voice from the doorway, and she turned around to see her sister, Coira standing there.

“Coira,” shouted Effie, running to her sister and burying her in a hug. “Ye are all right, thank the heavens.”

“I am,” she said. “And though the chieftain and his wife, Clarista, were goin’ te bring me back from Hermitage Castle, Ian and Onyx insisted on doin’ it instead. They said they wanted te protect me personally as a favor te ye and Aidan.”

“The chieftain? I thought that was Storm,” said Effie.

“They’re both chieftains o’ the clan, as auld Ian MacKeefe is Storm’s father,” said Ian, now standing in the doorway.

Effie noticed the way Kyla’s eyes lit up when she saw him. Then, Effie gasped as the wolfhound sauntered up behind him.

“Ian, watch out, thet wolfhound is back!” Effie warned him.

Ian just laughed and reached down and ran a hand over the hound’s head. “I ken thet. The thing willna leave me alone e’er since I fed it, so I decided jest te keep it as a pet.” Then the hound jumped up and put its paws on Ian’s shoulders. Being such a large animal, the hound was as tall as Ian when it was standing on its back legs. A long tongue shot out and the animal started licking Ian’s face.

“A pet? Nay, ye are jestin’,” said Effie.

“Nay, he’s not,” said Onyx, walking up and joining Ian with his wildcat in his arms. “And believe it or no’, Tawpie disna mind the wolfhound anymore.” Onyx held up the wildcat and the wolfhound lowered itself from Ian, and touched noses with it. Then the hound lay down at Ian’s feet. Aidan’s squirrel was alarmed by all this, and stood up on Aidan’s chest, chattering loudly.

The hound jumped up, and Ian gave it a command. “Kyle dinna e’en think aboot it,” he said.

“Kyle?” asked Effie.

“Aye,” said Kyla from next to her. She rolled her eyes as she spoke. “He named the thing after me becooz he said it was jest as pesky, followin’ him around all the time. I’m no’ sure if I should be honored or disgusted.”

Effie laughed at this, and when she did, the squirrel jumped off of Aidan and scurried up the leg of the table. Onyx’s wildcat leaped out of his arms and darted into the room chasing it, and Ian’s wolfhound followed.

“Tawpie, nay,” said Onyx rushing into the room after the cat. It had jumped up on the table and was about to grab the squirrel when Onyx dove to get it, slamming down on the table so hard that it broke and came crashing down to the ground with him on it. The wolfhound jumped atop him.

“Kyle, get back here, boy,” Ian said, rushing into the room and diving atop the pile of them on the floor.

Aidan was in the middle of a dream. Effie was walking toward him again, only this time she was wearing a beautiful long gown over a long white billowed-sleeved leine. And over it, not only the bodice but the entire kirtle all the way to the ground was made from the green and purple plaid of the MacKeefe clan. It was pulled together tightly with leathers laces. Her breasts were trussed up in the bodice and spilling over, and Aidan wanted nothing more than to bury his head in her cleavage. She carried a bouquet of heather and foxglove, and wore a crown of tiny purple saxifrage on her head. She was smiling and walking toward him, and when he reached out for her, she moved aside and that’s when he saw Reid, Tawpie, and that damn wolfhound running toward him and jumping right at him.

“Nay!” he shouted, sitting up quickly, his breathing labored, his eyes searching the area around him. There was loud commotion going on, and when he looked over to the other side of the room, he just blinked, not believing what he was seeing. Onyx was on the floor with the remains of a broken table beneath him, holding on to the back legs of Tawpie as she reached out, pawing the air. Reid was chattering incessantly, climbing the walls then dropping to the ground and jumping from trunk to trunk around the room. And Effie, her sister Coira, and Kyla were rushing around trying to grab it.

And the most ridiculous thing he saw was Ian on the floor with a wolfhound under his arm in a headlock.

“What’s a man got te do te get some peace and quiet around here?” he shouted.

The noise stopped instantly, and all eyes turned toward him.

“Aidan, ye’re alive!” shouted Effie, tears streaming down her face.

“O’ course I’m alive, but I was deid asleep and havin’ a wonderful dream afore ye dunderheids woke me up.”

“Aidan, welcome back ye big galoot,” said Ian with a smile.

“Aye,” agreed Onyx. “We’re happy ye pulled through.”

Effie rushed over to him and fell into his arms, and when his friends let loose of their animals to come greet him, the squirrel ran out the door, with the wildcat and the wolfhound right behind it.

“I’ll get them,” cried Kyla, running out the door.

“I’ll help,” said Coira, following her.

“Aidan, I thought I’d lost ye fore’er,” said Effie, kissing him so passionately that he felt his manhood already stirring.

He looked up to Onyx and Ian. “Is e’eryone all right?” he asked.

“We killed off all the English, and lived te tell aboot it,” said Ian.

“The MacKeefe clan? Were they there too?” asked Aidan, thinking he remembered hearing Storm’s voice sometime during the ordeal.

“Madoc sent a messenger pigeon from Hermitage Castle, telling the rest o’ the clan we needed help. But Madoc, Ian, and I had everything taken care of afore they arrived,” relayed Onyx. “The MacKeefes helped us get ye back here alive.”

“Thank ye. Thank ye all,” he said, looking down to Effie and kissing her gently on the lips. “Where is the stone?” he asked. “Did ye save it?”

“Ye are the one who saved it, Aidan,” Effie told him. “And ye are sleepin’ on it.”

He turned carefully and looked back, now knowing why he was having the dream. He also knew the stone was no longer safe here and that they’d have to move it soon before Lord Ralston’s men back at his castle decided to get together an army and come looking for it. He knew the safest place for the stone, and would take it there personally as soon as he was able.

In the meantime, he’d keep guarding Scotland’s biggest secret the best he could, and keep using it as a pillow, and listening to his dreams. He kept thinking about the dream he’d just had and knew he’d seen Effie in her wedding attire. And with her breasts trussed up and spilling from her bodice in the dream, he also realized he needed her comforts right now more than anything.

He looked at Ian and Onyx standing there staring at him with smiles, and he cleared his throat. “Shouldna ye two go find Reid afore he’s eaten? And by the way, what was thet hound doin’ in here?”

“Thet’s Kyle,” said Ian. “Me new pet.”

Aidan wasn’t surprised, as nothing his friends did ever seemed out of the ordinary to him any more.

“Well?” said Aidan once again.

“Well, what?” asked Ian.

“I think he wants te be alone with Effie,” Onyx told him, pulling him out of the room.

“No threesomes today, Aidan?” Ian asked with a raised brow.

“The only threesome ye’ll be gettin’ is me arm around yer throat, me foot te yer doup, and me hands throwin’ ye outta here by yer ear if ye dinna get out o’ here already.”

“Dinna fash yerself, Aidan, we’re goin’,” said Ian, leaving the room with Onyx and closing the door behind them.

“Aidan, I want te apologize fer e’erythin’,” said Effie, with sincerity in her eyes. “I didna mean fer any o’ this te happen. I was jest confused. I had no one, and I didna want te lose me sister. I didna want te betray ye, I swear, it’s jest thet –”

Aidan reached out and smothered her with a kiss, stopping her in midsentence.

“Haud yer wheesht,” he told her. “Me achin’ head canna take any more of this noise.”

“Do ye fergive me, Aidan? Can ye e’er love me again, after e’erythin’ I put ye through?”

“I understand why ye did what ye did, but do ye understand why this stone means so much te me, lassie?”

“I think I do,” she said, looking down, then nodding. “Aye, I’m sure I do. And I promise ye, Aidan, if ye’ll take me back I’ll ne’er cause ye any grief again.”

“Well, now, if thet’s the case than ye’ll no’ be a true MacKeefe. Mishaps and grief are part o’ the MacKeefes’ lives, but we jest get o’er it all and move on, me angel.”

“Aidan, I’m no’ a true MacKeefe and will ne’er be.”

“Ye will if I have anythin’ te say aboot it. Effie, me dream angel, I want ye te stay here with me and be a MacKeefe. Because as much as the stone means te me, ye mean more to me, and I dinna want te live the rest o’ me life without ye. What do ye say?”

“Do ye really mean it, Aidan? Please tell me this is no’ what ye say te all the lassies ye bed.”

“I’ve ne’er said it te anyone afore. Aye, I mean it more than anythin’, but if ye want te seal the agreement with a beddin’, I canna say I’d mind.” He flashed her a smile. “I’ve had a verra nice dream with ye in it, and I’d like te see how it works out.”

“What aboot me sister, Coira? Can she stay here too? We have no family now, and I willna leave her.”

“O’ course she can stay as well,” he said. “I ken our chieftain will give his permission te both o’ ye since ye helped te save the stone.”

“But it was our fault it was stolen in the first place and ye almost died,” she said.

“Storm MacKeefe will understand. His own wife was a leader o’ a band o’ renegades once and took him captive, so I ken he is verra fergivin’.”

“Then I accept fer the both o’ us.”

Effie reached over and anxiously kissed Aidan, so happy that she thought she would burst. He fell back and hit his head on the stone in the process, and she proceeded to kiss his head as well. They both laughed, and then Aidan held his stitches.

“I missed ye, Effie. And I couldna even think o’ anythin’ happenin’ te ye. I will be here te protect ye from harm, I swear I always will.”

“Make love te me, Aidan. I want te feel ye inside me again.”

His hands expertly undressed her while she pulled off the coverlet from over him. He was naked beneath it, as Effie hadn’t wanted to risk putting clothes over his wound until he was healed. His manhood was hard and ready, and it excited her to see him this way.

“Are ye sure this willna be too much fer ye with yer wounds?” she asked. “After all, ye are still weak and far from recoverin’. I dinna want ye te break the stitches after Madoc sewed ye up so nicely. He said his half-brathair is a tailor, and showed him how te sew. He was verra proud o’ his small stitches.”

“Then ye’ll jest have te do all the work,” he said. “And kiss e’ery part o’ me thet is hurtin’.”

She reached out and kissed his wound gently, and then kissed his bruised body as well as the scar on his head.

“Is thet better?” she asked.

“I think there’s more thet hurts.”

“Did I miss a wound?” She didn’t understand what he wanted.

“No’ a wound, but ye did miss the part o’ me body thet hurts the most right now.”

“I did?” She pulled back and looked at his entire body. “Where?”

Then she saw the grin on his face and his eyes directed her downward. “I see what ye mean,” she said, hesitant to try this, but then decided she would do whatever he wanted. She did as instructed and looked up to see his eyes closing and heard the moan of delight coming from deep in his throat. Not long afterwards, he pulled her up to him and pleasured her as well.

“I love ye, Aidan,” she told him as they did the dance of love. It felt so good, and she felt so protected in his strong arms that she never wanted this to end.

“I love ye, too, me dream angel.”

“I love it when ye call me thet,” she laughed, rocking her hips to meet his, feeling herself climbing higher and higher, the heat between them scorching, and their rhythm getting faster.

“Well, welcome te the clan, Effie MacKeefe.”

She liked the way that sounded. It excited her, and she let loose with her inhibitions. While trying to be careful of his wounds, she screamed out when she found her release. He joined her and then she collapsed atop him, wrapped in his arms as their bodies vibrated as one. She had found her man. Her dream come true. And she would be staying with the clan now, and having a family once again.

She would be a MacKeefe, as all the members of the clan called themselves. She liked that. She would try her hardest to gain back Aidan’s trust through time, as well as show him he’d made the right choice by asking her to stay. The only thing that could make any of this better was if she were Effie MacKeefe – not just a member of the clan, but Aidan’s wife.

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Perth, Highlands

A month later

Aidan, Ian, and Onyx moved the Stone of Destiny into the crypt of an unknown ancient monk, deep in the bowels of the catacombs of Scone Abbey. Then, together they covered the stone by sliding the very heavy and tall headstone over the top, sealing it into the ground where no Englishman would ever find it again. Abbot Murray smiled and gave them a nod of satisfaction.

“Ye lads have done guid,” he said, sounding very pleased. “Only we, along with King David will ken the new location o’ the stone. It’ll be safe here until we need it to crown Scotland’s next king, as long as we keep this a secret.”

“We will,” said Onyx, “ye can count on us.”

“Aye,” agreed Ian, then he looked over to Aidan. “How aboot ye, Aidan? Will ye haud yer wheesht this time and no’ tell anyone where we hid the stone?”

“I promise,” said Aidan. “And ’twill be easier this time, as Effie told me she didna want me te tell her where it was and thet she would make sure I dinna tell a soul.”

“All right then, I guess our work here is done,” said the abbot.

“No’ exactly,” said Aidan. “I would like ye te join us at the Perth Highland Games, as I am goin’ te surprise me love, Effie, and marry her jest afore the competition.”

“I would love to, Aidan,” said the abbot. “However, if anyone sees me with ye, they’ll ken we were together. It’s too risky, as we dinna want anyone te ken where ye brought the stone. But me congratulations are with ye and yer loved one, and I wish ye the happiest marriage.”

“Thank ye,” said Aidan with a nod of his head. “We’d better be goin’ then, as I still have a lot te do afore the weddin’. Willna Effie be surprised?”

* * *

Effie hadn’t seen Aidan in a sennight, and was excited that he was going to be meeting her here at the Highland Games in Perth today. She’d been here since this morning with the MacKeefe clan, and even Storm’s parents were present. Kyla had introduced her to them this morning.

Effie sat back on the grass, overlooking the open fields and rolling green hills, as well as the high mountains in the distance. Beautiful purple and pink heather spilled down the valleys, and the skies above it were bright blue. She’d never seen such a beautiful sight in her life.

Her sister was picking wildflowers with Kyla, and looked up and waved at her. Effie smiled and waved back. Coira’s health was improving every day, and it did Effie good to see her sister smile again after everything she’d been through. Her sister no longer seemed so frail or afraid. She’d made friends with Kyla and they were almost inseparable. Coira loved her new home with the MacKeefe clan, and Effie did as well.

Perth was bustling with Highlanders as well as some Lowlander Scots too, and Kyla had even pointed out that the MacDuff clan was present. She was curious about them, but refused Kyla’s suggestion to introduce herself to them. She was afraid if they knew who she was they’d be treating her like a hero because of her grandmother. She still felt like a traitor for everything she’d done, even though Aidan as well as all the MacKeefes had forgiven her.

She just wanted to relax and watch the games today, and bask in the happiness of being one of the MacKeefe clan now that Storm had approved and accepted Coira and herself into their family.

Burly men readied themselves for lifting heavy stones or throwing the hammer, while others prepared for the caber toss.

A long rope was being laid out on the ground, as clans would compete against each other in the tug-o-war. The lassies competed in their own events, and Effie knew that Kyla had been practicing tossing the sheaves with a pitchfork high into the air for the last month back at camp. She was trying her hardest to impress Ian.

The children of the clans competed in their smaller versions of the games as well as a footrace.

Bagpipes split the air, and drumming joined in, signaling that the competition would start soon. The smell of mutton pie and haggis drifted lazily through the air, making her hungry, but she was waiting for Aidan before she had anything to eat.

Then, she saw Onyx and Ian riding toward her, and her heart skipped a beat as she shaded her eyes from the sun, eagerly looking for Aidan.

“Lookin’ fer me?” Two hands snaked around her waist from behind, and Aidan nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, kissing her.

“Aidan! Ye’re back.” She jumped up and turned around and threw herself into his arms. “I missed ye.”

“I missed ye as well,” he said, kissing her again. “I brought ye a present.”

“A present? Fer me?” she asked, then raised an eyebrow and grinned devilishly. “Well, if it’s anythin’ like me birthday present, then mayhap we’d better wait til we are at least under the cover o’ some trees.”

“It’s no’ thet,” he said, “no’ now anyway. But I promise ye we’ll have some o’ thet later.”

He walked over to his horse and pulled something out of a travel bag, and handed it to her. She took it gingerly in her hands and opened the bundle to see the most beautiful gown made entirely of the MacKeef purple and green plaid, with a white leine with billowy sleeves to wear beneath it. The bodice was laced with purple and green braided ribbons, and there was a matching circlet for her head as well.

“It’s beautiful, Aidan. Where did ye get it?”

“I had Madoc’s step-brathair who is a tailor make it fer ye. Madoc may be handy with a needle when it comes te closin’ up a wound, but his step-brathair, William, is a Master Tailor, so I hired him te do it. It is constructed so well it’ll last ye a lifetime. Ye ken, William even has his own shop and belongs te the guild.”

“Why would ye hire him te make this, when I already have clothes te wear?” she asked, feeling like something good was about to happen.

“I did it so ye’d have somethin’ special te wear today. Somethin’ thet is yers and no’ borrowed from someone else.”

“Fer the Highland Games?” she asked. “I dinna understand.”

“Effie,” he said, pulling something from the pouch at his waist. “I have somethin’ else te give ye as well. I’ve been thinkin’ aboot this fer a long time now, and I hope ye’ll say yes.”

“Say yes?” She was sure now that something good was about to happen. And when Aidan got down on one knee and took her hands in his, she knew she hadn’t been mistaken.

“Effie, say ye’ll marry me and be me wife. I love ye, me dream angel.” He opened his fist and there was a ring. A shiny, gold ring with an amethyst stone, and angels etched into the band.

Tears welled in her eyes and her throat tightened and she felt as if she couldn’t speak. She nodded her head furiously, and then choked out the words, “I will, Aidan. I will be yer wife. I love ye, too.”

She sank to her knees and fell atop him, kissing him as they rolled to the ground.

“The priest is here as well, Effie,” he said. “We can get married right here, right now.”

“I’d like thet,” she said.

“I brought yer grandmathair’s brooch, too. I was hopin’ thet ye would wear it when I bring ye te meet the MacDuffs today.”

“Nay, Aidan, I canna. I dinna deserve the brooch nor te meet the MacDuffs after I was te blame fer Scotland almost losin’ the Stone o’ Destiny fore’er.”

“They dinna ken thet, angel. Only the MacKeefes ken the truth, and we are all goin’ te keep quiet aboot thet, I assure ye.”

“But I’m afeard. I dinna ken any o’ them. They are strangers te me.”

“Then I’ll be there by yer side when ye and yer sister meet the MacDuffs. And ye’ll have nothin’ te fret aboot becooz ye’ll be there as me wife.”

“All right,” she said nervously. “I’ll meet them, Aidan. No’ fer me, but fer Coira. She’s ne’er even kent her own mathair nor her faither, so I think ye’re right and this is important.

“Then put on the gown, me angel, and let’s go get married.”

AIDAN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Effie felt like the luckiest girl in the world as Aidan slipped the ring on her finger just as they’d finished their vows. She wore her new gown that matched Aidan’s plaid. Her sister stood next to her, holding the bouquet of wildflowers she and Kyla had picked for her this morning, and Kyla was next to her, crying happy tears. Onyx and Ian stood alongside Aidan, while Storm, Wren, and the entire MacKeefe clan as well as the MacDuffs watched on.

Aidan had convinced her to meet the MacDuffs before they were married, so they could be present at the wedding as well. It had gone better than she’d hoped and she’d even found a few blood relatives she never knew she had. Coira enjoyed meeting them as well, and now Effie felt as if they had two families.

Madoc had brought his wife, Abbey, and their new baby boy, as well as their other two children to the competition as well. Onyx’s wife, Lovelle, stood next to them with their new baby boy, Creighton, in her arms. They had given him a Scottish name at Onyx’s insistence. And Onyx had even brought his father, Talbot, from England, so he could be with Onyx’s Scottish family.

“I pronounce ye husband and wife,” said the priest, closing his book.

A shout went up from the crowd, and Aidan reached over and kissed Effie, then lifted her off her feet and kissed her again.

“Congratulations,” said Storm, coming to greet them. With that, congratulations and hugs and kisses were given all around.

“Jest becooz ye’re a married man now, Aidan, thet disna mean ye can beat me in the caber toss,” said Storm.

“Me wounds are healing nicely, and I feel strong as an ox today,” said Aidan, winking at Effie.

Renard walked up with Niall at his side, holding on to Aidan’s squirrel.

“The games are starting,” he said. “There are competitors here from at least a dozen clans.”

“Let’s go,” said Ian, then he looked back to Renard and Niall. “Are ye two sure ye can hold on te Reid, Kyle, and also Tawpie throughout the games?”

“Aye,” said Niall. “We have yer wolfhound and wildcat tied on leads, so they willna cause trouble.”

“Guid,” said Onyx, putting his arm around his wife and coming to join them. “There are a lot o’ bairns here today and we dinna want trouble.”

“No one is goin’ anywhere afore we’ve made a toast te the new couple with some o’ me mountain magic,” said old Callum MacKeefe who had come from his pub in Glasgow to join them. He nodded his head, and several clanmembers passed out wooden cups and filled them with the potent whisky.

“Granda,” said Storm, holding his youngest daughter, Heather, in one arm, and a cup of mountain magic in the other, “ye make the first toast.”

“All right,” said Callum. “I toast te Aidan and Effie and thet they will have plenty o’ laddies te drink me mountain magic.”

“I toast te them as well,” said Kyla, holding her cup in the air. “Thet they will have plenty o’ lassies te drink it, too.”

Cheers and laughter went up from the crowd, and everyone drank to the toasts.

“Kyla,” said Ian, downing his whisky and smacking his lips. “Ye ken thet lassies canna really drink this, so dinna even pretend they can.”

“Oh no?” She looked at him and smiled, then raised the cup to her lips.

“Dinna do it,” said Effie, remembering the last time she had tried this herself.

“Dinna worry, Effie,” Kyla assure her. “Since Ian thinks o’ me as one o’ the boys, this shouldna affect me.” She downed it, made a face, and then a smile widened her lips. “Ye see, Ian, ye are no’ the only one thet can drink mountain magic. And if ye’d like te watch me, I am goin’ te win the sheaf toss as well.”

“She surprised me,” said Effie, as the crowd headed over to the games. “I dinna ken how she does it.”

“She is me sister,” said Aidan. “She has been followin’ me and me friends around her entire life and tryin’ te be one o’ the laddies I think.”

“Och, I think it’s much more than thet,” said Effie, watching Ian and Kyla arguing about who was better at everything as they headed toward the games.

“Come on, Aidan,” said Storm, “the caber toss is startin’ soon, and I willna be givin’ up me title.”

* * *

Effie sat to the side, watching the competition all day, glancing at her ring from time to time, hardly able to believe that she was now married. She felt so happy, and like she actually belonged with the MacKeefes, and she was looking forward to getting to know the MacDuffs better as well. She ran a loving hand over the brooch pinned to her shoulder, wishing she would have had the opportunity of knowing her grandmother, Isabel MacDuff. She also wished her mother had still been alive and that she could have been here for her wedding. She knew her mother would have loved Aidan.

Coira sat next to her as well as Wren, and Onyx’s wife Lovelle, and Madoc’s wife, Abbey. Their many children were gathered around, and had even participated in some of the children’s competitions. Heather, Storm’s young daughter sat on Effie’s lap, while Lovelle rocked her crying baby next to her.

“So, you and Aidan will be having a big family?” asked Lovelle.

“I dinna ken what Aidan wants,” she said, “but I would like lots o’ children. But tell me, Lady Lovelle, what is it like te be married te a Madman MacKeefe?”

“You will never stop being surprised,” she said. “Nor will you ever want them to stop acting so crazy. It makes them who they are.”

“I guess ye’re right,” she said, watching as Aidan finished his second throw of the caber toss, and he and Storm were now tied.”

“Wren,” she said. “Do ye think Aidan is goin’ to be takin’ Storm’s title?”

“Aidan may have won lifting the atlas stones, like we all knew he would,” said Wren, “but I don’t think Storm will take it well if he loses his title, so I’m going to have to say no.”

Effie laughed. “The MacKeefes are verra competitive,” she said. “After all, Ian already won the hammer throw and Onyx the sword hold, and the clan beat the MacDonalds in the tug o’ war.”

“Dinna ferget, I won the sheaf toss,” said Kyla, settling herself next to Effie, and taking a child onto her lap as well.

“This is the first time I’ve e’er been te the games,” said Effie. “I didna even ken thet the women were so guid at the competitions.”

“Do ye think Ian saw me win?” Kyla leaned over and whispered this to Effie.

“He noticed all right,” she said with a smile.

“Effie, this one is fer ye,” called out Aidan from across the field, hunkering down and cupping the tapered end of the pole. The object of the competition was to keep it as vertical as possible and toss it end over end without it tilting or falling back toward the competitor. “Watch this caber toss,” he said, and Effie gave the child on her lap to Kyla and stood up to watch, feeling very nervous. She knew how hard Aidan had been practicing to beat Storm, but after what Wren just told her, she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for him to win the title from Storm since he had held it for the last nine years.

Aidan lifted the caber in one jerky motion, taking a step or two in each direction to balance it. Just as he was about to take a few steps forward to throw it, she heard Renard’s voice from behind her.

“Reid, get back here.”

Aidan’s squirrel darted out from the crowd, being chased by Tawpie and Kyle. The squirrel scurried up Aidan’s leg and to his shoulder as the wolfhound and the wildcat chased circles around him.

“Och, no’ now,” said Aidan, trying to sidestep the animals and still hold the pole upright. Then, to Effie’s horror, the squirrel scampered straight up the pole and settled itself at the top. “Naaaaaaay,” shouted Aidan, and Effie knew it was all over. Aidan was too fond of his little pet to throw the caber end over end when his squirrel was atop it.

The wolfhound growled, the cat hissed, and Aidan lost his footing and the pole tilted too much for him to right it again. Before she knew it, the caber was on the ground without having been thrown, and Reid was back on Aidan’s shoulder.

“And the winner o’ the caber toss, keeping his title fer the tenth year in a row is Storm MacKeefe,” shouted the announcer. The bagpipes started back up and the drums did a roll, signaling the end of the competition.

She looked out to see Onyx and Ian collecting their pets and Aidan clenching his jaw while he offered his congratulations to Storm.

“Let’s go get some haggis, Niall,” said Renard and they stepped around the women.

“Wait a minute,” said Wren, holding out her arm to stop him. “Renard, did you and Niall let the animals loose so your father would win the caber toss again?”

“We dinna ken what ye’re talkin’ aboot,” said Niall, his eyes darting over to Renard nervously.

“That’s right,” Renard added.

“All right, go on,” she said, and they ran away quickly.

“Do ye think they did?” asked Effie.

“Renard has always idolized Storm ever since he found out Storm was his father,” said Wren. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a little foul play was involved here, as Renard has always been a sly one.”

“Well, it did look as if Aidan was goin’ te win,” said Effie.

“Aye, it did,” agreed Wren with a nod of her head.

“It’s probably better thet he didna win,” said Effie. “After all, he already won one event, the same as his friends.”

“Thet’s right,” said Kyla, having overheard the conversation and coming over to join them. “If Aidan won more events than Ian or Dagger, ye ken me brathair would ne’er let them ferget it.”

“And then they would constantly be challenging each other and payin’ no attention te us,” said Effie.

“No attention at all.” Kyla looked across the field to Ian and crossed her arms over her chest.

“If Storm lost the title, he’d probably be sulking about it for at least a month or two,” said Wren.

“Hmmm,” said Effie, and they all just stared out at the men. Aidan saw them looking at them and headed their way. “I willna tell if ye two willna,” she said quickly before he could hear her.

“Thet’s fine by me,” agreed Kyla.

“Agreed,” said Wren with a smile and three of them clasped hands in front of them sealing the deal.

“What’s goin’ on?” asked Aidan, walking over to her and putting his arm around her. His squirrel chattered from atop his shoulder. “Are ye talkin’ aboot me losin’ the caber toss, me dream angel? Or shall I say, me wife?” He kissed her, and Effie knew how disappointed he felt.

“Nay, we dinna care aboot thet,” she said. “We were jest talkin’ aboot the men in our lives, me husband.” She looked up to him and smiled. “Or mayhap, I should I say, me MadMan MacKeefe – Aidan.”

FROM ELIZABETH ROSE

I hope you enjoyed Aidan and Effie’s story. Through my research, I found rumors that the actual Stone of Destiny may not have been stolen by King Edward I in 1296, but instead switched out for a fake, while the true stone was safe in hiding. Instantly, I knew I had to write this into my story.

While the Stone of Destiny that we all know is red sandstone, it is said the actual one was black basalt and had ancient hieroglyphs on it. After all, if the true stone had been stolen, why didn’t the Scottish demand that the English give it back, or at least try to get it themselves? Research shows the Scots never even made an attempt to save their coronation stone that meant so much to them. So in my eyes . . . it was because they already had the true one somewhere in hiding.

Now available is the last book in the series -  Ian – Book 3.
And in case you’ve missed the first book of the series it is Onyx – Book 1.

Also, if you’d like to read the stories of Madoc, as well as his sister, Wren, and her husband, Storm, who make guest appearances in this book, you can do so by reading Lord of Illusion and Lady Renegade, part of my Legacy of the Blade Series.

THE LEGACY OF THE BLADE SERIES

Watch book trailer video

Prequel

Lord of the Blade

Lady Renegade

Lord of Illusion

Lady of the Mist

Or if you’d like to read about Onyx’s sisters and their romances, you can do so in the Daughters of the Dagger Series.

DAUGHTERS OF THE DAGGER SERIES

Book Trailer

Prequel

Ruby – Book 1

Sapphire – Book 2

Amber – Book 3

Amethyst – Book 4

Please be sure to visit my website at Elizabethrosenovels.com for more information and to subscribe to my blog in order to receive updates about new releases. You can also read excerpts from any of my novels on my website as well as get sneak peeks at covers of upcoming books. And remember that there are other authors by the same name, but my novels can be identified by the rose on every cover. Be sure to take a look at my new book trailer videos as well. If you’d like to follow me on twitter, my handle is ElizRoseNovels, and my facebook is Elizabeth Rose – Author (don’t forget the dash.)

ABOUT ELIZABETH ROSE

Elizabeth Rose is a bestselling multi-published author of over 50 books. She writes medieval, small town contemporary, western, and paranormal romance. She resides in the suburbs of Chicago, and loves to garden.

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Christian Thompson is killed but refuses to pass into the afterlife because of his need to shelter his daughter from her cruel mother. He soon discovers there are others like him, other spirits trapped between the world of the living and the dead. He joins the Lost Souls in their struggle against a dark evil that threatens them all.

Lost Souls: Imperfection – Episode 2

Sam and her brother Ben, along with their new friend Christian, have just defied the leader of the Lost Souls. Outcast from their former group, the three of them battle the dark forces of the Changed on their own. With the help of their old friend, Eugene, they investigate the mysterious disappearance of one of their Lost Soul brethren. As the investigation deepens, they come to the chilling realization that their nemesis, Scala, has escaped his centuries-old prison with revenge on his twisted mind. A demonic possession leads to grave consequences and the Lost Souls must make a difficult choice between life and death for an innocent victim.

Lost Souls: Deception - Episode 3

Sam, Ben and Christian continue to battle the dark forces of the Changed, the inhuman monsters who feed on the energy of their Lost Soul brethren. After receiving surprising news about the whereabouts of Sam and Ben’s sister Cora, they arrive at a friend’s to investigate. As their search deepens, Ben becomes consumed with trying to save Cora, taking a very dangerous path that puts himself and everyone around him in jeopardy. Treachery and deception threaten their group as they discover nothing is as it seems…

Lost Souls: Altercation - Episode 4

Sam and Christian have mysteriously disappeared. An unlikely group of allies is formed as Damien, Ben and Eugene search for their missing friends. With the calming presence of Sam gone from his life, the urge to make the Jump into a human grows dangerously strong inside of Damien. To add to their anguish, a powerful new menace threatens destruction for both Souls and humans alike. Can they find Sam in time to stop Damien from making the Jump? Can they stop this new foe from gaining strength and building a deadly following? Read Lost Souls – Altercation to find out!

For More information on any of these books or other novels by Laurel O'Donnell, please visit her website at www.laurel-odonnell.com.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

PROLOGUE

England, 1373

“Ready or not, here I come!” a young girl’s voice cried out in the distance.

Solace Farindale pressed a hand over her mouth and giggled, scrunching lower behind three bales of hay.  She didn’t know where her friend Gwen was hiding because as soon as Helen had begun counting, she’d run into the barn and dove behind the hay.  Lillian, her maidservant, would no doubt be angry she had dirtied her new velvet dress, but Solace couldn’t resist such a perfect hiding place.  The sweet smell of straw filled her nose, and several strands tickled her back as she settled into her spot.  She loved coming to visit Helen on her farm.  She and Gwen had begged their fathers to let them go, just for the afternoon, and after much pleading the men had reluctantly agreed.  It was half a morning’s ride from Gwen’s home, but well worth it.

Finally, after a brief moment of expectant waiting, Solace peeked through a slit between the hay bales.  The barn was empty.  Several stalls that used to house horses now stood vacant.  Solace knew Helen’s parents had to sell the beasts off because their crops had yielded a poor harvest last year.  Solace scanned the narrow area of the barn that she could see through the opening, but there was still no sign of Helen.  She shrugged and settled back to wait.

Then she heard the barn door creak open.  Her eyes widened and again she placed a hand over her mouth as she slid lower behind the hay, afraid her giggles would give her away.  But there was no scurry of searching feet, no calls of her name.

Solace shifted and peered through the slit between the hay bales.  She glimpsed a woman grabbing a rusty bucket from the ground and carrying it to an empty stall across from her.  It was only Helen’s mother, Anne.  Solace’s gaze flew to the door.  Where is Helen? she wondered.

Anne placed the bucket on the ground next to a small pile of seeds.  She scooped up a handful with her cupped palm and dumped them into the bucket.

“Good afternoon, Anne,” a man called out.  His deep, guttural voice gave the greeting a harshness that belied the innocence of his words.

Solace heard Anne gasp and she tilted her head, leaning closer to the narrow opening between the bales.  She saw two men dressed in chain mail lurking near the door and one man standing inside the barn.  She nervously twirled a strand of dark hair around her finger as a feeling of fear engulfed her.  The tall man wasn’t a good man.  She could sense the evil in him, as if a dark cloud belonged over his head.  His hair was immaculate, styled in a fashionable bowl-cut, black as the night.  The red velvet of his jupon was tailored to his chest and arms, padded somewhat at the chest and shoulders to accent their broadness.  The collar reached all the way to his neck.  He had the coldest blue stare she had ever seen.

“Lord Randol,” Anne greeted with a slight bow.

Randol sauntered closer to her.  “Looks like you’ve kept the barn in good order.”

“It’s our living, m’lord.  We take good care of our things.”

“Perhaps you should take as good care of your lord,” he grumbled.  “Where’s your husband?”

“In the fields, of course, m’lord,” she replied.

Solace watched lord Randol nod as if he already knew what Anne would say.  “I’m here for my taxes, Anne.”

“M’lord, my husband explained to you that the rains and the flooding have washed out most of the crops.”

“You’re three months behind in your payments, Anne,” Randol interjected.

Solace saw Anne wring her hands and she sensed something terrible was coming, but she didn’t know what to do.

“I realize that, m’lord,” Anne said.  “But we have nothing to pay you with.  You have all our animals.  We have no coin, no –”

“Coin is not what I’m asking for.”  He reached out and ran a finger along the bare skin at her throat.

Solace watched with growing fear as Anne’s eyes widened in outrage and her slender fingers slapped lord Randol’s large hand aside.

“You go too far this time,” Anne retorted.  “You’ve taxed us until we’ve become unable to pay.  You’ve taken everything from us.  I will not give you myself, too!”

“You have little choice, Anne,” Randol said, stepping closer.  “With nothing else to give, it’s either that or your house.”

Anne stepped away from him.  “Sleeping in a field is preferable to your touch,” she spat.

“You won’t think that come winter,” he murmured, but loud enough for Solace to hear.  Again Randol reached out to Anne, this time grabbing hold of her dress and yanking it from her shoulder.

Solace wanted to flee, wanted to escape the horrible man, but she dared not move.  The two men lurking in the doorway would surely see her.

Anne bolted for the door.  Randol caught her in his arms, pulling her hard against his chest.  “Such a willing wench,” he whispered, licking her ear.

Anne whirled, striking out at her attacker, raking her nails down his face.

Lord Randol howled his disbelief and rage, and pushed her to the ground.  He raised his fingers to his gashed cheek.  “Bitch,” he snarled, studying the blood on his hand.  He undid his belt and let his breeches fall to the ground.

“No!” Anne screamed, struggling uselessly as Randol dropped to his knees.

The hay bales blocked Solace’s view of Anne.  All she could see was lord Randol’s face, the ugly grimace that twisted his features.  She had never seen anything more vicious in her life, the way his lips sneered like a snarling animal’s, the way his cold eyes stared like a venomous serpent’s at Anne.  She heard Anne screaming and sobbing, saw her hands come up to push Randol away.  He ignored her flailing fists and continued to violently thrust himself at her.

Tears came to Solace’s eyes.  She didn’t know what was happening, but she knew that Anne was being hurt.  She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block out the sounds of Anne’s cries.

Finally, lord Randol rose to his feet and wiped an arm across his slashed cheek.  Without a word, he turned away.

Hot tears ran down Solace’s cheeks.  She was trembling all over.  She fought to choke back her sobs, terrified of what the man would do to her if he found her.

Anne’s moans filled the air.  Solace watched lord Randol take a menacing step toward the woman, and a bright flash of silver flared across her vision, arcing toward Anne.

Solace blinked.  After that, she heard no more sobs.  Shivering, she huddled behind the hay, praying the men would go away, praying they wouldn’t find her.  She barely heard Randol’s last words.  “Never strike a lord.”

Solace listened to the silence that followed for a long moment.  Her muffled sobs sounded loud to her own ears.  She was sure Randol would discover her.  Please, she silently begged, don’t let him find me.

Then she heard footsteps, booted feet treading over the dried hay of the barn floor.  They were getting louder, closer.  She hugged her knees tightly to her chest, squeezing her eyes tight.  Tears forced their way from the corners of her clenched lids, sliding down her small face, bringing their salty bitterness to the edges of her lips.

The footsteps drew closer.  And then stopped.  Something called to Solace, compelling her to open her eyes, urging her with an undeniable force to lift her head.  Slowly, she opened her wet eyes to stare into the face of evil.  Dark, malevolent eyes glared at her, eyes that trapped her in a hypnotic grip.

Something glinted in the morning’s sun, reflecting light into her eyes.  Her gaze shifted to the sword Randol held in his hand.  A smear of blood marred its smooth, flat surface.

Solace couldn’t take her eyes from it.  She trembled with a ferocity that should have moved the earth.  Suddenly, the blade lowered.

Her gaze remained locked on the empty air where the weapon had been.

Then, finally, Solace heard the footsteps recede and the barn door swing closed.  Still, she couldn’t move.  She was afraid of what she would find if she left her hiding spot.  What if the men hadn’t really gone?  What if they were waiting to hurt her?

Finally, after a long moment of silence, Solace pushed herself forward, peering around the hay, her body still shaking with fear.  The barn was empty...

...except for Anne lying on the ground.  Solace wanted to see if she was all right.  But she was afraid.  So afraid.  You have to help her, a voice inside her urged.  Solace dragged herself out from behind the hay and was surprised to find that her shaky legs held her up.  She approached Anne very slowly.  Was she dead?  Her eyes were closed.  Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.  Her chest wasn’t moving.

Solace wiped at her moist eyes, trying to push aside her tears so she could see.  Suddenly Anne’s eyes opened and pinned Solace where she stood.

Solace jumped back, stifling a scream.

“Solace,” Anne whispered, a gurgle of blood issuing forth from her lips as she tried to speak.

Solace shook her head, refusing to move from her spot.  The sight of Anne’s blood terrified her.  She spun toward the door, wanting to run, wanting to flee and pretend this never happened.  But then Helen came to her mind.  Helen would want to know why she didn’t help her mother.  Helen.  Where was she?  She turned back to Anne and moved stiffly to her side.

Anne reached out to seize hold of the hem of Solace’s velvet dress.  “Tell your father,” Anne coughed.  “Don’t let Randol get away with this.  Don’t let me die for nothing.”

Solace shook her head again, frightened.

“Please,” Anne begged.  “Tell Helen that I love her.”

Solace watched Anne’s head slump back to the earth, saw Anne’s hand release her dress and fall lifeless to the dirt.  She was dead.  Anne was dead.  Solace ran from the barn, tears streaming from her eyes, her sobs now loud and heavy in her throat.

***

Lord Farindale ran his hands over the parchment, spreading it out on the table before him.  He was a tall, imposing man with a thick tangle of brown hair, his full beard flecked with speckles of auburn.  He studied the plans for a long moment, tugging at his lower lip in thought.  Then, he raised green eyes to the man who stood on the opposite side of the table from him.  “This castle will take years to construct,” he said.

The man nodded, his bright blue eyes alight with approval.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “It will be a mighty asset.  A powerful home for you, my friend.  And also one of the strongest fortresses in all of England.”

A smile crept across Farindale’s lips.  “God’s blood, Erickson!” he exclaimed.  “I believe you want me to build this for the protection it will offer you!”

Erickson chuckled.  He was shorter and stockier than Farindale, with a receding hairline that was fast growing into complete baldness.  “I won’t lie to you,” he answered.  “A castle this strong will attract many fine knights.”

“Not to mention the knights my full coffers will attract.”

Erickson continued, nodding.  “It would be a relief to know that my neighbor, and my good friend, has such a large disposal of men at his service.”

Farindale laughed out loud.  He slapped the man on the back.  “It’s good to see you, Erickson.  But come, tell me truly what you think of the plans?  Where can I improve them?”

The door squeaked open, and the padding of feet caused the men to turn.  Solace raced across the wooden floor and Farindale opened his arms for her.  In the flickering light of the room’s candles, Farindale made out his daughter’s red cheeks and teary eyes.  “What’s wrong, darling?” he wondered, a tightness constricting his chest at her distress.

She buried her face in his shoulder, sobs wracking her tiny body.

“Where’s Gwen?” Erickson demanded.  “Where’s my daughter?”

Solace turned wet eyes to Erickson.  “She’s with Lillian.  And Helen.”

Farindale cast Erickson a glance over the child’s dark head.  “It’s all right, my love,” he whispered, turning his attention back to Solace.  He sat in a chair to cradle the small girl in his arms.  “What’s happened?”

“Oh, Father,” she wept, clinging to him tightly.  “It was horrible.”

He pulled back to look into her eyes, scowling.  “Tell me,” he ordered.

Her lower lip trembled, quivering with anguish.  “They killed Anne, Father,” she sobbed.

“Anne?” Farindale echoed, casting a confused glance at Erickson.

“One of Randol’s tenants.  They live on our border.  The girls went there this morning to play with her daughter.”

Farindale nodded, remembering.  “I knew we shouldn’t have let them go.  There’s nothing but trouble to be had in Randol’s lands.”

Erickson knelt beside Farindale to stroke Solace’s soft curls.  “Who killed her?”

Solace turned large, green eyes to Erickson.  She was crying so hard she could hardly speak.  “L—L-Lord Randol and his men.”  She turned her eyes to her father.  “He hurt Anne b-because she couldn’t pay her taxes.  He d-did something horrible to her.  And then he stabbed her with h-his sword.”

Farindale clenched his teeth and pulled her head to his chest, trying to calm her, but Solace continued to cry.  “Did he hurt you?” he demanded, every muscle in his body tensing.

“No,” Solace wept.

Farindale crushed her in an embrace born of relief.

The door opened and a thin woman dressed in black bobbed a curtsey to lord Farindale.

Farindale reluctantly released his hold on his daughter.  “Go to Lillian, my love,” he whispered, wiping the tears from her red cheeks.  “She will get you some warm cider.”

Solace refused to let go of him, and Farindale held her tight for a moment longer.  He kissed the top of her head, feeling her tiny body shudder.  Then, he pulled her arms from around him, and urged encouragingly, “Go with Lillian.”

Solace looked up into his eyes.  “You have to stop him,” she said sincerely.  “You can’t let him get away with this.”

Farindale stared down at his young daughter in shock.  Her face was wet from tears, her cheeks and nose red, her eyes swollen, her body trembling with fright.  But she was as serious as any adult.  He admired her in that instant.

“You won’t let Anne die for nothing, will you?” she wondered.

“Hush, child,” Farindale said, wiping the tears from her cheeks and stroking her rebellious head of curls.  “I’ll speak with you later.”

Solace nodded softly, and inhaled a shaky breath as she slid from his lap.

Farindale watched her walk to the door and take Lillian’s hand.  She was a lovely girl, charming and innocent.  She was going to grow up to be a beauty.  She glanced back at him over her shoulder, those green eyes imploring him.  Then, she was gone, closing the door behind her.

Farindale’s hands clenched into fists.  “That bastard has gone too far.”

Erickson placed a hand on his shoulder.  “Easy, my friend.  Randol is a powerful lord.”

“Powerful and evil from all you’ve told me.”  Farindale turned to his friend to meet his blue eyes with resolve.

Erickson sighed in resignation.  “It’s true.  He treats his people cruelly.  This is not the first time I’ve heard of him killing a peasant.”

“But it’s the first time my daughter has witnessed it.”  Farindale’s fists clenched tighter.  “I’ve tried so hard to shelter her from the cruelties of the world.  I didn’t want her to see something like this.”

“She was on his land,” Erickson reminded him.

“Maybe it’s time we changed that,” Farindale said, moving to the table to stare down at the luxurious plans for his new castle.

Erickson joined him.

Farindale picked up the parchment.  “We’re not building a castle, my friend.”  He crumpled the parchment in his fist.  “We’re taking one.”

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER ONE

Thirteen Years Later

The beautiful fall day was fresh and warm, summer refusing to relinquish its grip.  Solace Farindale moved through the grassy field beside Gwen Erickson, their steps leisurely and relaxed.  Behind them, Castle Fulton loomed large, its many towers reaching high into the sky.  The drawbridge stretched across the deep moat, and dozens of villagers moved in and out of the castle as they saw to the business of the day.  A monk passed Solace and her friend on the way to the castle’s chapel, his head bowed, his hands clasped in silent prayer.  The pious men and their brown robes were a common enough sight at Castle Fulton.  The monks stopped at the fortress on their way to the Abbey of St. Michael, sometimes alone, but Solace had seen groups as large as fifteen.

In a field to the left, knights were practicing their jousting skills, their enthusiastic shouts filling the air.  Solace turned at the sound of hoof beats to see a man striking a quintain with his long lance.  The counterweight whirled quickly around and hit the man in the shoulder.  The man tumbled from his horse amidst laughter from his fellow knights.

Solace turned her attention back to Gwen.  “Is it serious?”

“I... I don’t know,” Gwen replied solemnly, wringing her hands in front of her.  “Father just seems so weak.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Solace said kindly.  But she had seen the pale color of lord Erickson’s face, the sagging of his shoulders, and knew his strength was waning.  “Have you sought physicians?”

“We’ve tried everything!” Gwen exclaimed.  “They gave him all sorts of herbs.  They studied his urine.  Even the bloodletting didn’t work!  More and more of our coin goes to trying to make Father well.”  Gwen looked up at Solace, her blue eyes dull with worry.  “Father doesn’t like me to concern myself with the finances, but I know that’s why we’re here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Father was hoping your father could loan him some gold,” Gwen said quietly, glancing around the field, not wanting the others to hear.  “But since your father is off with the king...”  Her voice trailed away.

Solace stopped to meet Gwen’s eyes.  “Are you in danger?”

“No,” Gwen insisted.  “It’s nothing like that.  It’s just that our coin is almost depleted.  Until the taxes are collected next year, there’s not enough to pay the knights who protect the castle.”

Solace nodded in understanding.  “I’m sure Father would give you the gold without any questions.”

“Yes, but will your stepmother?”

Solace opened her mouth to reply when the loud cry of a bird drew her gaze to the sky.  A magnificent falcon soared overhead, circling the field.  For a moment, she wondered if it had escaped from its owner.  But as her gaze dropped back to Gwen, she spotted the falconer in the distance over her friend’s shoulder.

A second bird, a peregrine falcon, was perched on his fist.  The falconer was holding onto the jesses, leather strips attached to the falcon’s legs, while offering it a lure.  The falcon ate the offered meat, devouring the entire piece.  The bird was beautiful, its golden brown feathers shining like expensive silk in the warm sunlight.  But it was not the falcon that caught Solace’s eye.

Every time she saw him, the falconer’s conspicuous good looks totally captured her attention.  He towered over the rest of the men by at least a head, and he now stood absolutely still, as if somehow knowing he was being studied.  He was marvelous to gaze at, a statue carved by the most skilled artisan.  He had an arrogantly symmetrical face that was breathtakingly gorgeous.  His aquiline nose was straight, his jaw strong, chiseled by a master sculptor.  His lips were firm, strangely...foreignly...sensual.  The sunlight suddenly seemed to be shining for him alone, glimmering over his black hair like a halo, making it gleam like onyx under the sun’s bright rays.

A small girl, Mary, ran to him from over the drawbridge.  She stopped at his feet, and the falconer turned to her.  Solace watched as the girl exchanged words with him.  She saw his gaze shift to the falcon on his wrist.  Then, he held out a piece of meat to the child.  Mary took the meat with a grimace and held it out to the bird with two fingers.

The falcon captured the meat and quickly ate it.

The falconer patted Mary on the head, and the girl beamed at him.

A warm sensation flooded through Solace.  There was something about this falconer that wasn’t what it seemed.

Gwen turned and glanced over her shoulder.  A devious grin stretched her lips as she turned back to face Solace.  “He is very handsome.”

Solace quickly looked away, blushing.

Suddenly, Old Ben limped by Solace and Gwen, cursing under his breath and muttering, “He’s no falconer.”  Old Ben was the oldest man they knew, his skin darkened and weathered by the sun.  Most of his hair was gone, and what few strands remained were as white as lamb’s wool.

Solace and Gwen exchanged a look and then smiled in unison.  Old Ben was always complaining about something!  Solace knew he took keen pride in his birds, always wanting everything done with perfection.  That was one of the reasons her father had hired him as his first falconer.

Old Ben waved his arms at the falconer, flapping them as if he were a great bird himself.  “Not like that!” he called out in exasperation.  “If n ya feed ‘er too much she’ll never go after the game!  Ya just give her a taste!”  Old Ben took the peregrine from the falconer and walked away, mumbling curses under his breath.

Solace watched the falconer for a long moment.  Tales had circulated about him in the castle, the gossip of frustrated wives and eager young women.  Tales of how his eyes could undress you with one penetrating gaze.  Tales of how his muscles rippled with explosive energy, muscles hidden beneath a layer of bronze skin.  Tales of how his deep, confident voice could make your limbs tremble with the anticipation of hearing your name whispered by him.

The black falcon cried out again and swooped in for a landing, digging its claws into the leather patch sewn on the shoulder of the falconer’s tunic.  The falconer barely acknowledged the bird’s arrival until Mary clapped with glee.  He smiled down at the girl as the black falcon shifted its position on his shoulder.  The falconer then set a hand on Mary’s shoulder and steered her back toward the drawbridge.

As he moved, Solace admired the ease, the natural grace with which the bird rode his shoulder, mildly intrigued that it was riding its master’s shoulder instead of on his forearm where it belonged.

Gwen gently cleared her throat.

Solace turned away from the falconer.  She clasped Gwen’s hands.  “Don’t worry,” Solace assured her.  “Everything will be fine.”

***

The needle stabbed Solace’s finger for the hundredth time, and she silently cursed.  She was sure this embroidery of a flower would turn out much better than her previous efforts.  She had been concentrating on it all evening, trying to block out the mundane conversation Gwen was having with her half sister, Beth, and her stepmother.  But as much as she tried to focus on her work, the image of the falconer kept haunting each stitch.  The beauty of his face, the perfection of his features, aroused her imagination.  She continued to try to push the distraction aside, but he kept materializing in her mind’s eye like a stubborn phantom refusing to be banished.

Solace glanced across the solar at Gwen to see her head bowed over her work, her fingers nimbly finishing up some fancy mending on her father’s leggings.  She wondered if the falconer’s manly physique was playing havoc with Gwen’s mind, too.  But as she watched her friend’s deft fingers move, she knew Gwen was not thinking of him.

She shifted her gaze to Beth.  Her wedding gown cascaded over her lap like a white shimmering waterfall.  Solace knew Beth’s thoughts would not be interrupted by some mysterious stranger; she was totally devoted to lord Graham Harper, her betrothed.

Her stepmother, Alissa, shifted in her chair, drawing Solace’s gaze.  Alissa ran a hand over her immaculate brown hair before once again bending over her husband’s tunic.  She was wearing a new purple houppelande, trimmed with white fur.  Alissa was always in fashion.  It would be a disgrace for her to be caught wearing one of Solace’s favorite dresses, a cotton gown.  Alissa’s elegance made her beautiful, but her haughtiness made her unlikable.  For a long moment, Solace watched her stepmother work.  The stitches were perfect, each the exact length of the one before it.

Solace dropped her gaze to her own embroidery.  No one in the entire castle would let her do their embroidering.  They weren’t mean about it, but they always happened to come up with some excuse when she offered her services.  This time it would be different, Solace had promised herself.  This time she would get it right.  Finally, she pulled the last thread through and tied it off.  Then, she flipped the fabric over, triumphantly gazing down at the flower.

Her expectant smile disintegrated into a disgruntled frown.  The flower looked more like a sick, fat snake than a beautiful rose.  She didn’t understand.  She had done everything right!  Woefully, she glanced up at the others.  Gwen was still bent over her work, her beautiful blond hair falling around the leggings she was stitching as if shielding them from Solace’s eyes.

Solace looked over at Beth.  Her skillful fingers quickly drew the needle in and out of the silk material, effortlessly creating a detailed floral design of roses and climbing ivy.

Finally, she turned her gaze to her stepmother.  Alissa was staring at her.  A wicked grin curved her thin lips.  “Finished, Solace?”  She set aside her husband’s tunic and stood.

Solace panicked as all eyes turned to her.  She felt Gwen’s excited, yet hopeful gaze; Beth’s disinterested eyes reluctantly turned to her.  “I--I--” Solace stuttered.

Then, her stepmother was standing before her.  She held out a hand to Solace.  “May I see it?”

Solace shoved the fabric behind her.  “It’s not finished,” she lied.  “I need to…”

Alissa nodded patronizingly, her brown eyes shadowed with contempt.  “Well, you just take all the time you need to complete… your flower.”

Beth snickered.

“If you need help, just ask me,” Alissa said and turned her back on Solace.

Solace cast a misery-filled glance at Gwen.  Her friend stared back, her eyes filled with sympathy.  They both knew she could never go to her stepmother for help.  Solace’s pride wouldn’t allow it.  Not when she heard her stepmother’s laughter behind closed doors, saw the disdain in her eyes.  Alissa would never let her forget that she was not her real daughter.

Solace was sure Alissa would be happier if she were dead -- or had never been born.  Solace’s mother had died when she was two, and her father had married Alissa less than a year later.  Beth had been born a year after that.

As Alissa retook her seat and picked up her father’s tunic to continue working on it, Solace sneaked the fabric out from behind her back.  She gazed down at it dejectedly.  It came so easy to the others, she thought sullenly.

Suddenly, the door swung open and a soldier clad in chain mail burst into the room, his breathing ragged and shallow.  The candlelight glinted off his damp brown hair, its thin strands plastered to his head with sweat.  As his gaze swept over the women, Solace noticed a frantic, if not desperate, look in his eyes and almost stood from her seat.

He approached Alissa, dropping to one knee before her.

“M’lady,” he said.  “Forgive the intrusion.”

“What is it, Fletcher?” Alissa wondered, barely raising her eyes to him.  “Aren’t you supposed to be off... guarding or something?”

Solace stood up, her ruined embroidery forgotten.  Yes, she thought, he was supposed to be on guard duty.  He was a border patrol guard, keeping watch over the boundaries of Fulton.  Her stepmother would have known that if she got up for the weekly reports the guards gave on Saturday morning.  But she preferred to sleep in, leaving that one duty to Solace.

“Yes, m’lady,” he said, lifting his gaze to her.  He cast a sideways glance at Solace, and she read the uncertainty in his eyes.

Solace stepped forward.  “What’s wrong, Fletcher?” she demanded.  “What’s happened?”

Fletcher stood to address Solace.  “It’s Baron Barclay, m’lady.  He’s amassed an army.  I estimate three thousand men.”

“Oh, pooh,” Beth said dismissively, waving her hand as if to fend off a fly.  “Does this mean my wedding will have to be postponed?”

Fletcher’s back straightened as he answered with scorn.  “He has building materials for siege machines and enough supplies to hold him for months.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Alissa gasped, bolting to her feet in outrage, clutching her husband’s tunic tightly in a clenched fist.  She tossed it to the floor, storming from the room, hissing, “Come!”

Fletcher marched after Alissa with Solace following closely.

“Where are you going?” Gwen called.

“We have to prepare!” Solace shouted.  “Barclay is going to lay siege to Castle Fulton!”

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWO

The darkness of the dungeon surrounded Logan Grey like a dense fog.  A stench of decay and urine reached his nose, attacking his sense of smell with an acrid sting, but he didn’t flinch.  He was used to the smell of the dying, having encountered it numerous times throughout his life in the thick of battle and on the dark, dangerous streets of London.

He sidled cautiously around a corner, knowing he was nearing the dungeon guard’s position.  After watching the changing of the dungeon guard for a week, he knew there was no better time to attempt a rescue and escape than at dawn.  Now only one man stood between him and his brother.  Logan wrapped his fingers tightly around his long, wooden staff.  Just a sharp rap on the head would knock the guard out long enough for him to find Peter and escape.

Peter.  He had not seen his brother since that fateful day thirteen years ago when Peter had begged him not to leave the castle.  All these years...  He had thought Peter was dead, killed along with his mother and father.  Then, a little less than three months ago, a close friend had told him that a friend had spoken with Peter… in Castle Fulton.  Logan had traveled straight to Fulton and had spent his days and nights seeking out any word, any sight, of his brother.  He knew he had to be careful of the questions he asked and of whom he asked them, which made his search all the more difficult.  But he had neither seen nor heard any mention of Peter in the week he spent at the castle.  It was as if he were hunting for a ghost.  The thought had crossed his mind more than once.  Perhaps the man had not spoken to his brother at all.  Perhaps it was a different Peter.  But Logan could not risk it.  He had to know for sure.

A memory flooded into his mind, with images so strong that he was powerless to ignore them -- he and his brother pretending to be valiant knights, clutching the wooden swords and shields their father had carved for them, wearing the “chain mail” their mother had embroidered for them, searching the dungeon for spies.  Now here he was, skulking through the dungeons like the spies he and Peter had so loved to hate.

Logan pushed the memory away and pressed himself against the damp stone wall to slowly, quietly, peer around the next corner.  A crackling torch lit the area before him, illuminating the guard who sat in a wooden chair with his back to Logan, his heavy boots propped on a second chair.  Logan froze as the guard tipped back on his chair, casually tossing a heavily gnawed mutton bone to the floor.  The man stretched, his dull and dirty chain-mail armor struggling to glisten in the torchlight.

Logan moved in, clutching the staff tightly in his hands.  He crossed the expanse of the room silently, moving quickly toward the guard.  Just a sharp knock and the man would have a headache, but little else to show for his wound.  Then a crunch came from beneath Logan’s boot and he froze, glancing down at the noise.  He raised his foot to see an old crumbled bone from a previous meal lying crushed on the stone flooring.

When Logan lifted his gaze, the guard was standing before him.

“What are you doing here, falconer?” the guard demanded.  His gaze flicked quickly to the staff in Logan’s hands, then darted back to meet Logan’s stare.

Logan remained quiet, certain the guard could understand the resolve now filling his own eyes, certain he could see his jaw clench tightly, certain he could sense his muscles coiling taut in his body.  He sharply flicked his wrist, bringing the bottom end of his staff up into his open, waiting palm.

The guard was just as quick, his hand curling around the hilt of his blade, his elbow bending, releasing the sword from its sheath.  He turned the drawn blade back and forth in front of him, the torchlight shimmering on its glossy silver surface, the fire’s glare dripping along the blade as if it were freshly drawn blood.

Logan could only think of Peter lying in a pile of his own refuse, chained to the wall like some pathetic caged animal, his skin hanging on him like some ragged piece of cloth as starvation ravaged his body.  He let his knees go limp, and his body suddenly dropped toward the floor as he whipped the end of the staff toward the guard’s legs.  The heavy wooden pole hit the man’s right knee.  The big man grunted painfully as his legs buckled beneath him, and he dipped his sword to the floor so the sharp edge could prop him up.

Logan swung the staff again, knocking the blade away.  The guard plummeted forward, landing on the stone floor with a tremendous thud, the metal covering his arm grating harshly against the rough rock.

Logan brought his staff down on the back of the man’s head.  The man grunted once and then was still.  Logan bent to retrieve the key from the guard’s belt.  He quickly removed the torch from the wall and disappeared down the dark corridor of the dungeon.

“Peter?” he called into the eerie veil of darkness lurking beyond the circle of light thrown from his torch.  But all that greeted him was an echo of his own voice and the plip plip of water dripping somewhere in the distance.  Logan stepped deeper into the black heart of the dungeon.

He stopped at the first cell door he came to, stepping closer to the small, rust-covered bars that lined the window opening.  He peered through them, calling softly, as if afraid to wake the dead, “Peter?”

A moan sounded from within.

It could be Peter.  It could be my brother...  or it could be some raving lunatic ready to smash my skull to get free.  Logan tightened his grip on his staff and stuck the key into the lock.  With a click, the thick wooden door opened.  He swung the door wide, thrusting the torch into the small cell.  The light cut through the blackness like the sun breaking through a hole in a blanket of dark clouds.  The occupant groaned, shielding his eyes.  He was a skeletal old man, his clothing ragged, sheared away from years of wear.  Beneath the ripped and tattered clothing hanging from his thin body, Logan could see open, pustulant sores.  Leprosy!

Logan backed quickly out of the cell, closing the door.  Dread filled him.  What if Peter…?  Logan shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the thought, even the possibility.

The next cell was empty, as was the third one, both containing only piles of old bones and scraps of clothing.  But as Logan swung the door open on the last cell, he saw a young man sitting cross-legged on the ground, his back to him.  His heart skipped a beat.  My brother!   He thrust the torch at the prisoner, trying to get a better look, taking a joyful step forward.  “Peter?” Logan whispered hopefully.

The man didn’t answer and Logan felt a tightening of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.  He moved closer, stepping around the still form.  As the light crept forward to fully reveal the man, Logan’s happiness died.

The face staring at him was not Peter’s.  The vacant eyes were dull with madness.

Logan backed out of the cell, shutting the door quietly behind him.  Bereft, he returned to the land of the living -- a living hell for him.  His brother was not here.  His hopes of the last months suddenly shattered into nothingness.  He was the only member of the Grey family left.  He cursed himself for even daring to hope.  He had learned long ago that hope was the longing of fools, and here he was again proving himself to be just that -- a fool.

He returned the torch to the wall and found himself staring down at the unconscious guard.  His head was tilted to the side, his neck bared to the dancing torchlight that flickered across his skin.  What are you doing here, falconer?  Logan clearly remembered the guard asking.  The man had recognized him.  Logan knew he couldn’t risk being imprisoned, being the subject of suspicion.  He couldn’t chance the guard telling anyone he had come to the dungeon.

Too much was at stake.

A strange calm settled over him as he raised his staff over his head.

***

Logan made his way through the keep to the main door leading outside to the inner ward.  He paused in the opening, listening to the calls of the guards from the walkways above.  He lifted his head to the sky.  It was bright red as the rising sun stretched its fingers over the world.  Even with the early hour there was much activity outside.  He heard steady, heavy pounding as scaffolds were being secured to the castle walls.  He could smell the acrid stench of burning oil being readied for the siege.  People rushed around as if the world were ending.

It brought back the memory of preparations for another siege, a siege from long ago.  Logan glanced at the open gate that led to the outer ward.  It had been there his brother warned him not to go.  He could still clearly see the image of his brother -- that worried expression on Peter’s face-- in his mind’s eye.

Just then the bells of the chapel chimed throughout the courtyard, bringing him out of his reverie.  Many people paused in their duties and hurried past him toward the morning mass.

He stepped outside into the sun’s rays.  The smell of burning wood from the Great Hall’s hearth filled the air.  He could almost taste the porridge he was certain was brewing in a cauldron over the hot flames.  Nearby he saw two men loading a final barrel of ale into a horse-drawn cart.  Opposite the ale house, three women were setting their laundry aside, quickly putting their scrubbing boards away.

Logan walked further into the ward, fondly studying his surroundings.  One of the biggest fears he’d had of returning to Castle Fulton was that a merchant or a servant would recognize him and call out to him.  But that had not happened.  No one knew him.  And the one or two he remembered probably recalled only a slim boy, not the man he had grown into.

His mind drifted back to his brother...  to his life here.  All the happy days of childhood spent inside these very walls.  But he could not remember how happiness felt.  He could not recall the joyful abandon of his youth.  It had been so long ago, another lifetime.  Now all he felt was bitterness.  His dreams were filled with regret, and he often awoke in a sweat, cursing himself for his impulsiveness.

Peter is dead, he thought.  And nothing can change that.  Not the idle gossip of friends, not all my hoping.  My family is gone.

The reborn memories of his brother had brought to life the grief he’d thought he had buried all those years ago.  He had believed he could control the anguish, but being back home was harder than he’d thought, as the nightmares attested to.  Now he would have to push aside the memories again, to concentrate on revenge, the only thing he had left.  Thank God, Farindale is not in residence, Logan thought.  I would slit his throat on sight.  His fists clenched.

“Yes!” he heard a voice call out.  “Ask Peter Grey!”

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THREE

Logan froze.  Tingles of bated excitement shot through his entire body.  He thought for a moment it was just his imagination.  He thought for a moment his ears were playing tricks on him.  He whirled to search for the person who had said his brother’s name.

She stood across the courtyard, her brown hair waving in the wind, her hands resting on a slim waist, a grin curving her full lips.  Perhaps he was dreaming and this woman was an angel come to tell him his brother was gone.

Then, she turned away and headed toward the gate to the outer ward.  Anxiety filled him.  Could Peter possibly be alive? he wondered, his breath suddenly tight in his chest.  This woman might be my only link to him.  Impulsively, he found himself racing after her, skirting carts and sheep to keep up with her, fighting to keep from losing sight of her.

Just as she left the inner ward and entered the outer ward, a man grabbed her arm, halting her movement.  Logan came to an abrupt stop, his gaze sweeping over him.  The man’s immaculate, bowl-cut, blond hair made Logan’s lip curl in distaste, as did the rich blue velvet jupon he wore, a sure sign that the pompous noble had not done a hard day’s work in his life.  The nobleman’s eyes quickly scanned the courtyard, and Logan’s instincts told him to stay hidden.  He melted into the shadows of the stone wall.

“You’re not at mass this morning,” the man said to the woman after surveying the ward.

Even though the wind was blowing toward Logan, pushing their words his way, he still had to strain to hear them.

“Neither are you,” she replied.  “Perhaps it’s an appropriate place for you to be... at your betrothed’s side.”

“There is much work to be done.”

“You haven’t lifted a finger yet, Graham.”

“I didn’t say I would do the work,” the man she called Graham said with a smile.

The woman pulled her arm free.  “No, you didn’t.  But I intend to do as much as I can.”

“As always, m’lady, your heart is quite large where the peasants are concerned.”

Logan saw her body stiffen, and he was surprised to find he was suddenly clutching his staff so tightly his knuckles hurt.

Another man, a peasant wearing soiled breeches and a patched tunic, burst through the open gates.  The man scanned the area, breathing hard, before running up to Graham and the woman, calling, “Lady Solace!  Lady Solace!  It’s Dorothy!”

“Dorothy?” Solace echoed.

“She’s having her baby!”

“Now?” Solace asked in disbelief.  “She isn’t due for a month.”

“Agnes is with her in the village now.  But no one else will stay.”

As Solace turned to snatch the reins of a horse tethered to a wagon, a tidal wave of dread surged through Logan, so powerful that it left him momentarily incapacitated.  Visions of his own impetuousness filled his mind.  She was so young, as he had been.  So naive.

Suddenly, he was bolting for her, seizing her arm.

The command was out of his mouth before he could stop it.  “Don’t go!”

She tried to pull her arm free, but his grip tightened.  “What are you doing?” she demanded in astonishment.  “Let go.”

For a moment, Logan didn’t speak.  She had the largest green eyes he had ever seen.  “Think about what you’re doing,” he finally ordered, forcing himself to look away from her dazzling eyes.

“I have no other choice,” she responded.

“There are always choices.”

Solace glanced coolly at his hand.  After a moment, he removed it from her arm.  She turned away from him and hoisted herself onto the horse, settling her petite form on its back.  She glanced down at him, her green eyes cool with disdain.  “I don’t see you rushing to her aid,” she snapped and spurred the horse.

“Solace, wait!” Graham called.

Logan watched Solace urge the horse into a run, her brown hair flapping behind her as the animal picked up speed.  He heard Graham mutter a curse, then the man raced toward the stables.  A second later, the noble was riding out of the castle after her.  Logan watched as she disappeared down the road to the village, his stomach churning with dread and frustration.  He knew Peter must have felt these same dark emotions as he’d watched him ride out of the castle.  Logan set his shoulders, steeling himself against the twisting of his stomach.  His jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached.  He had no time to be worrying about some impetuous woman.  He had to find his brother.

But how was he going to do that when his only link to Peter was riding out of the castle?

***

The nerve of that falconer, Solace thought for the hundredth time, trying to stop me from coming to Dorothy’s aid.  She knelt beside the small pallet Dorothy was lying on and smoothed the woman’s dark hair away from her sweaty face.  Poor Dorothy tossed her head from side to side, as if she were denying the fact it hurt so badly, groaning as she moved.  Solace cast a glance at the only other occupant in the room, the midwife Agnes.  Her wrinkled face was puckered in concentration as she waited between Dorothy’s spread legs.

A pounding at the door jarred Solace.  Is Barclay’s army here already? she wondered.  But the voice that came from behind the door was not Barclay’s, nor that of any other man to be concerned with.  “They’re coming!” Graham hollered from the other side of the wooden door.

Solace dipped a cloth into the basin of water beside the bed and dabbed the woman’s forehead, whispering, “Don’t worry, Dorothy.  Everything will be fine.”

Another pounding sounded at the door.  “Lady Solace!” Graham cried out again.

“Agnes?” Solace implored, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice.

“Not long now,” the old woman answered in an excited voice.  “I can see the head.”

“Solace!” Graham shouted again.

Solace cast an annoyed glance at the door before squeezing Dorothy’s hand and saying, “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t take long, dear,” Agnes cautioned.

Solace rushed to the cottage door and threw it open.  Graham stood before Solace with his fist raised as though he were going to pound on the wood again.  His hazel eyes were filled with desperation and anger.  Behind him, the street was vacant and grim, pale moonlight bathing thatch-roofed homes and wooden storefronts in a bleak light.  Solace frowned at the sliver of moon.  How had so much time slipped away? she wondered.

“They’re almost here,” Graham exclaimed.  “I’m sick of standing here waiting for you.  You’ve been inside all day.”

“The labor’s taking longer than it should,” Solace explained.

“One of the guards passed and told me Barclay was just outside the town.  They’ll start burning the village any minute!  We have to go!”

“I can’t leave Dorothy,” Solace insisted.

A flush of redness swelled into Graham’s cheeks.  “Well, I’m not staying!  I won’t give up my life just for some peasant and her whelp!”

Calm settled over Solace, and a fierce protectiveness filled her.  “Then go.  No one ever called you a brave man, Graham.”

Graham’s teeth clenched, and his hand tightened to a fist.  “If you weren’t a woman, I’d drive my sword through you.”

“I don’t think you’d have the courage,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing.

Graham turned his back on her and headed for the horses.

“Hook the horse to the wagon!” Solace called after him.  She cursed her free-speaking tongue as she closed the door.  She could have gotten him to stay with sweet words and a stroking of that enormous ego.  But she despised his weakness and cowardice.  Couldn’t he see how frightened she truly was?  Yet even though she was scared, she could not leave this helpless woman alone in the throes of childbirth.  Not even with Barclay and his army descending on her castle.

Barclay had picked their most vulnerable time to attack -- while her father was away at Parliament, planning to conquer the French with King Richard and leaving her stepmother in charge of Castle Fulton.  It just didn’t make sense, Solace thought.  Why was Barclay attacking Fulton?  They had never done anything to him.  He had never been an ally, but he had never been an enemy either.  She wondered what he hoped to gain by laying siege to Castle Fulton.  Did he need the lands?  Were his crops failing?

A scream from the room behind her jolted her back to reality, and she rushed to Dorothy’s side.  She grabbed the cloth from the bedside and dabbed the woman’s forehead, turning to look at Agnes.  The woman’s wise old eyes were centered on the new life about to be born.  Solace wanted Agnes to leave and seek the safety of the castle.  As she opened her mouth to tell her so, Dorothy’s cry rent the air and Solace turned to whisper soothing words to her.

It wasn’t long afterward that the first cry of life resounded in the room.

“Get them ready to move,” Solace whispered hurriedly to Agnes.  “I’m going to check on the wagon.”

As soon as Solace stepped from the building into the night, the strong scent of smoke stung her nose.

Barclay was in the village!

She spotted the wagon and horse tethered near the side of the house and gave a brief prayer of thanks to God that Graham had not left them stranded.  She whirled toward the house to find Agnes helping Dorothy from the building.  Dorothy clutched a small baby girl wrapped in blankets tightly to her bosom as she hurried from the cottage.  Solace grabbed Dorothy’s arm, helping her into the back of the wagon.  She turned to assist Agnes, but the woman was already easing herself into the cart.

Solace ran to the front of the wagon and climbed in, lashing the horse, driving him down the vacant street toward the castle.  She gripped the reins tightly, wishing desperately that some of the soldiers or mercenaries had accompanied her, but she had left in such a hurry the only one who knew she had gone was Graham... and that falconer.  If handsome looks were bravery, she would be as safe as a kitten curled up beside a roaring hearth.

The wagon hit a bump and Solace was almost knocked from her seat, but she held onto the reins with two hands and drove the horse on with a snap of her wrists.  She quickly glanced over her shoulder into the back of the wagon to see Dorothy holding the baby to her breast, shielding the infant from the rough ride as best she could.

Smoke from the burning village swirled around Solace, blown by the fierce winds.  The gusts whipped her hair wildly about her.  She turned around to face the road, wishing she could make out the welcoming sight of an open drawbridge, but she was still too far away to see in the darkness.  Her heart pounded in her chest.  She had to make it.  If not for her own sake, then at least for the sake of the mother and her newborn babe.

***

Logan paced the battlements, just as his father must have done all those years ago.  He clenched and unclenched his hands.  Graham had returned a few moments ago and announced that Solace was still in the village.  Where the hell was she? Logan wondered.  Around him, soldiers looked for Barclay’s troops, but his gaze swept the road before the castle for a glimpse of the girl.  In the far distance, a line of fire preceded the attacking army, a line that grew hotter and brighter as the torch-wielding warriors moved closer.  Even the falcon at his shoulder constantly shifted position, darting its head this way and that, its large brown eyes wide and alert.

Lady Alissa stood at the walls not far from him.  He heard her mutter soft curses beneath her breath.  Her hair was hidden by a red-horned headdress, which made her look like the devil himself.  Her eyes were narrowed with anger, her hands balled.

Had father been that angry with me?  The thought entered Logan’s mind unbidden.  He tried to push aside his worry for the girl and concentrate on finding Peter.  But he needed Solace to know where to begin.  A muted curse slipped from his lips.

Alissa placed her fists on the stone wall, her narrowed eyes relaxing as determination filled them.  Resolution squared her shoulders, and she raised her chin.

Logan felt doom settle like a lead ball in the pit of his stomach.  He knew the words she was going to speak, had wished many a night that his own father would have made the same command -- to save the castle, to save his family.

She opened her mouth just as Logan whirled away in despair to glance at the road.  In the soft glow of the moonlight, he spotted a wagon racing toward the castle.  He breathed a small sigh of relief and closed his eyes briefly in thanks.  But lady Alissa’s words brought his eyes wide in shock.

“Close the gates,” she said.

“She’s there!” Logan shouted, pointing his finger at the wagon.

Alissa cast a dangerous glance at Logan, her brown eyes burning, and then whipped her head to face her guard.  “Do as I say,” Alissa ordered.  “Close the gates!”

***

Solace’s wagon came racing out of the village toward Castle Fulton.  Her heart stopped and her breath caught in her throat as she saw the drawbridge being raised!  It had to be a mistake!  Solace watched with horrified eyes as the drawbridge continued to rise, the heavy wooden planks now starting to take the form of an impenetrable door instead of the entrance to safety.  The horse snorted gruffly as its hooves churned the ground, kicking up clumps of mud in their wake.

“M’lady!” she heard Agnes gasp from behind her.

“Get down!” Solace yelled back over her shoulder, afraid to take her gaze from the moat for even a second.

The thought of trying to leap the widening gap flashed through her mind, but she quickly realized how dangerous that would be, especially considering the new life lying cradled in a woman’s arms a few feet behind her.

The horse raced forward, seemingly oblivious to the danger ahead, the fires burning behind it pushing it on.

Solace pulled back sharply on the reins, but the horse continued to charge forward, fear fueling its speed.  “Whoa!” Solace cried out, her arms aching with the effort to keep a firm grip on the thick ropes clutched in her fingers.

The drawbridge continued to rise, revealing the dark waters of the moat hidden beneath it.

“Whoa!” Solace cried out again.  She jerked hard on the reins, desperate strength empowering her effort, but the horse raced on.

The wide, deep gap in the earth loomed closer.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER FOUR

“Look!” Agnes cried out from behind Solace.

Solace glanced up from the horse and watched with widening eyes as the drawbridge suddenly, miraculously, began to lower.  The wooden planks moved closer and closer to the ground.  Someone must have seen them approaching.  She again tugged on the reins, but the fires burning in the village behind them pushed the horse on, rendering her efforts useless.  They were now only a few dozen feet from the drawbridge.  It was coming down slowly.  Too slowly!  It wasn’t going to be down in time!  The pounding of the horse’s hooves thundered in her ears.  She closed her eyes, giving a quick prayer for the baby.

Solace heard Agnes shriek as the wagon hit something and shook roughly from side to side.  Then the sound reverberating in her head changed, growing even louder as hooves now pounded on wood instead of dirt.

Wood!  She opened her eyes to see the castle entrance looming over her.  They had made it!  The drawbridge had lowered with only seconds to spare.

Solace maneuvered the horse beneath the gatehouse and into the outer ward, relief washing over her.  As soon as the horse stopped, Solace leapt from the wagon, ignoring the outstretched hands of help from soldiers.

The moment her feet hit the ground, Solace raced to the back of the wagon.  Other peasants were already helping Agnes and Dorothy from the cart as Solace reached them.

Dorothy glanced at her, holding her squalling infant to her breast.  “Thank you, m’lady.  If it wasn’t for you –”

“You must be exhausted,” Solace interrupted, forcing a smile to her lips.  “Go get some rest.”

Solace watched Dorothy move away, a crowd of well-wishers surrounding the new mother.  As Agnes cast Solace a weary grin of approval before following Dorothy, a proud surge of accomplishment swelled inside Solace.  Then, just as quickly, the energy drained from her body.  It had been an exhausting day.  She turned toward the keep, intending to follow her own advice.

Suddenly, a sharp blow was delivered to her cheek by a horned demon!  Shocked into silence, Solace could only face her stepmother with an open mouth, her cheek a bright red with the imprint of Alissa’s rage.

“How dare you risk our lives?” Alissa snarled.  Solace raised a hand to her stinging skin as Alissa continued, “If Barclay had gained entrance to Castle Fulton because of you, I – I –”  She clenched her teeth with anger.

Solace could see the reined fury in Alissa’s balled fists, and she slowly lowered her hand from her burning cheek, raising her chin defiantly before her stepmother.

“I – I would have seen you hung!” Alissa desperately, futilely, finished.

Solace tried to defend her actions.  “Dorothy needed help.  I knew – ”

“You knew nothing except your own selfish needs.  When it comes to the welfare of this castle and these villagers you will follow my strict orders, is that clear?”

Solace stood her ground.  She had done nothing wrong.  She had helped Dorothy and her baby.

“Is that clear?” Alissa demanded through clenched teeth.

Solace was not ready to concede to her stepmother.  “What I did was not wrong,” she insisted.

“You are a selfish, irresponsible girl,” Alissa hissed.  “Incapable of thinking about anyone but yourself.”

Tears burned Solace’s eyes, but she kept them in check.  “Dorothy never would have made it to the castle if I hadn’t gone to her,” Solace answered softly.

“Then you are not only selfish, you are stupid,” Alissa sneered.  “Stupid to risk your life so easily.”  Alissa whirled away from Solace, her shoulders rigid, her feet slamming the earth with each step.  Her blue samite dress stirred up dust about her feet, like little whirlwinds surrounding a mighty tornado.

When Alissa disappeared into the keep, Solace finally found the strength to move.  She took a stiff step and saw no one had yet tended her horse.  She walked to the horse and lifted her hands to the bridle.  She tried to remove it, but her hands were trembling.  Solace glanced over the horse’s mane at the castle wall.  There, a line of peasants and soldiers stared at her.  You should have been here to help with the preparations, a tiny voice inside her accused.  But Solace refused to admit what she had done was wrong.  Dorothy had needed her help more than anyone.

Her stepmother always found fault with what she did.  Nothing was ever right.  Nothing she did was good enough.  She had learned to live with that, to accept rejection and disappointment from her stepmother.  The things she did were to please herself.  Or to help others.  Not for her stepmother.  Not anymore.

Then why do that woman’s words hurt so much? she wondered.

Solace clenched her hands into fists around the bridle.

Warm hands suddenly surrounded hers.  She glanced up quickly to find charcoal eyes staring at her.  The falconer eased the bridle from her fingers.

“Go,” he murmured, and Solace felt the word through her entire body, like a tiny tremor.

She dropped her hands to her sides and stepped back.  He wasn’t looking at her any longer, but freeing the horse from the wagon.  She watched the way his strong, capable hands unhooked and untethered the bridle and the reins, the way his dark hair waved about his shoulders in the soft breeze that blew over the castle walls, the way his shoulder muscles bunched and released beneath his tunic as he tended to the animal.

He stopped moving and turned to stare at her.

Solace smiled shyly like a small child caught in the act of reaching for candy.  “Thank you,” she finally said.

He didn’t reply as he turned back to finish working.

Reluctantly, Solace backed up a few steps and turned away, moving across the courtyard toward the keep.

Somehow the falconer’s kindness had taken the sting out of her stepmother’s words.  Still, she could not help but feel guilty about endangering so many lives.  It was something she hadn’t considered, but she knew she should have.

She brushed past guards stationed near the doorway and headed into the hall, moving deeper into the keep where the living quarters were.  She moved down the torch lit hallway toward her room.  She wondered why the falconer’s touch had soothed her as it had.  His hands were so much larger than her own.  But his touch... it had been warm and gentle.  She grinned at the strength it had given her, the sudden sense of security.

“You find strange things amusing,” a thick voice from the darkness whispered.

Solace whirled, gasping, clutching her hands to her heart.  Guilt overwhelmed her, as if she had spoken her words aloud.

“Your cheek is still red with your stepmother’s affection, yet you have a smile on your lovely lips.”  Graham stepped into the light of the flickering torch.  Shadows slithered across his face like dark snakes.  His blond hair blazed red with the light of the torch.

“You frightened me,” Solace whispered, willing her pounding heart to slow.  “And yet I should have expected to find you in the keep.”

“Just protecting your sister,” he said.

Solace thought she heard a mocking tone to his voice.  She narrowed her eyes.  Graham was betrothed to her sister for six months now.  Six months too long in Solace’s opinion.  She didn’t see what her sister saw in him.  Graham was a coward, always hiding from battle, always hiring men to do his work.  And there were rumors that he had been seen with more than one servant.  But Beth professed to love him very much, and Solace was trying desperately to get along with him for her sake.  Still, it wasn’t easy.

“Yes,” she murmured.  “That’s the perfect place for you.  Hiding in her shadow.”  As soon as the words were out, she cringed inwardly.

She saw him rise up, stiffening under the insult; then she sighed slightly and brushed a lock of dark hair from her brow.  “I’m sorry, Graham.  You know I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes,” he said after a short pause.  “I suppose we’re all a little tense.  But you must tell me what you found so amusing a moment before.  I could use a break from this accursed talk of siege.”

Solace’s eyes widened slightly.  She couldn’t tell him she had been thinking of the way the falconer touched her, the way he had soothed her with a simple look from those silver eyes.  “I... I was thinking of something someone said earlier,” she lied.  She was never any good at lying and had to avert her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see through her tale.

“I thought you might have been thinking of some sort of revenge against your mother,” he said.

Solace’s gaze snapped up to his, and her brows furrowed.  He knew very well that she would never do anything to hurt Alissa.

He shrugged slightly, studying his nails.  “After the way she degraded you in the courtyard.”

Solace raised her fingertips to the mark on her cheek.

“It should have been you slapping her,” he added in a whispered tone.  “She was, after all, going to have you locked out of the castle.”

Solace gasped.  “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, yes,” he said.  “She had given the order to close the gates, even though we all saw you heading for the castle.”

Solace knew Alissa did not hold her in high regard, or even think of her as a daughter, but to do something so cruel was beyond even her.  “But the gates were open.  Surely she changed her mind.”

Graham could hardly contain a grin.  “No.  She never changed her order.  I’m not quite sure how they were opened.  I assume you can thank the gate guard for that.”

Solace stood dumbstruck, still not believing Alissa would lock her out of her own home, leaving her to Barclay.

“You poor creature,” Graham whispered, placing his hands on her shoulders.  “If there’s anything I can do for you...”  He stepped a bit closer to her.  “Anything at all, you need just ask.”

A prickle of warning went through Solace.  “That won’t be necessary.”  He was closer to her than he should be, closer than she ever wanted him to be.

“Graham!”  The voice came from down the hallway, and Solace whirled, grateful for the interruption.  She stepped away from Graham and turned to see Beth running toward them.  Her dark hair flowed behind her, shimmering softly in the torchlight.  A samite gown decorated with red and gold embroidered leaves covered her tiny body.  The warmth in her blue eyes hardened into cool disdain as her gaze moved from Graham to Solace.  She turned away from Solace to hook her arm through Graham’s.  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“I’ve been speaking with your sister,” Graham answered.

“Oh.”  Beth’s words were clipped.  “Hello, Solace.”

Solace nodded to her half sister, feeling a chill settle around her.  How nice it would be to have a sister with whom she could share her secrets.  But now that seemed impossible.  They had never been very close, and in the last year any semblance of sisterly affection had disappeared completely.  A little over a year ago, Beth had been enamored of a young knight who, she said, had pledged his heart to her.  She had met him at a Tournament at Court.  Then, one fall day he had come to visit Beth at Castle Fulton.  Beth had been so excited.  It was the first time she’d allowed Solace to share her joy, to be a part of her life.  Her half sister had planned to marry the young knight, Robert.  Live happily with him, bear him many sons.

He rode into the courtyard with all his armor shining and banners flapping.  Solace stood at her sister’s side, sharing in Beth’s excitement.  But from the first moment Solace met Robert, she knew something was wrong.  Beth was obviously so in love with the man, fawning all over him, that she was oblivious to the fact he was not paying her the slightest bit of attention.

It wasn’t but a week later that Solace was called in to see her father.  Beth was there, and it was obvious by her red eyes she had been crying.  Her father told her that he had sent Robert away.  Solace had turned sympathetic, if confused, eyes to Beth.  But when she went to comfort her, Beth had pulled away, snarling that she should not touch her.  It was then that Beth proclaimed it was her fault.  That Robert had fallen in love with Solace!  That she had stolen him away from her!

Solace pushed the memory aside and moved away from Graham and Beth, feeling like an intruder standing before their linked arms, for Beth’s narrowed eyes had told her she was not welcome.  Solace still wished the two of them to be friends, to be real sisters, and she refused to give up, even in the face of Beth’s chilly gaze.  “I was just going to change, but afterward I’m going to the Great Hall,” Solace murmured.  She took a breath, adding hopefully, “Care to join me?”

Beth raised an eyebrow.  “No,” she answered and turned Graham away to lead him down the hall.

Solace watched them go, and something close to longing filled her soul.  How nice it would be to be in love.  Unbidden, the falconer’s handsome features rose before her mind’s eye.  She glanced down at her hands where he had touched her, remembering the gentle warmth that had spread through her body as his flesh caressed hers.

How nice it would be to be in love, she again thought wistfully.  A winsome smile spread over her lips as she headed to her room.

***

Beth pulled Graham into an alcove, a tiny arrow slit behind them letting in the only light, a pale sliver from the moon outside.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling up into his hazel eyes.

Graham let his hands roam up Beth’s shapely figure until they cupped her breasts.

Suddenly, she pulled away from him and presented him with her back.  “I’ve been finding you too much with my sister lately.  If I didn’t know better, I would say that you were chasing after her.”

Graham pressed himself against her bottom, fully aware of the longing that ached just beneath his breeches.  “You know there is no one but you, Beth,” he cooed, touching her shoulders.

Again, Beth pulled away from him and turned to face him, her pout full and very practiced.  “I wish I could believe you.”

Graham lunged after her, pressing her back against the wall.  “You can believe me.  You know I want only you.  I would do anything for you, my love.”

“Prove it,” she whispered.

He began to lift her skirt, his lips nibbling her neck.

She pushed against his chest.  “I meant something different,” she whispered.

Graham pulled slightly back, confused.  Then a wolfish smile lit his lips and he began to turn her around, hiking her skirt over her bottom.  “You want it like a dog this time, eh?”

“No!” she objected, shoving his hands away.  She brushed past him to sit in the window seat.  Her eyes flashed with dangerous ideas.  “I was thinking... if it weren’t for Solace, all of this would be ours,” she said, indicating the castle.  “She is the only one who stands in our way.”

Graham quickly joined her.  “We knew that when we were betrothed.  It matters not to me,” Graham exclaimed.

Beth looked at him slyly.  “It doesn’t?  I know you asked Mother for Solace’s hand before you asked for mine.  Of course, Mother agreed, but Solace turned you down.”

Graham gasped.  “You know that?”

“I’m not a fool,” Beth said.  She rose and paced to the other side of the small alcove.  “To have Castle Fulton would mean wealth and power for you.”

“Beth, all I really want is you, I swear,” Graham pleaded.

“Spare me your declarations of love.  I care not.”  Beth turned to Graham, staring down at him haughtily.  “Marrying Solace isn’t the only way to get Castle Fulton.”

Graham’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“There is another way.”

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER FIVE

The late night was disturbingly quiet as Solace walked toward the outer gatehouse.  It was hard to believe that just outside the castle walls, thousands of men were preparing to steal her home.  Somehow, it just didn’t seem real.

She continued on through the courtyard.  Her body was urging her to sleep, but thoughts wouldn’t stop swirling about her mind.  She still couldn’t believe her stepmother had given the order to close the gates.  But what really surprised her was that Hagen, the gate guard, had deliberately disobeyed Alissa’s command, risking his life to help her.  Why would he do that?  She hardly even knew him.

She opened the wooden door and entered the gatehouse.  Two soldiers were stationed near the doorway; both straightened at her entrance.  They glanced at each other, and Solace saw the confusion in their gazes.

One of the men stepped forward, shifting his stance uneasily.  “M’lady, did you come here alone?”

“Yes,” Solace answered, a little baffled by the question.  She had traveled to the gatehouse many times alone.  And not once had any of the men questioned her.

“Is there something we can help you with, m’lady?” the other guard wondered.

“I’m going to speak with Hagen,” she replied, turning to head up the spiraling stone staircase leading to the upper floor of the gatehouse.  But then she halted, facing the men.  “Is there something wrong?”

The first guard ran a hand through his thick sandy brown hair.  “Well, no.  It’s just that...”  He cast the other guard a glance for help before continuing, “...with the Baron just outside the castle... well, mayhap you shouldn’t be walking around alone.”

“He’s outside,” Solace explained, “not inside the castle.”

The blond-haired guard bobbed his head.  “Yes, m’lady.”

Solace turned away from them, moving up the staircase to the second floor.  She scowled.  Were they truly worried for her safety?  Or was it something else?  She couldn’t help but wonder at their strange behavior.  She was safe in her own castle!

Solace entered the second-floor room, nodding to the two guards who stood near the door.  They straightened to attention as she walked toward the gate guard.

Hagen was a head taller than Solace, his mass of moppy red hair thick and uncombed.  Freckles splashed his cheeks.  He stood as she approached him.  “M’lady,” he greeted with a bow of his head.

“Hello, Hagen,” she said.  “May I have a word with you?”

He nodded his head and they moved to the far corner of the winch room.  As she crossed the room, Solace glanced at the wooden post around which thick ropes were wrapped, the mechanism used to raise and lower the drawbridge under Hagen’s orders.  She turned her attention back to the red-haired man next to her.  Hagen had worked for her father for over ten years.  He wasn’t a particularly ambitious man, and it had surprised Solace that he had taken it upon himself to open the gates for her, disobeying her stepmother’s direct order.  “I’d like to thank you,” she said softly.

“Me, m’lady?” he wondered.

“For opening the gates for me,” she added.

“Oh, ‘tweren’t me, m’lady,” he said, looking down at his boots.  “I mean, I woulda if the order was given.  Nothin’ against you.  It was just that...”

Solace’s brow knit in confusion.  “You didn’t open the gate?”

“I did,” he said.  “But I was forced ta, if ya take me meanin’.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I had closed the gate.  Me heart was breakin’, but an order is an order.  When all of a sudden, this demon came charging up the stairs.  He knocked over the two at the door and charged directly inta me.  Said if I didn’t open the gate he was gonna knock me teeth out.”  He shrugged.  “I opened the gate.”

“Who was he?”

“Don’t know, m’lady.  Never saw him before.”

“What did he look like?”

“If ya don’t mind me sayin’, he looked like a bloody demon.  Dark as night, except for those eyes.  They seemed ta glow!”

Solace nodded slightly, a disbelieving grin twitching her lips.  “Thank you,” she murmured.

“I’m glad I could do it, open the gate that is,” Hagen added.  “I’d hate ta see ya hurt.”

Solace nodded, calling forth a small smile.  To whom do I owe my thanks? she wondered.  And for what reason?  Was it Graham?  She almost laughed out loud.  Go against Alissa?  That was something Graham would never do.

“M’lady?”

Solace looked up at Hagen.

“Where’s yer escort?”

“Escort?” she echoed.  “I don’t have one.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady.  I know it’s not me place, but do you think it’s safe ta be out alone?”

“We’re in Castle Fulton,” Solace replied, growing tired of the argument.  “There is no safer place.”

Hagen glanced at the two guards at the door.  “We were informed early this evenin’ that there is a murderer in the castle.”

Solace straightened.  “What?” she gasped.

“We were told to keep a watch out.”

“The dungeon guard was killed, m’lady,” one of the men at the door added.

Solace’s mouth dropped open in shock.  “Why wasn’t I told?” she asked.

“Lord Harper said it wasn’t necessary to worry the ladies,” Hagen explained.

Solace’s eyes narrowed.  “Lord Graham Harper?” she gritted out between clenched teeth.

***

Steel gray eyes watched Baron Barclay’s army solemnly through an arrow slit in the wood hoarding scaffold.  A group of men were positioned a good distance from the moat, well out of range of the castle’s archers.  They continued construction on a trebuchet that when completed would hurl deadly projectiles over the castle wall.

Earlier that day, messengers from Barclay brought terms of unconditional surrender to lady Alissa.  She would have been a fool to surrender on such terms.  He was sure that Farindale would hunt her down and kill her if she did.  Many a lord would lose his life before losing his castle.  Logan knew this from experience.  He had been in more sieges than he had cared to think about.  Still, the pay had been good, and more important, the loyalties and favors he had gained were invaluable.

The Baron had amassed a good-sized army.  The line of soldiers and tents stretched as far back as Sullivan’s Hill.  Sullivan’s Hill...

His mind drifted back to another army, another time...

Castle Fulton rose up into the sky around him, its gray turrets reaching for the crimson-painted clouds like thick fingers grasping for the safety of the heavens above.  On the walkways of the castle wall, soldiers scouted the land for the coming army, their hard, callused fingers nervously tracing the hilts of their sheathed swords.  Archers checked their bows, plucking at the strings, and inspected their freshly cut arrows.  Around them, at the top of the castle walls, hoarding scaffolds were being built in preparation to drop hot, bubbling oil on any attackers.

He watched as a piercing cry drew the attention of one of the soldiers.  The armored man swiveled his head to watch a boy chase after a sheep that had strayed from the flock being herded into the castle.  Five other men were having great difficulty keeping the skittish animals in line.  Logan looked away from the men to the large carts of food, hay and other supplies that filled the road leading into the castle.  Villagers moved with quick desperation into the protection the large stone walls of Castle Fulton offered.

Nearby, another guard directed the incoming carts, his pointing finger darting in one direction, then another, shouting at the top of his lungs to be heard above the din.  A small calico cat leapt off of one of these carts and raced through the outer ward, darting between the legs of Logan’s horse.  The gray-speckled horse whinnied and reared slightly, but he steadied him with a firm hand.  He was a young boy of thirteen.  His black hair lifted in a breeze that swirled in over the walls and slowly resettled onto his broad shoulders.  He turned his gray eyes from the cat who disappeared into the inner ward to his brother who stood beside his mount.

“Don’t do it, Logan,” Peter begged, placing a trembling hand upon the horse’s neck.

A smile came easily to Logan’s lips; his gray eyes sparkled like the edge of a freshly drawn blade in the setting sun.

“It’s too big a risk,” his brother insisted, his brown eyes filled with worry.  “You‘re being foolish.”

“Afraid, Pete?” Logan mocked with a cynical twist to his charming smile.

Peter straightened his shoulders, but refused to give in to the goading.  “You know what Father will say if he finds out.”

Logan shrugged, his black hair waving defiantly in the breeze as he cast his gaze toward the open gate and the steady stream of villagers entering.  “Then he won’t find out.”  He turned back to his brother.  “Will he?” Peter turned away from Logan’s hard stare.  “Don’t worry, Pete.  I just want a look.  I’ll be back before the sun sets.”  He turned his steed and headed out through the outer ward gates and down the road into town.

“Be careful!” Peter called after him.

But Logan barely heard.  His mind was already on the sight that would greet him.  An army!  In full plate mail!  Riding huge war horses!  He had never seen an army.  How many knights will there be? he wondered.  How many foot soldiers?  He had accompanied his father to many tournaments, but that was nothing compared to an army!  He had to see them, just a peek over Sullivan’s Hill.  Then, he would return home...

But he never made it back.

Quickly, Logan pushed the bitter memories out of his mind.  Instead, he concentrated on Farindale’s downfall.  It wouldn’t be long now.  He just needed to find his brother.

And to do that he must find her.  Solace.  But how was he, a common falconer, going to impress the lady enough to get her to tell him where his brother was?  Perhaps the best approach was the direct one.  ‘Hello, m’lady.  You don’t know me, but I’m looking for my brother.  Yes, we’d like to kill your father, but pay that no mind.’

He groaned softly.  How could he ask her when she was the daughter of his enemy?  Perhaps he could say Peter was a friend.  But what if he was locked in the stocks?  How would it look for him to be searching for a man who was Farindale’s enemy?

Perhaps he should just keep his mouth closed and his eyes and ears open.  But where had that gotten him?  He could be here for years.

The thought of soft hands and full lips rose in his mind.  He cursed silently.  The wretched beauty’s image had plagued him the entire day.  Her stubborn stance against her mother was admirable.  And when the woman had struck Solace, a peculiar feeling of protectiveness had surged inside him.  Logan had even found himself stepping forward.

And now, late at night, instead of trying to formulate a plan to find his brother, he was thinking of her large green eyes and wondering what her full lips tasted like.

Why did it have to be Farindale’s daughter he thought of?  Why couldn’t it be some wench who would sate his lusting so he could get on with his mission?  Why couldn’t it be her sister?  She seemed willing enough, rubbing herself along the length of him, making it quite apparent she was more than interested in him.  But he was not in the least attracted to her.  He had seen her kind before, nobility with no honor, no loyalties.  He found himself sneering at the thought of Beth.  She was, indeed, beautiful.  But her blue eyes held no warmth, no compassion, no sincerity.  He could take her and enjoy it as much as taking a warthog.

Suddenly, the falcon on his shoulder shifted its weight slightly, and he could feel its claws press into the leather patch he had sewn onto his tunic.  Logan glanced at it for a moment.  Its brown eyes were wide and alert.

Logan glanced out of the slit in the scaffold, wondering what had caught the bird’s attention.  Barclay’s soldiers continued work on their siege machines.  Logan took a step to the other side of the hoarding to peer over the crenel of the castle wall.  His eyes scanned the courtyard below.  Torches hung near the outer gatehouse, throwing patches of light into the deserted ward.

It wasn’t until she stepped into a pool of light that Logan saw her exiting the gatehouse.  He scowled.  Now what would a lady be doing out this late at night?  And why would she be in the gatehouse?  What was Solace up to?

***

The next morning, Logan sat alone at the end of a table in the Great Hall, as always.  The peasants never sat near him and his bird, leaving him in peace.  Which was fine with Logan.  Fewer people to have to be cautious of.  A serving girl reached around him to refill his mug, then moved on down the table.  He dipped a sop into his trencher and chewed on the porridge-soaked piece of bread.  The falcon eyed the food with interest and Logan tossed him a small chunk of meat.

The falcon lifted its head, and Logan followed its gaze to see Solace marching up the aisle between the rows of tables that filled the Great Hall.  He straightened on the bench as he noticed her tiny fists were clenched, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowed with anger.  A grin twitched his lips and his eyes twinkled with amusement as he wondered who was going to be on the receiving end of her wrath.  As she marched toward the head table, servants stepped out of the path of the approaching fury and hounds slunk under tables for cover.

She stopped just short of the head table, facing her stepmother, Beth and Graham.  The conversation in the room gradually trailed off as everyone waited to hear her flare of temper.  Logan leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word.  The falcon on his shoulder shifted position, it, too, looking toward the head table.

Solace clenched and unclenched her fists.

Slowly, Graham raised his gaze from the trencher of porridge before him.  When his eyes came upon Solace, he smiled beatifically at her.

Solace stepped up on the platform that elevated the head table.  “I should have you clapped in irons!” Solace exploded with a barely reined fury.

“Solace!” Alissa hissed.

Solace placed her clenched hands on the table, leaning toward Graham.  “What gives you the right to command my guards not to tell me about a murderer?”

“A murderer?” Alissa blanched.

Logan froze, straining to hear the conversation as the entire room erupted in a flurry of astonished whispers.

“M’lady,” Graham said calmly, “I was only trying to protect –”

“Protect my sister.  Protect my mother.  But I need no protection from you.”

“What is this about a murderer?” Alissa asked, her voice hushed but firm.

“The dungeon guard was found with his head smashed,” Graham replied.

The next few exchanges were washed out as murmurs of disbelief swept through the Great Hall.  Logan clenched his fists, desperately trying to hear the conversation.  The rumblings ebbed quickly, and he heard Solace ask, “Were there any prisoners missing?”

“No,” Graham answered, leaning back in his chair.  “That was the strange thing about it.  The poor man wasn’t even robbed.”

Solace straightened away from the table.  “Did any of the prisoners see or hear anything?”

Logan’s hand closed around his mug of ale.  If they said anything, he would have to make another, more dangerous visit to the dungeon.  He lifted the mug to his lips.  He drank the ale, but didn’t taste it.

“None of them are talking,” Graham said.  “My dear, you needn’t concern yourself with this.  I’m handling it.”

“You?” Solace gasped.  “You couldn’t handle a murderer if you held a sword to his throat!”

“Solace!” Alissa hissed.

“Solace, I’m here and I plan to help with the siege in any way I can,” Graham said in a slippery voice.

“Then why aren’t you helping guard the castle walls?” she demanded.

“I feel I can be more helpful inside.”

“Solace,” Alissa said, firmly, “that will be all.  Graham is quite right.  This is a man’s job.  You can’t possibly handle the guards in a time of siege.  Much less a killer.  Good heavens, what would you do if you found out who it was?”  As she laughed, Logan’s spine stiffened.  He couldn’t stand her condescending tone.  “Tell him to stop killing your people...  please?”

Graham joined in the laughter.

Solace glared at her stepmother.  “No,” she whispered.

“Go, child,” Alissa said, flicking her wrist as if swatting away an annoying fly.  “Go practice your embroidery.”

Solace stood motionless for a long moment.  Logan felt her anguish.  He felt her embarrassment.  She should say something, he thought.  Defend herself.

But she didn’t utter a word.

Solace turned away and moved out of the Great Hall, holding her head high.  Logan watched her go.  Impulsively, he rose and strolled after her into the hallway outside the Great Hall.  He found her pacing back and forth, her arms straight as pins, her fists clenched into balls.  She was murmuring as she moved, shaking her head and twisting her features in a mockery of someone.

Logan leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.  A grin came to his lips as he watched her stomp back and forth, a bloom of hot red coloring her cheeks.  She was enchanting in her anger.  His eyes devoured her slender form as he heard her mutter, “How dare he?  Order my own men to keep secrets from me?  My people are in danger!”  He watched her storm five steps and spin like a little whirlwind to march the other way.  She was one whirlwind he wouldn’t mind being caught in.

“Practice your embroidery.  I’d like to practice my embroidery -- around your neck!” she whispered harshly.

Logan’s grin widened into a full-fledged smile.  She was spirited!  He had to give her that.

“Thinking he could find a murderer!” she gritted out between clenched teeth.  “He can’t even find his own sword in a siege!”

Logan laughed out loud, his pleasure rolling from his throat in a low timbre.

Solace gasped and whirled to face him.

Logan pushed himself from the wall to approach her.  Those brilliant green eyes flashed like precious emeralds caught in torchlight as she glared at him, the remnants of her anger seeping into her whiplash greeting.  “Do you always spy on women?”

“Spy?” he asked in shock.  Spying was something he had never been accused of where women were concerned.  There were so many other things to do with them.  Especially women with large green eyes and full, kissable lips.  “No,” he answered in a low voice.

Solace stepped away from him as a flash of unease crossed her features.  “What do you want?”

A dangerous question, Logan thought.  His gaze brushed her lips before rising to her eyes.  “I came to offer my services,” he said softly.

Solace frowned slightly.  “Services?”

He would gladly offer her his services -- any services -- if only she would tell him where Peter was.  “Protection.”

“Protection?” Solace echoed in disbelief.  “You’re a falconer!”

“If there’s a killer in the castle, it might be dangerous for you to be walking around alone in the courtyards so late at night.”

Her eyes widened in surprise.  “Have you been watching me?”

Logan’s laugh was low.  “No.  I was in the courtyard and I saw you.”

“Oh,” she said, fidgeting slightly, averting her gaze at her erroneous assumption.  “Well, thank you very much.  But I’m safer in Castle Fulton than anywhere else.”

The amusement suddenly left Logan.  She was too naive, too trusting.  “Don’t be too sure.  A murderer can be anyone.  Someone you trust, even.”  He saw the change in her immediately.  Determination clouded her eyes; her chin rose in defiance.  He knew instinctively what the little spitfire planned to do.  His brows furrowed.  “You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

Shock rocked her body and she stepped away from him, bowing her head to conceal her thoughts.  “Don’t be silly.”

His hand shot out, capturing her chin and lifting it until her eyes met his.  Radiant orbs challenged him, dared him to contradict her.  They were so vibrant, so full of life and courage.  “Solace,” he murmured.  He’d hate to have to extinguish that life if she got too close to the truth.  He dropped his hand.  “Be careful.”

She nodded once and backed away down the hall.  Logan watched her go until she was swallowed by the darkness.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER SIX

Solace stared down at the map of Castle Fulton spread out on the table before her.

“All the outer walls are stationed with extra guards,” Captain Montgomery said.

Solace watched the captain of the guard’s finger trace an area on the map.  She turned her gaze to him as he ran his hand over his blond mustache and down his beard.  His brown eyes gazed intently at the detailed sketch for a moment before shifting to Solace.  “I expect that the arrow attacks will start any time now, and it appears the trebuchet might be ready tomorrow, at the earliest.  With any luck it will rain and slow the production.”

“You’ve doubled the men at the gatehouse?”

The captain nodded.  “And we have men in the storerooms listening for sappers.  No one’s going to tunnel into Castle Fulton without us knowing about it.”

“Well done, Captain,” Solace congratulated.  “I’m certain Barclay will have a very difficult time finding entrance to Castle Fulton.”

“Thank you, m’lady,” the captain replied.

“Has lady Alissa met with you?”

Montgomery nodded.  “She didn’t say anything.  She knows nothing of protecting the castle.”

“Keep an open mind to her suggestions, if she has any.  And let’s keep our meetings a secret.”

Montgomery bowed.  “As you wish, m’lady.”

“A messenger was dispatched to my father with word of Barclay’s siege?”

“He left as soon as we received word Barclay’s army was heading our way.”

“Then I’m sure Father will be here with his army soon to stop all this madness, and that coward Barclay will flee into the dark hole where he came from.  All we have to do is hold the castle until his arrival.”

Montgomery studied the map for a long, quiet moment, his brow wrinkled in concern.

“Is there something else?” Solace wondered.

He hesitated for a moment.  “I don’t know what Barclay has planned, but it seems strange to me he is not building a temporary housing for his men.  Usually, by now a siege castle would have been constructed, but I see no sign of one.  And they haven’t erected any palisades.  Something just doesn’t seem right.”  He scowled deeply.  “It’s as if he doesn’t expect to be there for very long.”

Anxiety slithered up Solace’s spine.  “Let’s make sure he’s wrong,” she answered, trying to suppress the uneasiness that gripped her.

***

After attending morning services at the chapel, Solace strolled into the outer ward beneath a gray sky.  The air was fresh with the hint of coming rain.  She missed Gwen terribly.  She had no one to discuss her plans with.  But she understood why Gwen and her father had left Castle Fulton when they’d heard the siege was imminent.  They didn’t want to be trapped in the castle for months.  That didn’t prevent Solace from missing her friend.

As she walked the grounds, she stopped before Tom Reed’s pig pen.  He was busy feeding a bucket of slop to his sows.  She glanced at the nearby wall of the castle, shaking her head and scowling.  A simple fence for the pigs wasn’t enough.  Solace knew she had to prepare the castle and her people for the arrows and boulders that would soon fly over the castle walls.

“It won’t do,” she said, moving to Tom’s side.  He glanced up at her.  “One arrow attack and the pigs will be slaughtered,” she continued.  “You have to build an enclosure for them with a sturdy roof.”

Tom nodded.  “Very well, my lady.”

“If you need tools or help, ask Ned,” she added.

“M’lady?” Tom called, then hesitated for a moment.  “Do you think the Baron is going to try to starve us out, or do you think he’s really going to attack?”

Solace stared at him, sympathy tugging at her heart.  He had no way of knowing what was happening beyond the walls other than the exaggerated tales that uninformed gossip produced.  “We have to be prepared for either,” she replied.  “So you keep those pigs safe.  Our lives could depend on it.”

Tom nodded.

Solace continued her stroll through the ward.  Her hair was braided behind her, and the dress she had picked out was a simple brown cotton smock with a beige sideless surcoat.  It was comfortable, and Lillian couldn’t complain too much if she ripped it.  She knew she had a lot of work to do today.

Solace lifted her head, and her gaze came to rest on the closed drawbridge, the lowered portcullis.  What was once an inviting entrance teeming with visitors was now a formidable blockade, barring the access of any travelers.  Solace wondered where the wandering monks would stop on their pilgrimage to the Abbey of St. Michael now that Fulton’s gates were closed.  She looked around the ward, noticing the absence of the brown-cloaked monks.  She felt a surge of anger toward Barclay.  Not only had he driven Gwen and her father away, but the monks had also fled.  The castle didn’t seem whole without them.

She glanced toward the keep and the dungeon.  She had meant to get to the dungeon and speak with some of the prisoners, but had not had an opportunity to do it yet.

Solace rubbed a hand over her eyes.  She had spent half the night lying awake in her bed.  A killer in Castle Fulton.  It could spell doom for them.  Her people needed to be protected.  She had to find him.  Her gaze swept the crowd of peasants and soldiers around her.  She knew most of the people, and those she didn’t know by name, she at least knew their faces.  Had Barclay somehow bribed someone?  The thought made her scowl.  Even though she knew the attraction of coin was strong, she liked to believe her people and men were loyal and they wouldn’t betray Fulton so easily.

But strangely, it wasn’t the thought of a killer that had kept her awake.  It was the offer of protection.  Protection proposed by someone with deep gray eyes.

She wiped a strand of hair from her eyes as her gaze swept the outer ward.  She saw the falconer immediately.  He stood a head above everyone and wasn’t hard to miss as he spoke with old Ben across the courtyard.  The falcon perched majestically on the leather patch sewn onto the shoulder of his brown tunic.

A man carrying an armload of wood toward the kitchens crossed Solace’s vision.  She leaned her head to the side, looking around the man to get a better glimpse of the falconer’s powerful physique.  Even when he was standing still, the muscles in his arms strained against his tunic.  A hot flush spread through her body as she remembered the feel of his hands on hers.

Then, she saw him turn slightly and followed his gaze to see Beth heading in his direction.  Her half sister wore the lowest cut dress she had, a pale blue velvet to match her eyes.  Her dark hair was curled tightly over her ears in the latest fashion.  Beth held out a hand to the falconer, and he promptly took it and brought it to his lips.  Solace had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  Disappointed, her shoulders slumped.  Was there no man who could resist Beth’s beauty?

Old Ben moved away from the two.  Solace could only see Logan’s back, his rich, dark hair rivaling the darkest feathers of the falcon on his shoulder.

Beth raised a hand to touch the falcon.  The bird nipped at Beth’s fingers.  Solace found some satisfaction as her half sister quickly withdrew her hand.  Serves her right, Solace thought, and was surprised at her own viciousness.

Suddenly, the falcon spread its dark wings and took flight, screeching loudly.

A cry went up from one of the guards stationed on the battlements.

Solace’s grin slipped a notch as she saw every muscle in Logan’s body tense.  He turned and their gazes locked.  Solace read the warning there, the alarm.  Then, suddenly, a whooshing filled the air.  She quickly lifted her head to see a swarm of arrows blanketing the sky, heading straight for them!

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER SEVEN

Shouts of warning crescendoed around Solace as the arrows descended on their deadly paths.  Screams of pain and cries of death rose from all around her.  An arrow landed in the ground beside her, scattering the chickens in the coop.  A mad dash followed as the villagers raced for the safety of the inner ward.

Instinct told her to run.  Instead, she glanced over her shoulder to see the falconer hurrying Beth through the open gates that led to the inner ward.

Solace followed the crowd.  Then, she saw a young woman screaming, bending over an older man who had an arrow sticking out of his chest.  Solace recognized the miller and his daughter, Jenny.  She dodged the peasants running for cover and moved toward the fallen man.  Jenny’s outstretched hand was smeared with blood, her tear-filled eyes pleading with Solace.  Solace turned her gaze to the miller.  The blood on Jenny’s hand was not from the arrow wound, but from the blood the miller was coughing up.

“Go to the inner ward,” Solace ordered Jenny, bending over the miller.

“But my father –” the girl sobbed.

“Go!” she ordered.  When Jenny hesitated, Solace turned to her with kind eyes.  “I’ll stay with him.”  She wiped some of the young woman’s tears from her cheeks before urging her toward safety with a gentle shove.

As soon as the girl was moving, Solace turned her gaze back to the miller.  She had seen sword wounds and arrow wounds before, and she knew enough to realize that bleeding from the mouth almost always preceded death.

The miller coughed again, splattering her dress with blood.  She took his hand in hers and smoothed some hair back from his forehead.  His eyes locked with hers for a long moment, his hand tightening convulsively around hers, before his eyes glazed over and he went limp, his hand slipping from hers.  Solace stared at the man for a long moment.  Then she lifted a shaking hand and wiped it across his brow in a final good-bye.

Suddenly, she was pulled up... into the arms of the falconer!  His gray eyes stared intensely at her for a moment, and strangely, the look calmed her racing heart.  Then, he pulled her after him, grabbing a large wooden half-barrel and dumping the water out as he moved.  Before she knew what was happening, he shoved her against a building and lifted the barrel before them as a protective barrier.  She jumped as an arrow slammed into it, its metal tip erupting through the wood inches from her face!  She stared at the sharp, deadly arrowhead for a long moment, fear closing around her heart in an iron grip.  She turned a terrified gaze to the falconer.

He threw the useless half-barrel to the ground and pressed her back against the wall, shoving her there with his body.  Solace pressed her cheek against his chest and squeezed her eyes closed as he cocooned her head in his arms.  She heard the quick beating of his heart, felt the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.  Her fingers curled into his tunic, clenching it tightly in her trembling fists.

Loud thunks sounded to her left and right.

Then the falconer pulled away from her.  He grabbed her arm and bolted for the inner ward.  Solace couldn’t match his large strides.  If he hadn’t been holding her arm, she would have stumbled and fallen.  Finally, they dashed inside the inner ward and the gates closed behind them.

Dorothy ran up to Solace, crying, “M’lady!  Are you all right?”

The falconer released Solace’s arm, and as she turned to thank him, he melted into the shadows.  Solace opened her mouth, but a protective crowd of peasants encircled her, cutting her off from him.  Her gratitude went unspoken.  She anxiously searched the darkness near the wall, but the falconer was gone.

***

Logan watched the peasants convene around Solace.  Like bees to honey, he thought.  At least she was all right.  He was surprised that his own concern for her felt genuine.

He turned away and moved toward the mews.  The falcon floated down from the skies to perch again at his shoulder.  He knew that eventually he’d have to seek out the lady Solace and somehow gain her confidence.  But he would have to tread carefully.  Suspicions were running high since the dungeon guard was found slain.  Even old Ben had been looking at him strangely.  He would have to wait a few more days.

It will give me time to think, Logan thought.  Perhaps too much time.

The image of long dark hair, a defiant upturned chin and shapely body rose in his mind.  He cursed silently.  Why did Solace have to be so damned...  He shook his head fiercely.  She was the enemy.  She was a Farindale.  Still...

Fool, he berated himself.  He knew he had risked enough by opening the gates for her.  And then, later, he had been ready for a fight, waiting for the castle guards to come and imprison him.  But it had not happened.  Somehow, lady Alissa had not seen fit to have him clapped in irons for disobeying her direct command.  Somehow...

He entered the courtyard that housed the mews.  Old Ben had the door to the small house that sheltered his prize birds open and was sweeping out droppings and uneaten bits of food.  Logan turned and moved toward his small room which was attached to the mews, hoping he could sneak by old Ben.  But the man turned to him, calling out.  Logan winced.  The old man had the blasted hearing of a falcon.

“Out strollin’ about again, hey?” the old man asked, scratching his stubbly chin as he approached.  “Yer no falconer,” he mumbled for the thousandth time.

Logan hid his irritation easily enough.  The old man had been suspicious of him from the beginning.  But despite his annoying habit of talking too much, the old man was an honest worker and Logan respected him for that.  Old Ben worked diligently to keep the mews scrupulously clean and the falcons well fed.

“Are the birds all right?” Logan asked.

“Birds,” old Ben grunted.  “Me darlin’s are fine.  No thanks to ya.  Where were ya?  Out whorin’?”

Logan stopped, his back straightening.  He had never needed to pay for favors that were freely given.  The old man is just irked because I wasn’t here with him to protect his darlin’s from the arrow attack, Logan thought.  He turned to Ben, but said nothing.

Old Ben snorted.  “Ya know we’re in a siege.  Need every good sword arm we can get.  ‘Cause that’s what I think you do.”

The remark unnerved Logan and he had to turn away, moving toward his quarters.

“It’s nothin’ ta be embarrassed about.  Whatever ya done before coming here is history.  Ain’t nothin’ ta me.  ‘Sides, I said it before, I’ll say it again.  Ya ain’t no falconer, even if ya do go round with that beauty on yer shoulder.”

Logan ignored the old man and continued to his room.  It was a small room, not much bigger than a stall.  No better than a horse would have, Logan thought grimly.  And colder, too.  He slept on a bed of old straw in the corner of the room.  At least it’s private, he thought as he shut the door on old Ben’s harangue.

The bird immediately flew to a small wooden perch Logan had carved for it.  It fluttered there, watching him with those round brown eyes.  He lit a candle and placed it on a table beside the bed.  Feeling the bird’s gaze on him, Logan glanced impatiently at it.  “What are you looking at?” he demanded.  But there was no answer.  It just continued to watch him.

Of course old Ben was right.  He was no falconer.  But it was the best disguise he could come up with.  And it had worked well enough to get him back into Castle Fulton.  He was grateful for the bird’s presence, if only because it had helped him fool lady Alissa into hiring him.

Logan sat down beside the candle and removed the dagger from his waistband.  He picked up a stone from the floor and ran it along the edge of the blade.

For some reason, his senses were keen now.  Perhaps it was the arrow attack.  He ran the rock against the blade again.

For some reason, his nerves were on edge.  Perhaps it was the battle lust that stirred his blood.  The rock sheared across the metal.

Or perhaps it was the soft curves that had pressed against his chest.  The lingering scent of roses that filled his nose.  The green eyes that radiated enough heat to burn his very soul.

He brought the rock up too far, scraping his knuckles.  “Damn,” he muttered and shook his hand as burning engulfed it.  He stared at his scraped knuckles, allowing the burning to fill his body, to cleanse it of all thoughts but his mission.  He had to find Peter.  Nothing else mattered.

He put the stone down and picked up a piece of wood.  He turned the rough bark over in his hands and studied it for a moment.  The crude outline of a girl was etched into the thick branch.  He pressed the freshly sharpened dagger to the wood and shaved off a piece near the arm, giving it a slender curve.

Nothing else mattered, he told himself again.

***

Solace sat in the Great Hall, staring at the trencher of food before her, but not really seeing it.  She turned a roll over in her hand again and again.  She had eaten late, well after the sun had set.  It was the first time she had gotten a break from attending the wounded and comforting the families of the dead.  Four people had been killed in the attack, including the miller.

Guilt filled her throughout the day as her mind refused to dwell on the dead and the wounded.  To her dismay, her thoughts continued to dwell on steel eyes and the persistent sensation of a hard chest pressed tightly against her breasts.  The thoughts were distracting, annoying and… totally overpowering.

She wiped a strand of hair from her eyes.  She hadn’t even had an opportunity to thank him.  Solace rose, setting aside her meal, and moved out of the Great Hall.  It was late, but maybe he’d still be awake.

She left the keep and headed for the mews.  The moon had risen, giving the empty inner ward an eerie glow, a ghostly deserted look.  As she passed the mews, the silence of the night was loud in her ears; even the falcons were still.  She moved toward the sleeping areas next to the mews and entered the small building.  She stood in the narrow entranceway, first glancing at the closed door to her left, then to the one on her right.  One room would house Old Ben, the other the falconer.  She realized suddenly that she didn’t even know his name.  A resolve filled her.  She would find out his name.  Now.  But she paused between the doors.  Which one? she wondered.  Which was his?  She looked at each door as if a simple glance could tell her.  Then, taking a deep breath, she raised her fist and knocked on the door to her right.  The door creaked open slowly.  Solace stood with her hand raised, staring into the darkness of the room.  “Hello?” she called, her voice barely above a whisper.  The quiet stretched on.

She tried to see into the room, but blackness blanketed it.  “Ben?” she queried.  She reached out to touch the door.  Something seemed strange.  Why was the door open?  Maybe Old Ben was sick or hurt.  Solace eased the door open and stepped into the room.  “Is anyone here?”

She stood for a long moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but without windows it was almost impossible.  Then, she noticed a stray moonbeam shining in through two warped pieces of wood.  She stepped into the light.  The thin sliver of moonlight illuminated a small table, and Solace could see a candle and flint sitting on its surface.

She lit the candle.  As the flickering light spread over the small room, the cloak of darkness fell from it and her gaze moved over to the sleeping area.  The bed, a pile of hay covered by a thin blanket, was empty.  Beside it was a sack tied shut with a rope.  But it wasn’t until she noticed the black-winged falcon sleeping on its perch that she knew she was in the falconer’s room.

A strange shiver shot through her.  I should leave, she thought.  I shouldn’t be here.  She bent to blow the candle out, but a flash of light from the hay caught her attention and she halted.  She turned her head to gaze in confusion at the hay where the falconer slept.  Was it fire? she wondered.  Something was shining dully in the light.  But it didn’t spread like fire.  It reflected the candlelight back at her.  She took a step toward the bed, reached out and carefully shifted the straw.  For a long moment she could only stare at what she had discovered.

It was the blade of a highly polished sword.  What would a falconer be doing with a sword?  A shiver of apprehension coursed through her as she pushed the hay farther away from the weapon, revealing the full length of the sword.  Solace picked the weapon up, needing two hands to lift its weight, and placed it on her lap to study it.  The leather grip covering the handle was well worn.  A red jewel adorned the bottom of the handle, its deep color absorbing the candlelight, giving it a lustrous glow.  Just above the guard, etched in the silver of the blade, was a crest.  Two crossed swords over a full moon.  Solace frowned slightly.  She had seen that crest somewhere before.  But where?

Again the question came to her mind: what was a falconer doing with a sword?  Was he a thief?  Or a fighter?

Her eyes shifted to the weapon.  The sword was beautiful, polished so highly that she could see her reflection in the flat part of the blade.  She ran her finger lightly along the side of it.  So smooth, she marveled.  So... sharp!

She pulled her finger away with a start.  The blade cleanly cut her skin, leaving a smear of blood along the sword’s flawless edge.  She stuck her finger in her mouth.

Suddenly, she heard a rustling sound behind her.  She shoved the sword back beneath the hay and stood up, whirling to see the falconer standing in the doorway.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER EIGHT

“What are you doing here?” Logan demanded.

Solace stood motionless, frozen like a rabbit knowing it’s been spotted by a bird of prey.

He closed the door behind him, his gaze raking over her, taking in her pale expression, her wild, loose hair, the way she was standing near his bed.  He felt an instantaneous, unwanted, stirring in his loins.

“The door was open.  I... I thought something was wrong,” she finally said.

Logan studied her face for a moment; her eyes seemed to be larger than normal, full of guilt.  But they were still the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.  It was as if someone had stolen the magic of the sea and locked it in her eyes.

He forced himself to turn away, quickly scanning the room, but nothing seemed to be amiss.  He looked back at Solace.  “What do you want?”

“I was looking for you.  I wanted to thank you.  I meant to do it earlier, but – ”

“Thank me?” he echoed.  His eyes narrowed.

“For saving me,” she added quickly.

He watched the way she nervously twisted her hands before her.  “And you snuck into my room to do this?”

“I already told you the door was open.  I thought Old Ben might be hurt or – ”

“So you just walked into my room?”

“I didn’t know it was your room,” she insisted.

Logan frowned at her.  “Couldn’t this wait until morning?”

She shuffled her feet.  “I’ve been so busy all day I feared I would have even less time tomorrow,” she answered, gazing up at him from beneath lowered eyelashes.  “And I did want to thank you.”

The shaft of moonlight slanted across her large eyes, making them glow with an irresistible innocence.  He took a step forward and found himself before her.  The scent of roses floated to him, enveloping him in her sweet fragrance.  His shadow erased the candlelight, and for one mad moment he wished he could see her eyes again.

“What kind of gratitude are you offering?” he wondered, his voice deep and husky.

Solace opened her mouth to answer, but before she could say a word, Logan placed his hands on her shoulders, gently brushing her silky hair aside.  He felt her sharp intake of breath, the press of her breasts against his chest as he stepped forward, drawing her against him.

Suddenly, his boot caught on something.  He glanced down to find the hilt of his sword sticking out of the hay.  He looked up to find her head bent, her eyes focused on the sword at their feet.  When she lifted her gaze to his, he saw a sudden flash of fear flare in her bright green eyes.

Without warning, Solace shoved him aside and bolted for the door.  He quickly recovered, spinning toward the door.  In one stride he crossed the room, moving with the agility of a warrior.  Solace barely opened the door before he slammed it shut from behind her.

“Here to thank me, eh?” Logan growled.

Again, she pulled at the door, but against his strength she was no match.

“What do you want?” he demanded.  “Why are you here?”

Suddenly, she straightened and turned to him.  Her eyes flashed with defiance.  “What are you hiding?”

He slapped his other palm against the door, trapping her between his arms.  He leaned closer to her, bringing his face only inches from hers.  He could all but smell her fright.  He could almost feel her heart beating wildly.  “You play a dangerous game, lady Solace.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, even though her body trembled.

He had to admire her strength, her spirit, the way her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.  He leaned closer, without touching her.  Didn’t she realize the danger she was in?  Why wasn’t she pleading with him to spare her life?  “The falconer,” he whispered.

He watched her swallow hard, the way her delicate throat worked.  “Falconers don’t have swords,” she answered breathlessly.

“And snooping doesn’t befit a lady,” he retorted.

“I wasn’t snooping!” she insisted.  “I came to thank you!”

“Then how did you find the sword?” Logan wondered, a mocking sneer curving his lips.

He watched conflicting emotions dance across her lovely face.  She immediately opened her mouth to retort, but then a frown creased her brow and she clenched her teeth.  Her green eyes flashed with resolution.  When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, begrudgingly relinquishing victory.  “I didn’t mean to snoop.”  She dropped her head and wouldn’t look him in the eye.  “I’m sorry.”

Logan’s suspicion slipped a notch at her admission.  It took courage to admit fault.  Not many would acknowledge it.  But she had seen the sword, and it had his crest on it.  Did she know who he really was?  Why he was here?  “Let’s talk about why you’re really here.”

Her eyes jerked up to his, and Logan found a moment of delight at seeing those shimmering, heated orbs again.  He wanted to kiss that thin-lipped anger into full-blown desire.  He wanted to see what those magnificent eyes looked like in the heat of passion.  He wanted her to admit that she came into his room in the middle of the night to feel his kisses, his hands, his...

“Very well,” she said quietly.  “I really do appreciate what you did for me this afternoon.  You risked your life to help me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“But that’s why I’m here,” she replied.

Logan narrowed his eyes.  She was too dangerous.  He couldn’t afford to have someone discover who he was before he found his brother.  He lifted a hand from the wall and moved it toward her neck.  Instead, the traitorous hand ran a finger over her cheek.  He marveled at the chiseled perfection of her face.  His gaze shifted from her cheek to meet her stare.  She was watching him in silence with daunting emerald eyes.

What the hell was he doing!  Angry, he pushed away from her with a snarl.  “Go!” he commanded.  He expected to hear the door open and close quickly, to be left standing alone.

She whirled to do just as he expected, but suddenly she was still, her hand on the handle of the door.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to find her still there.  Oh, he thought with a groan.  She was tempting him.  He could just reach around her smooth, delicate throat and run a kiss...  a dagger across it.  She wouldn’t even know what had happened.  He could just...

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The sincerity in her voice froze him.  It really was why she’d come.  She had wanted to thank him.

Then she opened the door and was gone, fleeing into the darkness.

Logan stared at the space she had just occupied.  He was a fool.  He had risked his freedom by opening the castle gates for her and now he was risking his life by letting her go.  Surely she would sound an alarm, call the guards’ attention to him.

Disgusted, he sat on the side of the bed, staring at the sword.  He pulled it from the straw with one hand, holding it before him.  What is happening to me, Father? he wondered as he stared at the sword’s gleaming surface.  She taints me like a poison, casts a spell over my very flesh.  I should keep only my mission in my mind, be pure like this sword.

He turned the blade over, and his eyes narrowed at what he saw.  A thin line of dark red on the edge of its surface.  Even the sword thirsts for her blood!  Logan’s eyes rose to the door, to the path Solace had just taken.  Then why did his body hunger for something else?

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER NINE

“I couldn’t see much, m’lady,” the voice from behind the dungeon cell door said.  “Me old eyes ain’t what they used ta be.  And that torch was so bright.”

Solace nodded, listening to the prisoner’s tale.  After awakening from a fitful night’s sleep, a sleep filled with falcons and silver lightning and horrific beasts lurking in the shadows of the castle, she had immersed herself in the task of finding the murderer.  She had come to the dungeon to ask the prisoners about the guard’s death.  “Was there anything different about him?” she asked the old man in the cell.  “Anything at all?”

There was a long silence, and Solace glanced over her shoulder at her escort lounging against the dungeon wall, half hidden in the darkness.  When the old man began to speak, she turned her attention back to the door.  Two bloodshot eyes gazed at her through the small opening in the wooden door.  She could see several pustulant sores ringing the wrinkled skin around his eyes.

“He did carry some sort of stick,” the old man said.

“A stick?”

“Aye, sort of like a rod.”

“A staff,” the man standing against the wall supplied, pushing himself from it into the circle of light cast by the flickering torch on the wall.  His brown, bowl-cut hair shimmered in the light.  He wore chain-mail armor over his body that cast little pools of reflected light on the murky walls of the dungeon.  A sword was strapped to his waist.

“Yes, yes.  That’s what it was,” the old man beamed.

“That must’ve been how he killed the guard,” the man said, leaning close to Solace, reaching out to pull her away from the leper.

Solace shrugged off her escort’s hand.  “Did he ask for anything?  Did he want anything?”

The old leper’s eyes narrowed.  “I think he was looking for someone.  He was calling for someone.”

“Who?” Solace wondered.

The prisoner shook his head.  “I can’t remember who.”

Solace scowled.  “And you can’t remember anything about how he looked?”

“Oh, my lady, he coulda been anyone.  Anyone’t all.  Except...”

Solace placed a hand against the door as if that might coax him.

“Except that he was rather big.”

“Heavy?” Solace supplied.

“No.  Strong.  And tall.”

The man accompanying Solace walked to her side as if to protect her.  There was confusion in his eyes.  He held up a hand about a head taller than Solace.  “This big?”

The prisoner shook his head.  “No.”

The man lifted his hand until it was at his own height.  “This tall?”

“Yes,” the prisoner said, nodding.

Solace turned to the man beside her.  He gazed at her for a moment, then shrugged.

“Thank you, Ed,” Solace said to the prisoner.  “If you think of anything, anything at all, let the guard know and he’ll call me.  And don’t worry, Ed.  As soon as the siege is over I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Bless you, m’lady,” he whispered.

Solace left the dungeon, escorted by her companion.

When they entered the keep, her friend spoke.  “You’re not taking what he said seriously, are you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Solace wondered.  “We’ve questioned everyone else.  He’s the only one who saw the killer.”

“He’s a thief and a liar, Solace!” the man cried.  “That’s why he’s been in the dungeon for the past seven years.  You can’t trust what he says.”

“He’s a leper now.  And he is very old,” Solace said.  “He wouldn’t lie.  I told him I’d free him even if he had nothing to tell me.  There’s no reason for him to lie.”

“I still wish you wouldn’t pursue this.  It’s dangerous, Solace.”

“I know.  And I promise I’ll be careful.”

“It’s not enough to be careful.  This is a murderer.  He’s already killed the dungeon guard.  He might very well kill you, too, if you get in his way.”

Solace stopped to face her friend, staring earnestly into his eyes.  “No one is safe until we find him.”

The man groaned softly.  “There is no use talking to you when you get like this.  Just promise me that if you find out who this killer is, you’ll tell me and you won’t go after him alone.”

She smiled gently.  “I promise.  I’ll let you protect me and guard my life.”

The man softly kissed her on her cheek.  “I hate it when you make me worry about you like this.  And lately you’ve been doing it far too much.”

“You sound like my father,” she chastised playfully.

“If he were here, you wouldn’t be doing this.”

“If he were here, I wouldn’t have to be doing this.”

The man smiled sadly.  “He’s been away for a long time.”

Solace nodded, an ache tugging at her heart.  She missed her father.  She whimsically remembered the way his smile curved his droopy mustache.  She wondered if the gray peppering through his dark hair had completely spread over his head yet.  The few letters he had sent her had been filled with tales of court intrigue, giving only glimpses of the man -- the father -- she remembered.  Yes, she mused silently.  He had been away for a long time.

“I have to take my post now,” the man said, jarring her from her reverie.  “Stay out of trouble.”

“Thank you, Peter,” she said and watched him walk away.

She thought about Ed’s description of the murderer.  A strong man.  A tall man.  Peter’s height.  She scowled, glancing down the path Peter had taken.  Most of the guards were shorter than Peter and almost none were as strong.  And none of them, not one, had a staff.

Solace frowned, trying to think.  But suddenly the memory of hot hands on her shoulders invaded her mind.  She recalled cold silver eyes staring at her with forging-hot intensity.  She had been fighting the images all day, burying them beneath her duty.

Something pulled at the back of her mind, demanding her attention.  The image of the crest on the falconer’s sword loomed in her thoughts again.  She had drawn it on a piece of paper... two swords crossed over a full moon.  She had seen it before, she was sure of it.  But where?  She wished desperately that Gwen were still here so she could talk to her about her turbulent emotions.

Solace paused for a moment, her hand outstretched for the handle of her chamber door.  She had so much to do.  She needed to see to the wounded, had to help the villagers whose animal pens had been damaged in the arrow attack, needed to meet with the servants about the rationing of water and food.  She had to find out who the killer was.  Then why did she want to return to the mews so badly?

Solace whirled and headed away from her room toward the spiral staircase at the end of the corridor.  So much to do.  People depending on her.  She took the stairs upward.  But she needed to think.  She needed to be alone.  She needed to sort out these new emotions, these strange feelings.

The dust parted beneath her feet, trailing her like the wake of a boat, as she moved down a shadowy hallway.  Spider webs dangled from the top corners of the door at the end of the hallway.  The servants all believed ghosts of the dead lived behind the massive doors.  But not Solace.  Talk of ghosts was nonsense.  She liked coming here because she knew no one else would dare set foot in this room.  She stared at the heavy wooden doors, studying the intricate carvings hewn into their surface, an elaborate scrollwork of heraldry shapes and symbols.  As she pushed the huge double doors open, they creaked in protest.

Before her stretched a long room.  Soldiers lined the wall in silent effigy in the forms of plate-mail suits and pictures of long-dead fighters.

Solace swept into the room, unmindful of the ancient warriors.  The sun’s rays reached through a large window at the opposite end, stretching across the floor like fingers.  She approached the window.

Before her, Fulton stretched, unblemished lands of rolling hills.  If she tried hard enough, she could almost imagine it was just another beautiful day, that there wasn’t a horde of soldiers below her, that her people weren’t wounded and hurt.  Solace sighed.  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape the siege.  All she wanted was to clear her mind, to relax enough to think.  Who could the murderer have been looking for?  Why was he desperate enough to kill?  Would he do it again?  She could not let his identity escape her.

A creak sounded behind her and she whirled, her eyes scanning the room.  Had someone followed her?  But there was no one in the room.  That was odd.  She shrugged slightly and turned back to gaze upon the deceivingly serene sky above her.

I suppose anyone would be jumpy with this siege going on, she thought to herself.  There was always risk of infiltration and...

Footsteps.  Solace turned.  But the large room was empty.  Not a soul in sight.  Her heart was pounding in her chest as she took a step away from the window.  Her gaze swept the pictures, the suits of plate armor.  This had been the ancestral hall of the previous lord.  Lord Randol.  His family was the one watching her out of unseeing eyes.  Her father had wanted the hall cleared and scrubbed clean of any memory of lord Randol and his barbarous history, but her stepmother had convinced him otherwise.  She was afraid the angry ghosts would be freed from this room and begin a reign of terror, haunting the entire castle.

The first time Solace had set foot in the room and seen lord Randol’s image hanging on the wall, a wave of nausea and a prickling of fear had washed over her.  But she had been determined not to let these feelings get the best of her.  She would not let lord Randol scare her again.  She was not a child any longer.  It had taken her a long time to conquer her fear.  And she was not about to take a giant step backward.

Solace placed a hand to her chest, willing her pounding heart to slow.  She was hearing things.  She didn’t believe in ghosts, or she would be afraid that the specter of lord Randol would appear before her, demanding retribution for the loss of his castle.  Stubbornly, Solace returned, albeit a bit hesitantly, to the window.  Her ears were now finely tuned to every sound, every odd creak.  But there was nothing.  Only the dead air of silence.  She laughed silently.  Ghosts, she thought, forcing herself to relax.

Then, she heard a rustle and something swept past her shoulders.  She whirled, stepping away from the window, demanding, “Who’s there?”

Silence answered her.  The paintings stared at her with judging eyes, and a chill ran up her spine.  She took a step back toward the window, reaching toward the ledge with her hand.  But it wasn’t the cold stone she touched -- it was warm skin!

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TEN

Solace whirled, stifling a scream, to find the falconer standing before her.  The light of the window cascaded over his head, outlining him in a bright yellow halo.  Solace blinked and stepped back, gasping.  With her movement, the sun hit his shoulders instead of his head, wiping away the angelic illusion.

He stepped toward her and she moved back.  The look in his mercury eyes was hungry and dangerous.  “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said in a quiet voice.

She backed away from him.  But he still approached, and there was something predatory in his movement, in his eyes, that frightened her.

“It’s dangerous,” he added.

His voice rang in her ears, a warning.  She backed into a plate of armor and it jangled.

Logan’s arm shot out and Solace winced, but he didn’t touch her.  He placed his hand against the armor, stopping its precarious swaying.  His gaze slid to hers.

His arm, so close to her shoulder, was strong, and warmth flooded her.  She raised her chin in defiance of both her feelings and of him.  “Are you threatening me?”

“Should I be?”

She swallowed and her gaze lowered to his lips.  Then, embarrassed, she looked at his eyes again.  There was just a faint glimmer of laughter there, and she scowled at him, wanting to wipe away that smug look.  She mustered her courage to retort, “I still want to know what a falconer is doing with a sword.”

It worked.  Too well.

A dark look clouded his eyes.  He leaned closer to her and Solace could feel his breath fan her lips.  “It was a gift,” he answered.  “From a very special person.”

“Who are you?” she asked softly.

“Logan,” he replied.

Solace’s heart pounded, her eyes captivated by the way his lips caressed the word.  “Logan,” she repeated dully through the haze of fog that enveloped her.  Her gaze shifted to his silver eyes, eyes the color of glinted steel.  She could smell the thick scent of leather and something musky and... masculine.  Even though their bodies weren’t touching, she could feel the strength emanating from him, the power.  She wanted him to touch her, wanted to feel his fingers on her skin, his lips on hers.  The thought frightened her, and she pulled away with such force her head smacked the plate armor behind her.  Even with Logan’s hand on it, it swung backward.

Suddenly, she was swept into his arms, and he turned his back to the suit of mail as it lurched forward, clutching her in his embrace and hunching his shoulders to protect her.

The suit of armor toppled around them, crashing to the floor.  Solace hid behind Logan for a long moment after the noise had ceased.  Then, realizing what had happened, she lifted her head.  His arms were still around her, a fact that was strangely reassuring.  But it was in his eyes she found true comfort.  There was something tender and caring deep within his orbs, and for a moment Solace thought it was worry as his gaze swept her face, looking for something.  So intensely did they search that she believed he could see into her very soul, see the reason why she still clung to him, see the reason for the ease with which her body lay against his.

Embarrassed, she looked away.  The scattered pieces of plate mail on the floor caught her attention, and she lowered her eyes to the fallen shield.  Blue and gold reflected up at her in the sun’s bright light.  There was a crest upon the shield, but before she could look at it, Logan’s hand was at the nape of her neck, turning her head toward his.  His lips descended over hers, desperately, warming hers with his, igniting a fire so hot it threatened to consume her.  She clung to him as if he were her only hope at salvation.  She tilted her head to his in an innocent mixture of curiosity and relinquishment.  His desperation turned into a slow seduction as he gently coaxed her mouth to open to him with gentle touches of his lips and tongue against her soft skin.

She tentatively parted her lips for him, and he urged them wider, entering her mouth with his tongue, exploring the soft recesses.  A groan escaped her lips, and she leaned fully against his strong, hard body.

Logan broke the kiss, pulling back slightly.  “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he repeated.

His body was pressed against hers, and his arms were still securely around her, binding her to him.  Solace stared at him through half-opened eyes.  She felt she was floating, caught in a foggy dream.

“It’s dangerous,” he whispered.

Dangerous, her groggy mind repeated.  Her gaze settled on his lips, wanting more of the sensual delight they aroused in her.  Only then did she realize the grin on his lips was not a lazy smile of pleasure, but rather a taunting smirk of arrogance.  Dangerous.  She suddenly straightened in indignation.  He was teaching her a lesson!

She lurched away from him, almost stumbling in her hurry to escape him, his mocking tone still stinging her ears.  She tripped and almost fell over a piece of the fallen armor, but quickly righted herself and fled the room.

***

Logan watched her go, feeling a sudden chill as the warmth of her body abandoned him.  Desperation had forced him to kiss her.  But as the kiss had deepened, his desperation had turned easily to passion.  Perhaps too easily.  Her lips had been so soft, her skin so hot.  She had been so willing!

Logan cursed silently, forcing the unwelcome feelings from his body.  He glanced down at the floor where the fallen armor was scattered, his eyes immediately drawn to the shield.  The blue and gold of the insignia shone hotly in the sunlight.  On its surface was a full moon overlain with two crossed swords.  If Solace had seen the shield, he was sure she would have figured out who he was.  She had seen the same crest inscribed on his sword.

Logan picked up the shield.  He couldn’t take it back to his room.  He could barely hide the sword there.  His eyes scanned the hall.  There had to be somewhere to hide it.

Then, his gaze came to rest on a rich, detailed tapestry that lined one of the stone walls.

***

With a flick of his wrist, the dagger expertly carved out the last strand of hair on the piece of wood.  But it was other hair Logan was imagining.  Hair that looked as dark and rich as mahogany.  He hadn’t meant to kiss her.  He hadn’t meant to hold her so close.  But she had been standing just below a picture of his great-great grandfather.  The suit of armor she had knocked over had been his father’s.

And the crest on his sword matched the crest on the shield.  It was the only way he could think of to distract her.  But he had not really been thinking.  He had just acted.  So often in the past his instincts had saved his life.  How could they have been so wrong this time?

How could he have kissed his enemy?  He had to find Peter.  He needed to gain her confidence.  He needed to befriend her.

He needed to get her into bed.

The thought made him grin.  He had thought she was untried, a virgin.  But then he had seen that man kiss her cheek in the hallway.  It had enraged him that she had not even blanched when she’d accepted the kiss.  Then, she let him kiss her, not even protesting when he had violated her mouth...  She was no virgin.  She was a harlot like her sister.

He would savor the seduction.  How better to get revenge than to present Farindale with a daughter fat with his babe.  And while he was at it, he would find out where his brother was.  The problem was, he had been exceedingly cruel to her when he had broken the kiss.  It had been days since he had last seen her.

He studied his carving with a satisfaction before nodding and rising.  He opened the door to his small room and discovered it was raining lightly.  By the looks of the saturated ground and the dark sky in the distance, there had just been a downpour.  He had been so absorbed in his carving that he had not even heard it.  The bird squawked in protest and ruffled his feathers, but remained seated on his shoulder.  Logan paid it little attention as he walked out of his room.

Old Ben strolled up to him.  “Yer falcon’s gonna catch his death if ya bring him out in this rain.”

Logan grunted.  He believed the damned bird would live through anything.

“Well, then don’t pay a word of attention ta what I say.  I’ve only spent me whole life attending to these falcons,” the old man exclaimed.  “I know ‘im like the back of me hand.  And I know the back of me hand well.”

Logan strolled away, moving past the mews toward the courtyard.

“Don’t spend the day walkin’.  I want yer help with the mending of the mews.  Now don’t ferget!”

Old Ben’s voice faded as Logan walked through the ward.  His eyes swept the courtyard for Mary, but there was no sign of the small girl.  She loved the birds and often visited, annoying Old Ben.  But Logan could tell that secretly Old Ben liked the attention and her constant chattering.  She had immediately endeared herself to Logan by bringing him a blanket on his first night at Castle Fulton, knowing the mews were cold.

Busy peasants rushed about to secure their animals.  Above the shouts of the villagers and the light pelting of rain, he heard laughter.  Frowning at the inappropriate sound, he followed it to the side of the keep.  A girl squealed in delight.  He peeked around the corner and was shocked at the sight.  There, right beside the candle shop, Mary stood laughing.  Beside her, Solace stared at the sky, a smile on her face.  Both were pressed up against the workshop for shelter, both soaked through to the skin, as if they had been in the brunt of the storm.

Then, suddenly, his falcon took flight just as the skies opened, sending down a new shower of rain that soaked Logan.  Solace took Mary’s hand and they both dashed out into the onslaught of rain.  Logan watched them with amused eyes as they turned round and round, their mouths open and raised to the sky.  He watched Solace’s face glow with joy, a smile curving her shapely lips.  Her dark hair trailed down her back in long, wet strands.

Her drenched velvet houppelande hung heavily on her, accenting her every curve, every move she made.

Solace continued to twirl round in the rain, spinning in joyful abandon.  He remembered those carefree days, even though they had been so long ago.  And something inside of him longed to return to them.  He found himself lost in her happiness.  The joy on her face almost touched his soul.  He wanted to reach out to her, to feel just an inkling of the abandon she felt.

But he couldn’t.  Not now.  Not ever.  He had once felt that kind of freedom, and it had cost him everything he held dear.  Everything he loved.

He didn’t want any part of it.  Not at that price.

Logan turned to go.  But he couldn’t resist one last glance at Solace and those brilliant green eyes that sparkled with happiness.  The wet garment clung to her shapely hips like skin, the weight of it pulling her skirt until the bodice was conforming tightly to her shapely breasts.

Longing surged inside him and Logan turned quickly away, clutching the wood carving tightly in his hand.  His steps were long and purposeful as he returned to the mews.  Drops of rain slid down his head and under the tunic he wore, soaking his skin.  He would give the doll to Mary another time.  When Solace wasn’t there.

He knew he should talk to Solace, should tell her their kiss was a mistake.  But he couldn’t.

And now, when his brother should be filling his thoughts, he found his mind occupied by Solace instead.  She was becoming too much of a distraction.  He had to cleanse his mind of her.  He had to put her out of his thoughts.

Logan closed his eyes tightly and sighed, relaxing his body.  There had to be someone else in this blasted castle who had seen Peter, or knew of him.  Perhaps it was time to ask Old Ben.  But the old man didn’t trust him now; he would trust him even less if he knew he was searching for someone.

Right now, it seemed, Solace was his only means to finding Peter.  But he had to see her for what she was -- an enemy with information he needed.  He should just capture her, interrogate her and...

“...She needs to be taken care of now,” a woman’s voice insisted in a barely discernible whisper.

Logan stopped in the middle of the falcon-training ground, in the area bordered by the kennels on one side and the crossbow makers on the other.  Something familiar about the woman’s voice made him pause.

“What difference does it make if it’s today or tomorrow or next week?  The siege is going on,” a man replied in the same hushed tone.

“We don’t know when he’ll return,” the woman answered.

Logan took a step closer to the kennel, searching for the owners of the voices.  They must be in the kennels beside the mews.  A rendezvous, perhaps, he thought.  Or a plot unfolding.  Either way, it didn’t concern him.

“I want Solace disposed of,” the woman said.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Logan froze.  He didn’t move, afraid the conspirators would hear him.  Solace? he wondered silently, his heart missing a beat.  Perhaps he hadn’t heard right.

“And how do you suppose I go about it, my dear?” the man asked.  “Poison?”

“Too suspicious.”

“Push her off a walkway?”

“You might be seen.”

There was a long, quiet moment in which Logan shifted his stance slightly, moving closer to the open window, easing himself into the shadows of the kennel.  When the silence stretched, he thought they had moved on.

But then the woman’s icy voice came to him.  “No.  Slit her throat.  There’s a killer in the castle.  Everyone will blame him.”

A chill went through Logan’s body.  Who is this woman? he wondered.  And why does she hate Solace so much?

“You are a genius,” the man cooed.

Logan pressed himself against the kennels, tilting his head toward the window.  But the voices didn’t continue.  He heard the rustling of clothing, movement.

Logan realized they were heading out the door.  He looked in the window to see two dogs sleeping on beds of straw, the room otherwise empty.  His gaze was drawn to the door as it slowly swung closed.  He whirled and raced around the corner of the building, bursting into the courtyard.

The crowd in the courtyard was thick and buzzing with activity.  Now that the rain had cleared, there was much to do.  Silently Logan cursed.  He scanned the courtyard, his gaze darting this way and that, searching desperately for the man and woman.  A fat merchant met his gaze while strolling past him with a sack of grain.  Another man crossed the yard with an arm full of arrows.  A peasant herded his chickens by Logan.  A woman shouted, drawing his attention to a spilled basin of water and laundry.  Dozens of people hurried around him, busy with their various tasks.  It was impossible to tell who the voices belonged to.

Logan cursed again.  He had to protect Solace.  He couldn’t let her be hurt.  Not when she knew where his brother was.  But how could he watch her every moment of every day?  He would have to warn her.

***

Solace descended the stairs slowly with a torch in one hand, a bowl in the other.  The stairs were so dark she could not see her feet, let alone the steps descending into the murky blackness.  When she reached the bottom, the small circle of light that engulfed her washed over the wooden door of the storage room.  She reached for the handle and pushed the door open.  The torchlight fell over crates and bags.  Solace stepped into the room, moving toward the bags she knew held the salt.  She placed the torch in the sconce on the wall and carefully opened the bag.

A ball of fur rubbed against her leg, and she looked down.  She was greeted by a loud caterwaul.  Solace bent down to the cat and stroked her soft hair, murmuring, “Pudding.  What are you doing in here?” She sighed slightly, scooping the cat into her arms.  “How long have you been locked in here this time?”  The cat’s soft rumble of contentment was her only answer.  Solace grinned and rubbed her face against Pudding’s fur.  “Oh, Pudding.  If you’re not careful you’ll get trapped in here for too long.”

“If I were a cat would you show me that kind of affection?”

The voice startled her, and she almost dropped Pudding as she whirled.  Logan lounged against the open doorway.  His form seemed to fill the entrance.  She couldn’t help but let her gaze roam over his strong physique.

She hadn’t seen him for days.  She was purposely avoiding him after being so humiliated.  But now, seeing him standing there like some dark god, she felt her body come alive.  Dangerously alive.  She held Pudding tightly against her chest like a shield.  Finally, she caught her breath enough to retort, “If you were a cat, I’d throw you to the dogs.”  She turned her back to him, trying to hide her body’s response to his presence.

She heard his soft rumble of laughter.  “I don’t think you’d hurt any animal like that,” he said.

He was suddenly standing behind her.  She could feel him there, without even looking.  Her body became warm and flushed, and she wanted him to touch her, even though he had cast her aside like an old blanket.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked, reaching around her to flick the bowl she had rested on the bag of salt.

“Getting salt,” she responded instantly, but her hands refused to do anything but hold Pudding.  “What are you doing here?”  She felt his hot gaze on the back of her head.

“I want to warn you,” he whispered.

“Warn me?” she wondered, trying to keep the breathlessness from her voice.  “Against what?”

“You shouldn’t be alone.  Not ever.”

He must surely be speaking about himself as the threat.  One touch, one kiss and she was doomed.  As it was now, all she could think of was the way his lips had touched hers, the way he had held her tightly to himself.  Pudding’s head nuzzled her chin, seeking more attention, but her mind was occupied by Logan.

“You’re in danger.”

It was as if he poured a bucket of cold water over her.  The words mocked her.  You shouldn’t be here alone.  She whirled and stepped away from him.  Her bottom bumped up against the bag of salt behind her.  “You already told me that and quite adequately proved why,” she snapped.  “I don’t need any more of your lessons.”  Holding Pudding tightly against her pounding, furious heart, she pushed by him and stormed toward the stairs.

Suddenly he stepped in front of her, blocking her way with a wall of solid flesh.  “I’m not here to teach you a lesson.  Just to warn you.  Someone wants to kill you.”

“Kill me?” she asked, startled.  “But who?”

“I overheard a man and a woman talking.  I didn’t see who they were.”

“That’s ridiculous.  I don’t have any enemies,” she snapped.  In the torchlight, she watched his eyes narrow.

“I suppose it’s one of your closest friends who is laying siege to the castle,” Logan quipped.

His sarcasm irritated her further.  “No enemy can breech the walls of this castle,” Solace retorted.

“You know better than that, Solace,” Logan whispered.  “That’s why you’re so frightened.”

“I’m not frightened!”

“Then why are you trembling?”

Only then did Solace realize she was shivering.  But she also knew it had nothing to do with being frightened, or with the cold.  She was quiet for a long moment, trying to calm her trembling.  “Do you think it was one of Barclay’s men?” Solace wondered.  “The murderer?”

Logan stepped back, into the shadows.  “I don’t know,” he answered.  “But I don’t see why he would want you dead.  You pose no threat to him.”

Solace’s pride was pricked.  “I’m heir to this castle,” she said in defense.

“But your father is still alive and so is your stepmother.  You’re third in line.”

Solace’s brow furrowed.  “I don’t know who would want me dead,” she admitted.

“Until we can find out who it was, you’ll have to take precautions.  Don’t take this lightly.  They meant business, whoever it was,” Logan said.  “I’ll stay with you until you’re done getting the salt, but –”

“You don’t have to watch over me like a child,” she said.

“Not like a child, Solace,” he said patiently.  “Like a woman whose life is in danger.”

Danger? she thought, a scowl shadowing her brow.  The thought seemed too ridiculous.  But Logan said he had overheard two people.  Why should she doubt him?  Suddenly, a tremor of apprehension shot through her.  If someone was trying to kill her, what could she do?  She couldn’t expect Logan to trail her all day.  Suddenly, an idea came to her.  Maybe there was something Logan could do.  She tried to see his face, but could not.  The shadows hid him too well.  “Do you know how to use that sword?” she wondered.

There was a long moment of silence, and he shifted his weight slightly.  “Yes.”

She nervously wet her lips with her tongue.  “Will you teach me how to defend myself?” When he didn’t answer, she continued quickly, “I can’t expect someone to be with me at all times.  And I might be safer...  well, I might be better off if I knew just enough to protect myself.  It might be –”

His finger touched her lips in a motion to still them.  “I’ll teach you,” he agreed.

The feel of his finger against her lips sent a quivering charge through her.  He seemed to keep it there a second longer than need be before he pulled away from her.  “Collect your salt,” he said.  “And I’ll meet you.”

“Tonight?” she asked, strangely anxious.

“You would train under the moonlight, alone with a stranger?” he wondered.

“No,” she answered.  “Alone with you.”

***

Solace’s words flattered Logan.  She trusted him enough to be alone with him.  And yet, she was foolhardy to trust him at all.  She didn’t know him.  She had no clue that he was the one who had killed the dungeon guard.  She had no knowledge of what he was planning.  What would she think if she knew? he wondered.  What would she think about giving him her trust then?

Even though they had agreed to meet behind the mews after the meal, Logan realized Solace would be coming to him in the dark.  That was too much temptation for fate to overlook, too much chance for a murderer to be lurking in the shadows.  He had learned long ago to take matters into his own hands, not to wait on fate.  She was too cruel too often.  So, after his meal, Logan placed himself in an obvious position, lounging against the wall just outside the Great Hall.

He turned expectantly at the soft tread of footsteps, but felt only disappointment at the sight of Beth approaching from down the hallway.  Her face was lit with a sly smile, her eyes lidded with coyness.  Logan gritted his teeth as he bowed slightly.

Her grin was annoying.  “Looking for me, Logan?” she wondered.

“Alas, no,” Logan answered, charmingly.  “But had I known you would be up at this late hour, I would have been.”

She smiled, batting her lashes at him.  “Then you’re here to meet with someone else?  I’m disappointed.”

“You’re also betrothed.”  Logan found himself thankful for that fact.

She ran a hand along the length of his arm.  “One night of passion does not break a betrothal.”

“Unless he finds out.”

“And who will tell him?”

“Not I, certainly,” Logan admitted.  “But there are many eyes and ears in a castle, m’lady.”

“We will be discreet,” she said, smiling seductively.

He felt about as aroused as a dead rat.  He raised his eyes suddenly to glance over Beth’s shoulder and caught a movement in the shadows.  He saw Solace staring at him with the largest eyes he had ever seen.  He saw hurt in them, confusion and pain, before she bowed her head and turned away.

The thought of bedding Beth vanished before the disappointment he had caused Solace.  “Excuse me,” he said to Beth, dismissing her completely, and moved after Solace.  He easily caught up with her in the hallway, grabbing her arm gently.  “Solace,” he murmured.  “I was waiting for you.”

She looked up at him through thick lashes.  “And you found my sister.  I understand.  If Beth –”

Logan took her hand in his and gently raised it to his lips.  “Beth found me.  I was waiting for you.”  He stared hard at her, his eyes shining like silver.  They moved over her face like a caress, touching her eyes, her nose, her lips.  “Shall we?” he wondered.

Solace stared at him dubiously.  How could she doubt her beauty, Logan wondered.  How could she believe he would willingly pick Beth over her?  He had seen hundreds like Beth.  All fawning about him as if he were a new pup, a prize or even a servant.  But never had they looked on him as an equal.  Only the peasants had gazed at him as a prospective husband.  Logan wondered fleetingly if Solace even knew what she wanted of him.  He could show her, take the time to teach her the ways of lovemaking...  if he wasn’t looking for Peter.

Solace cast a glance over her shoulder as if she expected to find Beth watching, but no one was there, just the empty corridor.

Finally, Logan gently tucked Solace’s small hand in the crook of his arm and urged her on with one of his most devastating grins.

It worked.  She started forward almost immediately, a shy smile lurking at the corners of her lips.

Logan led her back to the mews.  As they entered the falcon training grounds, Logan explained, “The first and most important thing is to scream and kick and do everything you can to get away.”

Solace nodded like an obedient student.

“The problem comes when you are caught off guard.  So, you have to try to anticipate the unexpected.  Notice who is around you, friend and foe alike.  Your enemies might be posing as friends.  We don’t know yet.  But let’s say you’re caught off guard.  Your best bet is to try to knee a man between his legs as hard as you can and run.  Understand?”

Solace nodded.

“Let’s try something.  Come here.”  When she moved in front of him, he turned her around so her back was to him.  “Say your attacker approaches from behind.”  He grabbed her around the neck, not too tightly, not too loosely.  He couldn’t help but notice how smooth her skin was.  Her hair brushed his arm.  It was as soft as velvet.  “What would you do?” he asked, drawing her close against his body.

For a long moment, she did nothing.  Her small hands instinctively came up to grip his arm.  Finally, she whispered, “I...I would fight and try to scream.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, but let’s say he tightens his grip and you can’t scream.”  Her hair smelled faintly of roses.  He moved his nose closer to her hair to smell the fragrance.  He felt her lean back against him slightly, barely noticeably, but close enough that he could feel the length of her against him.  His hold on her tightened.  His body instantly responded to holding her.  Lord, how he wanted her.

One of her hands caressed his arm.  He felt the movement even through his tunic.  The things he could teach her!

“I... I don’t know,” she whispered.

She would die, he thought.  And, strangely, it angered him.  “You’re lucky this man doesn’t have a dagger or you would be dead already.  Let’s say he wants something else.”  He bent his head to kiss her neck, just behind her ear, and she gasped in surprise.  He turned her face to his, claiming her lips in one hungry move.  He kissed her with control, with expertise, trying desperately to keep control of his emotions, to teach her.

But she wasn’t reacting like a woman trapped by a rapist.  She was reacting like a woman who wanted to be ravished.  She groaned slightly, and without removing his lips from hers, Logan encouraged, “What do you do?”

No response.  He pulled back to see that her eyes were still closed, her face tilted up towards his, her lips waiting.  Logan took the invitation, easily parting her lips with his and thrusting his tongue inside.  He reached down to cup her breast, squeezing, feeling the hard nipple beneath her dress.  She groaned and thrust her chest into his hand.

Logan could hardly control himself.  He ran a palm over her nipple, gently caressing the roundness of her breast.  Her mouth tasted like honey; her lips were so soft, so willing!  He wanted to taste the rest of her, to let his hands claim her as his own.  He ran a hand down her flat stomach, toward the area he knew she wanted him to touch.  He felt her thrust her hips and his manhood throbbed against his leggings.  “You like this, don’t you?” he murmured in her ear.  He felt her nod.  “Good,” he whispered.  “Then when the rapist comes to claim you, you don’t have to fight.  Just enjoy.”

She stiffened immediately and he was sorry he had been so cold to her.  He wanted to touch her, feel her passion.  Instead, he prepared for her reaction.  She would struggle or try to elbow him.  Logan was caught totally off guard when she stomped down on his foot.  Hard.

He released her, trying to hide the excruciating pain flaring in his foot.

Solace whirled and stormed away.

“Good!” Logan called out after her.  “That’s exactly what you should have done in the first place.”

But she didn’t stop.  He watched her until she turned the corner, heading toward the keep.  He had gone too far.  He knew it then and he knew it now.  He shook his head.  She had been in his arms, so close.  And she’d smelled so damn good, felt so soft.  He wanted more of her.  God help him, but he wanted all of her.

***

Graham grinned as he watched Solace storm into the darkness of the night.  For an instant, he envisioned going after her.  Instead, he reached inside his leggings and stroked himself.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWELVE

Baron Edwin Barclay glared up at Castle Fulton from atop his warhorse, cursing for the thousandth time.  His long blond hair was tossed about by the wind, the wild strands forming a loose halo around his head, his pleasant features and strong form giving him the appearance of a saint.  He narrowed his eyes, staring up at Fulton’s tall towers and gatehouse.  He cursed again.

“M’lord!” a rider called as he halted his steed beside Baron Barclay’s white warhorse.  “There is no sign of the drawbridge being lowered.  I’m afraid we’ve failed.”

Barclay’s hand was swift and his fist was powerful as he struck the man, sending him rolling off his horse to the ground.  “He has failed.  He must have been discovered and killed.  But I will not fail.  I will take Castle Fulton and make Farindale grovel before me.”

The man wiped the blood from the corner of his lip and stood.  “Yes, m’lord.”

Barclay ignored him, his cold blue eyes focused on Castle Fulton.  “You will fall,” he promised, his burning eyes looking more like those of a demon than of a saint.

***

Late the next day, Solace found herself standing before the chapel.  The echo of indiscernible voices drifted out of the church.  Often in times of confusion she found herself standing here, as she had when her father had gone to France to fight and left her in Alissa’s care.  She wanted to go in and find Father Davis.  He had always been there to comfort her and talk with.  But she knew he would be busy now with the sick and injured.  He wouldn’t have time for her.  And she needed to speak to someone about... about the emotions Logan aroused within her.  She wanted to know why he affected her as he did, what the power he held over her was.

With a heavy sigh, she looked away from the towering steeple and prepared to turn away when a voice called to her.  Solace’s gaze moved over the entrance, searching for the owner of the voice.  It was only when the call came again that she followed it far up into the bell tower.  Father Davis stood there, waving down at her, motioning for her to come inside.

With a grin, Solace hiked up her skirts and ran within.  She raced up the aisle, moving quickly by the pews, and stopped before the altar to genuflect.  She darted to her left, pushing through a door, and climbed the spiraling staircase behind it.  The decrepit wooden steps shook beneath her feet as she took the stairs two at a time until she reached the top.

“Easy, child,” Father Davis called to her as the bell tower platform rocked slightly from her enthusiastic entrance.  He was an old man with a bald head ringed by snow-white hair.  He wore a simple brown robe.  His gentle brown eyes lit as they saw her.

She smiled at him as she approached, slowing her run to a walk.

“You look like a gypsy,” he said lovingly, “with that glow in your eyes.  I always said those were dangerous eyes.”

“You always said they were beautiful eyes.”

“And they are,” he admitted.  “It’s been a long time, Solace.  Why haven’t you come up to see me?”

“I know the injured are growing.  I know you’re busy,” she said, leaning out the window and staring down at the inner ward.  “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Child,” he said patiently, “you are anything but a disturbance.”

She cast a grin at him.  “I’ve truly missed you.”

Father Davis nodded his agreement.  “These godforsaken sieges.  It was on a day like this another lifetime ago that I witnessed another siege.”

“My father,” she said solemnly.

“Your father,” he agreed, resting his arms on the ledge beside her and staring out at the cloudy, gray day.  “The only good to come from that siege was you.  I can’t help but wonder about this one, what with your father gone.”

“He’ll come back,” Solace said.  “And trap Barclay’s army and wipe them all out.  All we have to do is hold the castle until then.”

Father Davis stared at her for a long time.  “This is a messy business, Solace.  I want you to promise me that if they enter the castle, you’ll run.”

“Run?” she turned to him, shocked.

“Run to safety.  I want you out of the castle if they enter.  You are heir to Fulton, Solace.  It will be you that Barclay is looking for.”

She waved the issue aside with a disbelieving flick of her wrist.  “And where am I supposed to run?” she wondered.

Father Davis seized her arm, squeezing it firmly.  “To your father, Solace.  You must find him.  And trust no one.  No one, do you hear?”

“You’re scaring me,” she admitted, trying to pull her arm free.

“Good.  That’s exactly what this stubborn little head needs.  A good dose of reality.”  His eyes grew distant as a faraway look seeped into them.  “These days, it’s hard enough to find good fighters, let alone men who won’t turn their back on you for a gold piece.  And gold is something that Barclay has plenty of.”

“Father, are you... feeling all right?” Solace wondered.  It was odd for him to be so concerned with matters of warfare and not matters of the spirit.

Father Davis nodded.  “Yes,” he said, rubbing his bald head.  “I’m sorry.”

Solace knew she could not talk to him about Logan, not now.  He had too much on his mind.  Perhaps the tide was turning.  Perhaps now Father Davis needed her to listen to him for a change.

He suddenly seemed so old, so tired.  Solace stayed and comforted him, listening to his concerns.  By the time she left the chapel an hour later, the sky had darkened.  She felt as lost as when she had entered.  She needed to talk to someone.  Alissa wouldn’t understand.  Beth wouldn’t take the time to listen.  She wished her father were in the castle; even though he was seldom home, she had always been able to talk to him.

Then, her eyes lit and her gaze turned up to the battlements.  There had always been one person with whom she enjoyed spending time, who was like a brother to her, who always took the time to listen.

She headed toward the walkways, knowing that Peter was on guard duty.

***

Logan stared out through an arrow slit in the hoarding.  The full moon illuminated the scene below in a pale glow.  Beyond the moat he could see the siege tower was almost complete.  He knew he had wasted enough time, too much time.  He had to find Peter before it was too late.

He cursed silently.  Solace had become too much of a distraction.  Whenever he was with her, all thoughts of his brother simply disappeared.  Even when he was alone, despite his resolve to stay focused on Peter, his mind filled with images of holding her in his arms, caressing her tender flesh, kissing her hot mouth.

He glanced over to his left, studying the damaged wall of the hoarding.  It looked as though a boulder thrown by the trebuchet had knocked a two-foot hole into the wood.

Suddenly, a faint glow of light drew his gaze, growing brighter with each second.  The fool!  Logan thought.

As the person rounded the corner, Logan barely had time to notice it was a woman before he threw himself at her, knocking her to the ground.  The candle fell from her grip and dropped to the wooden floor of the hoarding.  Logan smashed his hand down on it, snuffing out the light beneath his open palm.  A small wheeze and then a thud broke the silence.

For a long moment, they lay together, his weight pressing her down to the floor.  Her breasts pressed against his chest again and again as she gasped for air.  Then she began to wriggle, her hips grinding against his own.  His body’s response to her movement was instantaneous.  He pressed a hand over her mouth, hissing, “Shhh!”

Moonlight streaming through the arrow loop washed over the woman’s face and his eyebrows rose in surprise.  Solace.  It was as if his thoughts had conjured her.

The light made her face as pale as the moon itself.  He wondered how he could have missed those eyes before; they were so large, so green, so haunting.  Even though he had seen her numerous times, he still marveled at the delicate sculpture of her high cheekbones.  Her full lips were warm and wet against his hand.

She began to struggle, her small hands pushing at his chest.  He removed his hand from her mouth, and she quickly demanded, “What are you doing?  Get off of me.”  He slid off of her.  He watched her sit up, keeping the moonlight to his back so he could see her more clearly.

“What kind of fool are you to come up here with a candle?” he retorted.

Solace was quiet for a long moment.  “Logan?” Solace asked.  “Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” he snapped.

“Well, I...”  Her voice trailed off and she looked away from him.  “Never mind.”

“Fire on this hoarding is not a smart idea.”

He watched her large green eyes glance down at the floor.  “I... I couldn’t see,” she defended, lamely.

“Then you shouldn’t be up here,” he said.

She clenched her jaw and began to rise to her feet, but Logan closed a hand over her arm, keeping her before him.  “And it’s not a good idea to show them that you are here.”

She wrenched her arm away from him.  “Their aim is not that good.”

He pointed to a wooden beam above her.  An arrow’s metal tip was embedded inches from her shoulder.  The highly polished shaft shimmered in the moonlight.  “At least one of them is good enough,” he said.

She straightened her spine, trying to appear noble in a kneeling position.  The moonlight washed over her, bathing her skin in an iridescent glow.  There was hurt in her eyes and embarrassment.

Suddenly, she stood, moving away from him, out of the shaft of moonlight.  “What are you doing up here?” she wondered.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he answered tersely.  “What are you doing up here?”

“I was looking for a friend.”

A friend, he thought.  A lover?  Why else would she be walking the hoardings alone, so late at night?  Logan turned away from her to gaze out through the arrow loop at the army below, not wanting her to see the ugliness in his set jaw.  “Instead, you found me,” he retorted and was surprised at the bitterness in his tone.

Solace joined him, following his stare.  “Can you see the army?  What are they doing?”

He stiffened.  Her words were tinged with awe and excitement.  Instantly, he was transported back thirteen years.

He raced his horse through the emptying streets of the village, heading toward Sullivan’s Hill.  Lord Farindale’s army!  The thought sent a forbidden thrill through his body.  Just the thought of an army attacking his home should have filled him with outrage, and he knew full well there was a very strong possibility that many people would be killed, but the excitement simmering in his blood burned away all such rational thought.  He would finally get to see a real battle!  And besides, he had all the faith in the world that his father’s knights would be victorious.

Logan jerked the reins and the horse changed direction, taking a quicker route through Millie’s Field toward Sullivan’s Hill.  By now, the land was strangely empty and quiet.  There were no children’s squeals of delight, no stray geese to scatter.  Everyone had moved, into the safety of the castle wards.  Only the pounding of his horse’s hooves on the ground reached his ears.

Within moments, he could see Sullivan’s Hill before him, a large rise in the earth that obscured the road behind it from view.  Logan urged his horse on, and the animal raced up the hill.  As he came to the top, he was momentarily blinded by the flare of the sun as the blood-red sky splashed across his face.  He blinked his eyes clear and lowered his gaze to the road.  The sight that greeted him caused his heart to falter.

They were marching in pairs down the road.  Knights on horseback in gleaming armor, footmen behind them.  Logan became increasingly uneasy as his eyes followed the line down the road, far, far back.  He could not make out the end of the line of approaching warriors.

He had never seen so many knights!  The excitement withered and died from his spirit.  When Peter told him there were five thousand men coming to lay siege to Castle Fulton, he’d thought he understood.  But his mind could not, until now, comprehend just how many men that was.  I have to get back to warn Father, Logan thought.

He reined in his horse, but in his urgency to return to the castle he jerked too roughly on the reins and the animal spooked, rearing high into the air with a panicked whinny.  Logan felt himself sliding from the saddle, and he clutched desperately at the reins as the thin ropes tore free from his grasp.  The horse reared higher and Logan lost what little balance he had left, tumbling backward from the saddle.  His shoulders hit the ground first, whipping his head sharply back onto a large rock.

Logan shook his head, ridding himself of the painful memory.  He struggled to hold the anger he felt toward Solace inside him.  He wanted to throttle her, tell her how foolish her excitement was, tell her what she could lose.

Instead, he turned his back to her, his fists clenching.  After all this time, he had been positive that he had his emotions under control.  But her innocent curiosity made him angry.  Didn’t she understand what those men were out there to do?  Didn’t she realize what could happen?  Didn’t she know they would stop at nothing to enter her castle?

“It’s a grand sight,” she murmured.

Logan suddenly grabbed her arm and pushed her back against the wooden wall, pressing her there with his body.  “A grand sight?” he echoed angrily, his face an inch from her own.  “They’re here to take your castle from you!  You shouldn’t be in awe of them!  You should hate them with every ounce of your being, with every breath!  You should want every last one of them dead for daring to lay siege to your home, for daring to want to take what is yours!  But never, ever admire them!”  He was breathing hard, his words churning from lips curled in an expression of hate.  His hands clutched her shoulders tightly.

“Logan.”  The word was almost a plea on her lips.

He removed his trembling hands from her shoulders and took a step back.  I should follow my own advice and hate her with every breath, he thought.  I do.  I hate her.  But the thought made him angry because he knew it was a lie.  “I told you not to roam the castle alone, especially at night.  Someone wants to kill you.”

Solace reached into a pocket in the skirt of her dress, drawing forth a small dagger, its blade shiny and clean.  “I have this,” she said hesitantly.

His eyes shifted to the dagger.  “What’s that, a dinner knife?” he mocked.  With a quick swipe of his hand, he easily batted the utensil from her fist, sending it skittering across the hoarding.

Her mouth dropped open in shock.  His gaze was drawn unwillingly to her parted lips.  Like a sweet flower budding with nectar, they beckoned to him.  He could think of nothing but kissing those enticing lips, stealing the honey they hid in their depths.  The urge was overpowering.  “Damn it,” he muttered and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her roughly against him, claiming her lips with an urgency and need that was not to be denied.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Swirls of desire coursed through Solace’s body as Logan’s lips devoured hers.  His tongue flitted over her lips, enticing her to open her mouth wider for him.  Flames exploded through her body, igniting a passion only he could arouse.  She parted her lips and he lunged into her, driving his tongue between her lips, tasting every corner, every succulent recess of her mouth, until she was left breathless.

She gasped for a breath and he moved on, his kisses moving over her jaw, down her neck, fanning her skin with light, teasing strokes of his lips and tongue.  His mouth was hot against her flesh, leaving warm, lingering memories of its path as it spiraled downward to the soft hollow of her throat.  He sucked her flesh gently, teasing her delicate skin with his teeth.  She heard a low, guttural moan escape from his lips, and for a moment she thought he would bite her like some savage animal attacking its freshly captured prey.

His hand moved from her shoulder to cup one of her breasts.  He squeezed it firmly, relentlessly.  Her nipple hardened instantly under his touch.  Involuntarily, she ran her nails over his back, pulling him against her.  She threw her head back, exposing her pale throat to him.

Logan plunged a hand beneath the satin fabric of her dress to fondle her bare breast.  Solace gasped, arching her back, filling his hand with her skin.  A raging flood of liquid fire swept through her, enflaming her already-blazing passion.

With a skilled hand, he undid the buttons at the back of her dress, almost ripping the last button free in his haste to rid her of her clothing.  He yanked sharply down on her dress, exposing her breasts to his heated gaze.  With a guttural growl, he then attacked her nipples, kissing and sucking with a frenzy that swept her up in its relentless fury.

His fingers skimmed her clothing, moving down to her thigh, squeezing and teasing her, urging her legs to part.  Weak from the onslaught of emotions and feelings battering her, Solace obeyed his silent command.  Logan immediately cupped her womanhood through her clothing.  She opened her mouth to gasp, but his lips seared across hers, sealing her moan beneath his passion.

Solace reached down to touch his hand, but she wasn’t sure whether it was to stop him or to encourage him.  She knew she should stop him.  She knew the way he was touching her, the things he was doing, couldn’t be right, that she shouldn’t do this, but somehow the feelings that were spreading through her were so new, so pleasant, so... exciting.

Disappointment flooded through her as he removed his hand.

He reached down to lift the satin material of her dress up over her hips.  His hand blazed a path from her breasts to her thigh.  She instinctively arched toward him, wrapping her hands around his neck, entwining her fingers in his hair.

He touched her womanly hair, moving lower and lower through her dark curls with an agonizing slowness.  Solace groaned, wanting him to stop the fiery flames that ignited inside her, to quench the fires he had inflamed.  Finally, he touched her on the bud of her womanhood.  Spirals of ecstasy shot through her, and she reached down to grip his hand tightly, afraid of the sensations she was feeling, afraid he would move his hand away.  But he didn’t.  He caressed her in slow, tight circles, rubbing his finger round and round over the delicate skin until she thought the world would end in a bright explosion of blinding light.

Solace realized she was clinging to him, clutching his tunic in balled fists lest she crumble to the ground.  He scooped her up into his arms and lay her gently on the floor of the hoarding, desperately kissing her lips, warming them, enflaming them.

Logan pulled back to gaze upon her body.  The intensity and pure longing in his eyes ignited a desire so great in her, so irresistible, that it was unlike anything she had ever known before.  She reached for him, but he pulled back, ripping his belt from his body, shedding his tunic and hose with a manic intensity.

Solace had never seen a more beautiful sight.  His body was hard and firm, carved from granite.  The muscles in his arms rippled with power as he held himself over her.  His chest was so strong, his stomach ribbed with muscle.

She reached up to caress his face, lifting up on her elbows to claim his lips.  She wanted to be a part of him, to feel his touch again.  She wanted him to ease the urgency tormenting her.

He lowered himself over her, the entire length of his hot body pressing against hers.  He parted her legs with his knee and moved between her thighs.  She felt something press against the most intimate part of her and groaned slightly.  Logan gazed into her eyes, and in their misty grayness Solace saw his passion burning brightly, mirroring her own.  Then he parted the delicate folds of her womanhood with his shaft, entering her.

Solace stiffened as his manhood filled her.  Then Logan was kissing her mouth, her eyes, her neck with urgency and desperation, enflaming her soul with a contagious plague of want.  She returned his kisses with an equal fervor.

He began to move inside of her, thrusting slowly at first, the tempo increasing as their passion built.

A carnal hunger raged through Solace, a building tension racing through her veins.  It claimed every portion of her body until she thought she could take no more.  She cried out for release.  Logan answered her cries, driving his manhood deeper and harder into her.

With each thrust, Solace rose in swirling clouds of rapture, soaring higher and higher, until she reached the stars, adding a glow to the night that had never been there before.  Waves of ecstasy washed over her again and again until she lay still, sated and fulfilled.

She opened her eyes and stared at Logan in awe.  A strange grin tugged at his lips before he began to move again, thrusting deep into her until his body stiffened and shook.

Solace felt his shoulder muscles coil tight beneath her palms before he slumped forward with a satisfied sigh.  They lay together for a long moment, the sounds of the night returning them to reality.  Voices calling out in the distance.  The clip-clop of a horse trotting by.

Solace caressed his shoulders, winding a lock of his hair around one finger.

“Solace,” Logan finally said, pushing himself up onto his elbows to stare down at her.

She gazed at him, a small grin turning up the corners of her lips.  Absolute bliss lingered in her veins.  She felt somehow free and uninhibited.  She had never realized it could be like that.  That a man, that Logan, could make her feel this way.  Solace’s grin turned into a full smile.

Logan pressed a kiss onto her open mouth, before climbing to his feet to pull up his leggings.

She sat up, gazing at him with beguiling delight.  She didn’t even bother to cover her exposed breasts.

Logan laughed softly and held out a hand to her.  She took it, and he pulled her into his embrace.  Her breasts brushed his chest.  He righted her dress so it covered her chest.  But when his hand lingered over one of her breasts longer than it should, Solace looked at him from beneath her eyelashes.

With a growl, he gently shoved her back against the hoarding wall.  “We could easily be discovered up here,” he whispered.  “But if you keep looking at me like that I’m going to take you again anyway.”

Solace couldn’t move when he was so close.  Her senses left her, disappearing under the promise of one of his kisses, a caress.  He lowered his hand and Solace held her breath, thinking, hoping he would touch her again.  Instead, he gently smoothed out her skirt, pulling it down to cover her legs.

He took her hand in his and began to turn away, heading toward the stairs.

Solace halted, whispering, “Just one more kiss.”

Logan groaned slightly, but turned to her, wrapping his arms around her.  “Wanton wench,” he murmured, pressing his lips to hers.

The still smoldering passion flamed to life in Solace.  She melted against him, giving in to his expertise, allowing him complete reign over her senses.

He pulled away, backing quickly from her as if she had burned him.  He held her hand tightly and pulled her toward the stairs.  They descended the steps to the courtyard.  There, he released her hand, but continued at her side until they reached the keep.

He stepped in front of her, so close that Solace could feel his breath on her upturned lips.  The tips of her breasts were almost touching his chest, and they hardened in response to his closeness.

“Come to me in the morning,” he whispered.  “I’ll be free after I’ve trained the falcons near the mews.”

“I will,” she promised.

Logan stepped around her, his gaze searing her to the spot.  He backed away from her, a sly smile on his lips.  Solace watched the falconer until the darkness swallowed him.

***

Hagen, the gate guard, watched from the battlements as Logan moved toward the mews.  He was sure that he was the man who had forced him to open the gates.  But who was he?  Suddenly, from the darkness of the night, a large falcon descended to land on the stranger’s shoulder.

Hagen’s eyes narrowed.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Logan dropped the last piece of meat and the gyrfalcon quickly snatched it up, tearing into it.  He knew she was coming to him.  He knew that after he finished training the birds she would be there.  He was actually looking forward to her visit.  He grabbed his glove and the lure as he moved out the door.

As he walked outside, he saw the courtyard was full of merchants opening their doors to begin the day.  Across it, the kitchen servants were collecting some vegetables from the garden.  A small child ran toward the keep with a large sack slung over his shoulder.

He rounded the corner to the kennels, heading to the training grounds...

...and slammed into a little whirlwind!  He barely flinched, but the impact sent the other person to the ground.

Logan stared down at Solace.  She looked a little dazed and utterly beautiful.  He couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face.  “Don’t you ever walk?” he wondered, holding a hand out to her.  Solace grasped his hand, and he pulled her up with a little too much force so she landed tightly against his chest.  “You’re early.”

She gazed into his eyes for a long, heated moment before stepping away from him and nodding.

His stare swept down her face, from her deep green eyes, over her pert little nose, to her lips where his hot gaze lingered.  After a long moment, Solace parted her lips slightly and dropped her head, but not before Logan noticed the red in her cheeks.  He smiled slightly.  “Have you come to help me now?” he wondered.

She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes.  “Do you need help?” she asked.

His eyes burned into hers.  “I can always use your help,” he said, brushing by her, moving toward a white falcon sitting on a perch on the edge of the training grounds.  Lord, how his body ached for her.  He had thought of her through the entire night and now found he couldn’t concentrate on the falcons.  He wanted to be inside her again.

“Logan,” she whispered.

Logan half turned to find her standing close behind him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she wondered.

“Tell you?” he questioned, frowning at the seriousness of her tone.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Logan stiffened.  His heart was suddenly pounding in his chest.  How had she discovered the truth?  How much did she know? he wondered.

“You didn’t have to keep it a secret.  At least not from me.”

Logan turned away, nervously gathering the jesses in his hand.

“Logan, I don’t understand why you did it,” she said softly.

He shook his head.  “You’re making this out to be bigger than it is,” he said, hoping to bluff his way through.

“It’s treason!  If my stepmother finds out, you’ll be thrown in the stocks.  Or worse.”

He clenched his jaw as dread shot through his body.  “Are you going to tell her?”

“Of course not,” she answered, and Logan heard the hurt in her voice.

It must be the dungeon incident, he thought.  Had she had found out he killed the guard?  “I had no other choice,” he said.

“But to disobey my stepmother...”

Logan frowned, his eyes narrowing quizzically.  “Disobey?” he echoed and turned to her.

“That was very brave of you.  If those gates had closed, I would have been in Barclay’s hands now.”

“The gates,” he breathed.  Relief flooded every fiber of his body.  She was talking about the gates.  The damn gates!  He almost laughed, but she looked so serious, so damned kissable, that he hid his laughter behind a wide grin.  “I guess you owe me your life.”

She nodded once.  “And my gratitude.”  Her gaze dipped to his lips.

Desire washed through him.  God’s blood!  She could arouse him with a mere look.  No, he amended silently.  With her mere presence.  Quickly, he turned back to the falcon.  The sooner he finished the training, the sooner he could be alone with Solace.  His entire body ached with wanting.  No woman had ever affected him this way.  No woman had consumed his thoughts, his mind, like Solace did.

He took the lure and stepped away from the post, passing close to Solace, very close.  She didn’t back away, but he heard her slight gasp as he came within touching distance.  Could she want him as badly as he wanted her?

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

He cast her a scorching look and a grin tugged at her lips.  “Don’t tempt me,” he replied in a deep, guttural voice.

Solace bowed her head, a smile spreading over her face, and walked to an overturned crate.  She boosted her bottom up on it and turned to watch him.

Logan reached the middle of the training ground and stopped.  He planted his booted feet apart and lifted the lure, whirling it above his head.

The white peregrine falcon sat on its perch, staring at Logan with small black eyes.

A caw sounded in the air, and Logan raised his gaze to see his black falcon sitting on a nearby crenel, studying the lure with hungry eyes.

Logan swung the sand-filled leather bag in slow, looping circles above his head.  He knew he should have been paying attention to the white bird, but Solace was much more attractive to look at.  She sat so demurely on the crate, a royal princess on her throne.  And she looked like one, dressed in a rich blue velvet houppelande, which he couldn’t wait to rid her of.  Her hair was braided tightly and wrapped around her head.  He was dying to free her luxurious mane and sink his hands into its lush fullness.

The lure spun faster and faster, whistling as it whipped through the air.  “Chase it, you damn bird,” Logan muttered.  The falcon puffed up its white feathers as if in indignation.

Solace’s grin grew as the bird hopped on its perch, turning its back to Logan.

Logan continued swinging the lure at a furious pace until his arm tired.  Finally, he stopped and threw the lure to the ground in disgust.  “Fine.  Then don’t learn to hunt,” he whispered harshly.

“You can hardly blame the falcon,” Solace called.  “It can’t possibly fly that fast.”

Logan turned to her, his eyes dark and flashing.  He grabbed the lure by one of the limp feathers sewn onto the bag and held it out to her.  “Perhaps you’d like to try it, m’lady.”

Solace hopped down off the crate and approached him.  She took the lure from his hand and shook the string out before her, turning her back to him.  All Logan wanted to do was wrap his hands around her and pull her against him.  Damn, he thought, as his body responded instantly to the picture, his manhood stirring in his leggings.

Solace whistled softly, catching the falcon’s attention; the bird looked over its shoulder at her.  Solace cooed, “Come on, darling.  You’ll get fat if you sit on your perch all day.”  She began to twirl the lure in the air in wider and wider circles.  The white falcon hopped on the perch, turning full face to Solace.

Solace mimicked Old Ben’s call, urging the bird to attack its fake prey.  The bird’s black eyes locked on the lure, watching it circle.  Solace continued to twirl the lure in slow, but steady circles.  Then, suddenly, the falcon launched from its perch, circled the sky once and dove, catching the lure in midair.  It landed on the perch, the lure secure in its sharp claws.

Solace stared at the falcon for a long moment before turning to Logan with a smug look of triumph.  Her large green eyes glittered like emeralds.

Her grin was contagious.  “We could have saved a lot of time if you trained the bird in the first place,” he said.  He marched past her, moving toward the white falcon.

“Are you in a hurry?” she asked.

He cast a hungry glance at her over his shoulder.

She approached behind him, leaning close to murmur.  “You’re not a falconer, are you?”

Logan froze.  God’s blood!  Did she know all of his secrets? he wondered.

Her soft laughter reached his ears.  “At least not a very good one.”

Logan snapped on his thick leather glove.  “Where did you learn how to handle a lure?”  He approached the white falcon, holding his covered forearm out to the creature.  The bird was still holding its prize enthusiastically, if a bit possessively.  Logan moved his glove closer, touching the leather to the bird’s chest feathers.  The bird instantly pecked hard at the glove, angry at the intrusion.

Solace lowered her gaze to her clasped hands.  “I hung around Old Ben long enough to learn.”

After the rebuff from the falcon, Logan moved to a nearby pail and drew out a piece of red meat, tossing it to the peregrine.  The bird immediately dropped the lure and clutched at the food, snatching it easily out of the air.  Its sharp beak tore into the meat, easily ripping off a small portion.

Logan picked up the fallen lure and turned to Solace.

Shyly, she looked at the ground and Logan’s gaze settled on her lustrous hair.  It shimmered in the sunlight, beckoning to him.  He moved toward her, his steps full of purpose.  Solace lifted her gaze to him as he stopped just before her.  He stared into her beautiful green eyes for a long moment before reaching toward her.  Her lips parted as his hand touched her temple, skimming over her hair, his fingers moving toward the back of her head.  He pulled the pins from her hair and her braids tumbled down her back.

Solace didn’t move as he reached around to the back of her head, entwining his fingers in her hair, loosening the braids until her sumptuous locks hung in riotous waves along her back.  He ran his hand through her hair once again, enjoying the feel of it, the way tiny tendrils curled about his fingers.  Then, his gaze returned to hers.  “So you think you know a lot about falcons.”

“A little,” she admitted breathlessly.

“They can be very unpredictable,” he said.

“I know,” Solace said.

Suddenly, he grabbed both of her wrists in his hand, holding them firmly against his chest.  “We have to tie jesses around their legs so they can’t fly away.  This is how we keep the falcons from escaping.”  He felt her heart hammering in her chest.  He allowed one of his fingers to snake out and touch the rounded portion of her breast.

He felt the tremor shoot through her body at the caress.

“Logan,” she whispered.

He knew he could take her right there and she wouldn’t object, would probably encourage him.  But as much as he wanted her, he wanted to love her slowly and thoroughly this time.  And here was not the place.  He ran a finger over her lips.  “Not yet, my lady,” he said.  He could have sworn he heard her groan in protest as he stepped away from her and turned back to the falcon.

The bird had finished eating the meat and was now staring at him with black eyes.  Logan put his gloved hand to the bird’s chest, and this time it hopped up on his wrist.

“Where are you from?” Solace asked softly.

Logan grabbed the lure and headed toward the mews.  Solace followed.  “Cavindale,” Logan answered.

“That’s a long way from here.  What are you doing here?”

“I’m a wanderer,” he lied, elegantly.  “I go where I want to go.”

“Why settle here?”

A grin stretched his lips as he turned his gaze back to her.  I’m looking at the reason.  “Coin,” he said.  “Wandering pays very little.”  He entered the mews and put the falcon on its perch.

“But you know how to use your sword.  Can’t you --?”

Logan interrupted her, knowing what she was going to ask.  “Just because I know how to use it doesn’t mean I like to.”

Solace leaned against the doorframe, watching him put the lure away.  “Where did you learn how to use a sword?”

“When you have traveled as much as I have, you find many... opportunities... to learn how to wield a blade.  You either learn or you die.  It’s that simple.”

“And your falcon?” she wondered.

He turned a quizzical gaze to her.

“Where did you find him?” she inquired.

“I didn’t find him.  He found me.”  Logan paused in his work for a long moment, thinking about the first time he’d encountered his feathered companion.  “The damned bird hasn’t left my side for five years.”

“Where did he come from?”

Logan looked out of the mews to see the black falcon, ‘his falcon’ as Solace had called it, watching him with its dark, keen eyes.  For the first time, it struck him as odd that he had never given the bird a name.  He just hadn’t thought the bird would shadow him for five years, so he hadn’t bothered to think of one.  Well, now’s not the time to give him one, he thought.  He turned back to Solace.  “I was out in the woods hunting for my supper, looking for rabbit mostly,” he said, beginning his tale.  “I spotted one hiding in the brush and nocked an arrow in my bow.”

“A hunter, too,” Solace mused softly to herself, but loud enough for Logan to hear.

“I took aim and just as I let the arrow fly, a flash of black raced across my vision and a rush of air swept past my face.  I saw that it was a falcon diving for prey,” he paused and looked toward the falcon.  “My prey!” he shouted at the bird.

The falcon ignored his outburst.

Logan turned back to see Solace grinning gaily at him.  And he completely lost his train of thought.  “Your prey...” she supplied.

“Right,” Logan said with a nod.  “He was going for the rabbit, but my arrow struck the rabbit first, knocking it to the side.  The falcon was surprised by a move the rabbit wasn’t supposed to be able to make and faltered in its dive.  He hit the ground hard.”

“Did he get hurt?”

Logan shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  Just mad.  Because then he shot up into the sky and circled high above me as I gathered up my kill.  I lit a fire and was preparing to cook the rabbit when I looked up to see the falcon staring at me from only a foot away with those damn beady eyes.  It was the most foolhardy thing I have ever seen an animal do.

“The bird inched closer, and I just stared right back.  I had to admire the bastard’s courage.  I mean, he was close enough that I could grab him and have him for dessert.  Then he tried to grab a piece of meat right out from under my nose, but I pulled it away just before he took any.  He barked at me like some wild dog, and darted off into the sky.”  He paused, then smiled softly, remembering.  “He just kept circling and circling while I ate.”

“Then what happened?”

Logan shrugged, still unable to understand the bird’s behavior himself.  “From that day on, the bird’s always been somewhere close by.  I suppose it’s his way of getting revenge... by annoying me until the end of time.”

Solace was staring at him with rapt fascination.  She was so damn beautiful.  Who cared about tales of hunting or falcons or prey or supper when she was near?  Or revenge, a small voice inside him added.  But the voice was so faint now it was easy to ignore its feeble attempt to be heard.

Suddenly he grabbed her arm, pulling her into the mews.  He clasped her against him as he leaned into the wall.  “Are you through asking me questions?” he wondered.

“I –”  She opened her mouth to answer, and Logan pressed his lips to hers, hungrily stealing a kiss from her parted lips.  He tasted the sweet honey of her mouth, pressing against her, wanting so much more than this.  He pulled back from her to gaze into her eyes and saw they were clouded with aroused passion.  Her lips were slightly swollen from being kissed so thoroughly.  He cupped her chin.

“Will you come with me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied instantly.

He chuckled deeply.  “You don’t know where I want you to go.”

She gazed into his eyes with the sultry passion that enflamed his own.  “Where do you want me to go?”

“To my room,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck.

“Yes,” she answered, just as quickly.

Logan took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles, before pulling her out of the mews.  Together they headed for his room, their steps anxious and hurried.

A call from the battlements halted them.  “We’re under attack!”  They both raised startled eyes to the walkway to see a swarm of men battling.

Around them, chaos erupted, villagers charging for the protection of the keep, merchants shutting their doors and windows against the intruders, mothers screaming for their children!  The clang of swords resounded through the ward, the thundering clatter drowning out the panicked cries of the people.

Logan glanced at Solace and saw the concern etched on her face.  She moved toward the stairway that led to the battlements, but Logan pulled her roughly back to him.  “You can’t go up there!” he said.

“I have to,” she answered, her gaze pinned on the walkway.

Logan grabbed her shoulders, shaking her once, forcing her gaze to meet his.  “Those are armed men.  Just what do you think you can do?”

“They’re my men, Logan,” she answered with firm resolve.  “I have to see what’s happening.”

Logan cursed silently.  He cursed her honorable dedication.  He cursed Farindale’s men.  But mostly he cursed the timing.  “I’ll go,” he said.  A tortured scream ripped through the air, and Logan knew the body count was growing by the minute.  “Go back to the keep,” he ordered, releasing her hand and heading for the stairs.  “I’ll come for you when it’s safe.”

Solace moved to obey him.  She had taken one step toward the keep when a man fell with a scream over the battlements, to land at her feet.  He clutched at a gaping wound in his chest.  Blood oozed through his fingers.  But it wasn’t the blood that horrified Solace.  It was the thought of Logan lying at her feet instead of one of Barclay’s men.

Her gaze whipped back to the stairs Logan had taken, but he was already gone.  Logan!  Without a second thought, she raced toward the stairs, chasing after him.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Solace skidded to a halt when she reached the battlements.  The long walkway was jammed with Barclay’s men and Fulton’s knights, battling desperately with maces and swords and axes.  The clashing of weapons and the shouting were deafening.

Through the crenels of the castle walls, Solace saw a large wooden attack tower pulled up against Fulton’s outer wall.  The side of the tower burned, shooting bright orange flames into the air.  Solace quickly scanned the perimeter of the walls, looking for another of the siege engines, but she could see none.  She had to get help.  But where was Logan?  Her eyes frantically searched the walkways, the fighting men, but she couldn’t see him.

Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm, spinning her around.  Peter gazed at her with concern.  “What are you doing up here?  Never mind,” he quickly amended.  “Get out of here.”

But Solace didn’t move; she wanted to help, but was unsure of what to do.  She watched Peter brush by her with a small garrison of guards.  She backed slowly away, walking down the stairs, heading to the courtyard.  She hadn’t taken more than two steps into the ward when she spotted a man in armor looking around near the mews.

Solace ran toward him, but as she came closer and he turned toward her, she realized with a jolt that he was one of Barclay’s men.  She stopped abruptly, but her foot slid on loose gravel and she lost her balance, landing her on her bottom.  She quickly turned over and pushed herself to her feet.

The soldier’s arms closed around her from behind.

Solace struggled and opened her mouth to scream, but his gauntleted hand rose before her, clutching a dagger, silencing her protest.

“Let her go.”  The powerful voice issued forth from the deep shadows near the wall.

Solace looked up to see a shifting shadow, then a solid wall of man as Logan materialized from the darkness like a phantom.  He held a large piece of wood before him, gently pounding his open palm with it.  He moved toward them with deadly intent, his look dark and foreboding.

Suddenly, the soldier whipped the dagger at Logan, its sharp tip moving toward his neck with the speed of an arrow.  At the last moment, Logan lifted the wood and the dagger slammed into it, imbedding itself deep in the plank.

Barclay’s man whirled away, pulling Solace toward the stairs.  Two more of Barclay’s men appeared from the stairs to block Logan’s path, swords in hand.  Logan did not even hesitate; he kept coming, weaponless but for a stick of wood, his face twisted into a grimace of loathing.

Solace threw a desperate look over her shoulder to see one of the intruders swing.  Logan easily deflected the blow with the wood, quickly swinging the plank around to knock the soldier in the jaw, sending him sprawling backward.  Then Logan whirled with the agility of a cat and blocked a blow from the second soldier.  The sword stuck in the wood, and Logan punched the man in the face, sending him to the ground.  “Damn fool, Barclay,” Logan muttered.

Logan continued after them, undaunted.  He came at them like a storm cloud, steady and sure of his path.  Suddenly, there were voices and Solace raised her head to see five more of Barclay’s men running down the stairs.

Her captor bent to scoop up a fallen sword from the ground.  Solace took the opportunity to lurch away, but he reached out, catching her hair in a fist.  He yanked her back against him, pressing the tip of his sword to her neck.

Logan paused, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

Solace knew she had to free herself.  How could Logan stand against five men?

“Solace!” a voice cried from the stairs.

Solace shifted her eyes, afraid to move her head for the pressure of the sword against her throat, and saw Peter leaping over the stone rail of the stairs.  Distracted, the soldier eased the pressure of the blade against her neck.  She raised her hands and pushed the sword from her throat, lurching forward to escape.

Logan caught her easily, and set her behind him, using his body as a shield.  Peter reached Logan’s side, putting his shoulder to Logan’s, his sword poised.

Standing side by side, Peter and Logan were like a wall; Solace could see nothing beyond their thick shoulders.  They were exactly the same height and build.  She could hear the clash of metal against metal as Peter engaged an enemy.

As he moved, Solace caught glimpses of Barclay’s men around them.  Logan was dodging the blows with a grace and agility that belied his large frame.  They fought with unerring accuracy, Peter with his sword, Logan with the piece of wood.  Suddenly, a soldier lunged and Logan swiped at the sword with his makeshift weapon, sending the blade spinning off into the air.

Then Solace’s view was blocked again as the remaining soldiers moved in.  She pressed herself against the wall, the clang of metal and the bang of the wood ringing out in the air.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers broke away and raced through the courtyard, charging toward the gatehouse.  Logan took a step forward, ready to bolt after him, but then stopped, letting him go.  It was Peter who broke off from the fight and dashed after Barclay’s man, shouting for Fulton’s archers to cut him down.

Some of Fulton’s own troops moved in to join the fight, quickly finishing off the remainder of the invaders.  Solace spotted Captain Montgomery leading them.  “Captain!” she shouted, gaining his attention.

Logan grabbed Solace’s arm and held onto her, pulling her quickly toward the keep.

“Is the castle secure?” she called, resisting Logan’s attempts to get her away from the scene of the battle.

“Yes!” Montgomery shouted back.  “We were ready for them!  Only twenty men got over the wall.  We burned the siege engine!”

Logan walked briskly forward, and Solace had to quickly pick up her pace to match his.

As they reached the keep, Solace noticed the sounds of battle were now suddenly gone, replaced by an eerie silence.  As her heartbeat began to slow, she realized she was trembling all over.  She turned her gaze to Logan.

He paced the doorway, his hands on his hips.  His muscles bunched and released beneath a sheen of perspiration.  He flung the wood aside, mouthing a silent curse.

Solace reached up to swipe a strand of hair from her forehead, but before her hand touched her hair, she noticed a red drop trailing a path down her arm onto her sleeve.  Curious, she turned her palm over and gasped.  Blood was dripping over the side of her palm, oozing from a slash mark in the center.  She turned her other hand over to see blood pool in her cupped palm.  With this discovery came an onslaught of pain.

Logan seized her wrists in his hand, studying the wounds on her palms.  “What happened?” he asked her gently.

“It must have been when I pushed the soldier’s sword away.”  She watched the blood drip through her fingers.  “Am I going to die?” she asked.  She had treated many wounds, but seeing her own blood sent her mind reeling.  Darkness edged her vision.

The question brought a grin to Logan’s lips.  “No.  Far from it.”

He gently pulled her with him, leading her back to the mews.  She half-heartedly tried to pull away from him.  “I should make sure the castle is secure,” she said, looking toward the battlements.

“The fighting is over,” he replied.  “Castle Fulton is safe, for now.”  He opened the door to his chambers and gently pushed her back onto his mattress of hay.  Then he bent over the sack near the table and pulled something from the interior before turning to her.  He knelt before her and took her hand into his, carefully wiping the wound and then wrapping a fresh cloth around her cut.

Solace raised her eyes to study his face -- his bronze skin, kissed by the sun, his long lashes, his perfect features, his dark, wavy hair.  She could gaze at him all day and feel peaceful and contented.  And yet something was bothering her.  The way he fought... he was no falconer.  He was as good, if not better, than Peter -- with just a piece of wood.  Could he have been a knight at one time?  Did he have training?  She knew she should be cautious when it came to dealing with him, that she didn’t really know him.

He finished bandaging her palms and stood, guiding her up with him.  They found themselves just barely touching.  She could feel the heat emanating from him, and it filled her own body.  His look was lidded, as if he had just awoken from a pleasant dream.

But then, she realized, she had never known a man better.

He lingered near her.  She could feel his breath on her lips as she lifted her gaze to his.  He was looking at her as if she were a rare delicacy to be slowly enjoyed.  A blush crept up her neck to her cheeks.

Logan ran a finger along her jaw, a grin twitching the corners of his lips.

Solace smiled, playing with the edge of his tunic near his neck.  He lowered his mouth to hers and gently kissed her lips, then pulled back slightly and his mercury eyes filled her vision.  His hand slid over her shoulder to her nape and tilted her head up, exposing her slender neck.  He dropped a kiss there, and she swore she could hear a guttural groan as he trailed a path of playful nibbles to her jaw and across her lips.  When he claimed them again, his kiss was full of burning need, branding his desire on her skin.

Logan pressed his lips against hers, hotly, feverishly, drinking of her sweet innocence, promising things to come.

Solace responded to his kiss with a need of her own, her hands pulling him close.  She pressed herself against him and a soft groan issued from deep within her.

He pushed her back against the wall, his hands kneading her breasts.  The flame within her grew until it was a roaring bonfire.  She ran her hands down his strong back, marveling at the strength, the power of him.  She needed him so desperately that she wanted to cry.  She wanted him to fill the aching, lonely part in her life.  Solace pulled him closer, whispering, “Logan.”

He lifted her dress and touched her leg, caressing the smooth length of it.  His palm was so hot against her skin.  She grew anxious for his touch, for their bonding.

Boldly, she reached down and cupped his manhood.  Shocked, he grabbed her hand, halting her movement.  “Brazen hussy,” he growled playfully, a sly grin curling his lips.  He looked her in the eye, a smoky brilliance dancing in the secret depths of his gaze.

He moved her hand over his bulge, and it grew hard and stiff at her touch.  The magical member that had driven her to heights she had never known responded to her touch like a live animal.  “I want to see it,” she whispered.

Logan pulled her tight against his rock-hard chest.  “God’s blood, woman!” he said in a light voice that was somehow deep and primeval.  “Where did you learn to be so forthright?”

“Well, I –”

“Then release it,” he murmured, pulling back.

Solace’s eyes scanned him.  She stepped forward, barely able to keep her hands from touching every inch of him.  She reached out to clutch his tunic and lifted it over his head, revealing his hard chest muscles.  She glided her fingertips over his skin, over his naked torso, from the very edges of his shoulders, down to the tops of his leggings.  She admired the smoothness of his skin, the utter perfection of it, until her exploration brought her to a ragged scar that stretched from the bottom of his ribs to his leggings.  “What happened?” she gasped.

“I was careless and didn’t guard my back,” he replied, directing her hands to the laces that held up his leggings.

Solace pulled the strings and his leggings slid from his body like a cloth falling away to reveal the masterpiece that lay hidden beneath.

His legs were strong and lined with well-defined muscles.  His member stood straight and when her hand accidentally brushed it, he hissed with enjoyment.

“It’s so... big,” she whispered in awe.  Tentatively, she reached out and stroked the tip with her fingertip.  It jumped at her touch and she almost laughed.

Logan grabbed her by the elbows.  “You won’t think it’s funny when it’s inside you,” he promised huskily.  “My turn.”

His arms reached around her, and his hands deftly undid the buttons that lined her back.  He pulled the houppelande from her shoulders and pushed it down her waist until it pooled on the floor in a cloud of blue velvet.  Logan’s gaze devoured her from head to foot as she stood before him in nothing but her chemise.

Solace felt the desire grow inside her at his mere gaze.  She reached out to him, but he caught her wrists and gently eased them back to her sides.

Logan lifted his hands to place his fingertips at her cheeks and traced the curves of her face, moving them down her cheekbones, over her chin and down her neck.  He leaned close to her, and heated kisses followed his touch, flitting over her already-burning skin, sending sensations of pulsating passion flowing through her.

Logan unlaced the chemise and slowly pulled it down her bare skin, sliding it over her breasts.  The cloth grazed her nipples, and she felt a flash of heat between her legs.  He gazed at her breasts in absolute admiration.  “Lord, they’re perfect,” he gasped, reaching up to cup them.  They filled his hands and he began to stroke them, stoking the fire that was already ignited inside Solace.  His thumb ran over a nipple and then again, encircling the precious peak in slow, undulating circles.

Solace groaned softly, delighting in the sensual torture.

Logan lowered his lips to one of her mounds, his tongue circling the nipple as his thumb had done.  His hands eased the chemise over her flat stomach and down her hips until it fell away from her body and she stood before him, naked.

He stared at her for a long moment, his reverent gaze sweeping her body, lingering with heated intensity at her breasts.  Solace felt his stare searing through her, and every fiber of her yearned for him, for his touch, his caress.

Finally, after what seemed like torturous hours, he pulled her to him, claiming her lips in an urgent plundering of her mouth.  His hand cupped her buttocks before moving around her hips to gently graze her velvety-soft curls.  Solace groaned and thrust toward him.  He eased his finger down her forest of curls, and spread the petals of her womanhood, searching for the bud that would release her ecstasy.  When he discovered it, Solace felt a sharp stab of rapture spear her body.

“Tell me you like it,” he whispered into her ear, teasing her skin with his teeth.

Solace’s knees buckled and it was all she could do to support herself by clutching at his strong shoulders.

“Tell me you want me to touch you,” he urged more desperately, his spiraling strokes raising her higher and higher on a cloud of exhilaration.

“Oh,” she groaned, barely managing to open her mouth to speak.

“Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” she gasped and Logan thrust his finger inside her.  She shattered into a million glowing stars as shivers of utter delight tore through her, sending her exploding over the brink of pleasure into the gates of heaven.  Wave after wave of sensational delight splashed over her, again and again, buffeting her with ecstasy.

Slowly, the feeling abated and she opened her eyes, sated and fulfilled, to gaze into Logan’s shimmering orbs.  They shone like stars at her, shining on her newfound delight with approval.

He eased her back onto his mattress of straw, delicately holding her in his arms.  He moved over her, bearing his weight on his arms, refusing to take his eyes from her.  He parted her legs, and she eased her thighs open until she felt his manhood against her.  Solace groaned, anticipating their joining.

He slowly moved into her, sheathing himself inside her folds.  A sigh escaped from his lips, and Solace reached up to run her hands along his cheeks.  When he opened his eyes, he was staring at her with an intensity that touched her soul.

Then he began to move.  Slowly at first, but his tempo quickly built as their lovemaking intensified.  He thrust into her again and again until his body stiffened, growing taut with exertion, and his face flooded with release.

Logan rolled off Solace, scooping her up into his arms, and pulled her tight against him.  They lay together for a long, quiet moment.  Solace listened to the beat of Logan’s heart, the sated bliss in his breathing.

Finally she sat up, reaching for her clothing.

Logan grabbed her wrist.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To check on the castle,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” he replied, pulling her back down on top of him.  “I’m not through with you yet.”

With a delighted squeak of protest, Solace felt him growing stiff once again...

***

It wasn’t until much later that evening that Solace snuck out of Logan’s room, leaving him sleeping peacefully.  She gazed at him for a long moment in the doorway.  He was sprawled on the straw, his body curled around the spot she had just vacated.  In a beam of moonlight that peeked in through two boards of wood, Solace could see his peaceful face.  His head was cushioned on his arm and his dark hair spilled over his skin to the straw mattress.

She stared fondly at Logan for a moment longer before quietly closing his door, then eyed the courtyard to see if anyone had seen her.  But the ward was empty.  Her stomach rumbled, and she remembered she had had nothing to eat since early that morning.  A cool wind encircled her, but she barely noticed as her heated flesh remembered their day of lovemaking.  Solace looked contentedly up at the starry sky.  Suddenly, impulsively, she spun around, her hands outstretched at her sides, a blissful grin lighting her face.  She had never felt this way before!

Solace rounded the corner, moving past the training grounds.  Suddenly an arm jutted out from the shadows and caught her wrist!  She stifled the scream that immediately came to her lips when Graham stepped from the darkness.

“Now what might a proper woman like you be doing in a man’s room so late at night?”

Solace tried to pull away.  “Let me go this instant,” she commanded.

“Pretty imperious for a slut,” Graham retorted, but dropped her hand.

She displayed her bandaged hands impatiently.  “He tended my wounds,” she snapped.

“Is that all he tended?” Graham took a step toward her, and she retreated.  He reached out and touched her lips, but she jerked her face aside.  “You seem to be giving away your kisses rather freely.”

Solace was so shocked that she couldn’t reply.  Anger vied with fear in her.

“What else are you giving away?”

Solace opened her mouth to respond, but Graham seized her waist, pulling her to him.  She fought against his hold, but he managed to lift her skirt and touch the inside of her thigh.  A crooked, horrible smile twisted his lips as he released her to rub his moist fingers together.  “His seed.”

She tried to run past him, but he grabbed her arm, whirling her to him, pressing her against his chest.

“Why settle for a man like that when I would be more than happy to oblige you?” Graham pressed his lips against hers.

In a moment of sheer terror, an image from her past blazed across her memory.  She saw lord Randol forcing his lips to Anne’s, saw him pawing at her flesh with groping hands.  Only now did Solace realize exactly what she had witnessed all those years ago.  The thought sent her into a frenzy, and she lashed out at Graham, drawing three ragged claw marks down across his cheek.  “Get away from me!”

His reaction was quick and instantaneous.  He smashed a fist into her cheek, knocking her to the ground.  Then he was on top of her.  She opened her mouth to cry out, but he pressed his arm into her neck, almost choking her.  She tried to fight, but he pinned her with his weight, “Let’s see if you’re as wet for me as you are for him.”

She struggled, but against his warrior-trained strength she was no match.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The howling of the dogs filtered into Logan’s sleep-filled mind.  He bolted up in his bed, his heart hammering in his chest.  His gaze darted around the darkness.

Then he noticed Solace was gone.  He flew from the bed, stopping only long enough to don his leggings.

Outside, the dogs were barking and growling fiercely, scratching at the walls of the kennel.  Something was wrong.  Terribly wrong.  He looked to the skies, expecting a hail of stones or a swarm of flaming arrows, but the night sky was clear and empty.  What was spooking the dogs?

He glanced around the mews.  Where the hell was Solace?  But again he saw nothing.

Suddenly, his black falcon swooped in and landed on his shoulder.  The bird’s claws felt tight against his flesh, but the falcon had never broken his skin yet.  It cocked its head to the side, listening.  Logan strained to hear.  Beneath the raucous barking of the dogs, a cry rent the air.  A scuffling sound.  It sounded like a struggle.  Logan grabbed his staff, which had been leaning against the side of the mews, and dashed toward the noise.

The falcon on his shoulder took flight again as he rounded the kennels, coming to the training grounds.  There, in the shadows of the wall, he could barely make out a woman with a man on top of her.  Fierce, protective anger consumed him as he recognized her even in the darkness.  Solace!  Instinctively, he charged forward and swung his staff sharply, striking the man beneath his chin.  The man flew backward and landed roughly on his back a few feet from Solace, his breath exploding out of his lungs in a loud grunt as he struck the earth.

Logan dropped to one knee, pulling Solace into his embrace.  She fought wildly to get free, pummeling him with her fists.  “Solace!” Logan called, seizing her wrists.  “It’s me.  You’re safe.  It’s over.”

“No!” she cried out, trying to break free of his hold.

Logan tightened his grip.  “Solace!  It’s Logan.  Stop!”

“No!  Don’t!” she sobbed.

Logan seized her shoulders and shook her.  “Stop it!”

Sobbing, she looked around with wild eyes until he locked gazes with her.  “You’re all right,” he soothed.  “You’re all right.”

Solace collapsed against him, sobbing even harder.  As Logan felt her tremble, a need to again bash the head of the man who’d attacked her struck him.  He held her firmly to his chest, stroking her hair.  He felt her curl against him, push her face into his neck, felt her hot tears on his shoulder.

“You’ll pay for that,” the attacker snarled as he rose to his feet, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

Logan swung a dark gaze to the man.  His fingers curled tightly around his staff, and his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he recognized Graham.

Solace continued to sob softly against him, her warm tears trickling down his chest.  He stroked Solace’s soft hair again, trying to let the anger inside him fade, knowing she needed him to comfort her, but the rage wouldn’t subside.  It only grew.  Finally, he gently gripped Solace’s arm and eased her away from him.  He set Solace behind him, touching her tear-streaked cheek with the tips of his fingers, before turning to face Graham.

The thought of his vile body pressed intimately against Solace’s struggling form made Logan furious, savage with rage.

Without warning, Logan lashed out with his staff, catching Graham on the side of the head.  When the nobleman staggered, Logan came after him with a blow to the jaw.  Graham went down hard on his bottom.  Logan charged forward, throwing his staff aside, and grabbed Graham’s velvet tunic.  With a violent tug, he dragged the man up until his face was mere inches from Logan’s.  Fear haunted the cur’s eyes.  But it wasn’t enough.  The urge to smash his head in with his bare hands consumed Logan, and he raised his fist.

“Please,” Graham gasped out.

“Logan,” Solace pleaded, her sobs still catching in her throat.

Logan froze.  His jaw clenched.  And then he slowly lowered his fist.  “If I see you touch her again, I’ll let the birds have you for their next meal,” he snarled.  He brought his fist back up and slammed his clenched hand into Graham’s nose.

Graham howled as blood erupted from his nostrils.

Logan dropped him to the ground before turning to Solace.  Her cheeks were pale, her green eyes wide with fear.  He moved to her, putting his arms around her shoulders.  “Are you all right?”

She pressed her wet face to his bare chest.

Feeling her tremble, Logan squeezed her tightly, soothing her.  Behind him, he heard receding footsteps and knew Graham had fled.  As he stroked her hair, his fingers brushed against a stray piece of straw trapped in the rich velvet of her hair.  He gently untangled it and let it float to the ground.

Solace raised her eyes to him, and the moonlight reflected off the misery in those large orbs.  “I couldn’t get him off of me,” she told him in a ragged breath.  “He was so strong and –”

Logan pulled her tight against him.  “It’s all right,” he whispered.  “You’re all right.”  He squeezed his eyes shut.  If he had lingered in his room for just a moment longer, he would have been too late.  The thought sent immobilizing fear through him.  He opened his eyes, and they burned with rage.

That was when he saw something in the dirt.  He focused his eyes on the object.  The clouds parted and the moon shone down on it.  A dagger.  A gold-tipped dagger, its handle etched with flowers.  Did the dagger belong to Graham?  Or had it inadvertently been dropped by someone else?  His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Logan moved to grab the dagger, but he felt Solace’s fingers dig into his shoulders and he returned his attention to her.  With a backward glance at the dagger, he guided her toward his room, whispering comforting words to her.

Logan pulled her with him to his mattress.  They lay together, she on top of him as he held her against his heart.  “It’s all right,” Logan whispered to her.  “I won’t let anyone hurt you.  Not ever.”  Logan let her cry, stroking her hair.  After a long while, he realized she was asleep.  He smiled against the top of her head, pressing a kiss to her scalp.

***

With a violent crack, the door to Logan’s room exploded open and three soldiers stormed inside!  Startled from sleep, Solace quickly sat upright, trying to get her groggy mind to function.  Was the castle under attack?  The men quickly descended upon Logan as he reached for his sword hidden beneath the hay.  They pulled him to his feet, wrenching his arms behind his back, quickly binding his wrists with thick ropes.

“No!” Solace screamed.  “What are you doing?”

She recognized two of the three men as castle guards and ordered, “I command you to stop this.”

“Now isn’t this a compromising situation?”

Solace glanced up to see Graham lounging against the doorframe, his lecherous gaze plundering her body.  A cloth stretched across his nose, the fabric stained with blood.

Logan lunged toward Graham, but the guards easily caught him and shoved him toward the doorway.

Graham took a step to the side, letting the guards roughly usher Logan outside.  He glanced at Solace.  “What will lady Alissa say?” Graham asked.

“You can’t do this,” Solace retorted.

“It’s already done.”

Graham approached Solace, but she slipped by him to race after Logan.  She quickly reached his side, and cried, “I won’t let them get away with this.”

“Just stay away from Graham,” Logan ordered as the guards shoved him forward.  “Do you hear me?”

Solace nodded to Logan.  She whirled on Graham.  “Where are you taking him?”

“The dungeon, of course,” Graham answered.

Tucked neatly into Graham’s belt was a gold-tipped dagger, its handle etched with flowers.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next morning, Solace waited at the back of the courthouse beside Logan.  He was flanked by two guards, his wrists bound behind his back with thick rope.  She cast a nervous glance at him to find his cool, metallic eyes on her.  She tried to force a smile to her lips, but found she could not.

His eyes lidded just a little, and a warm flush swept through Solace.  A shy smile formed in her heart and worked its way up to her lips.  She quickly looked away from him.  She couldn’t think about how he made her feel.  She couldn’t think about kissing his lips, nor about his hands on her body.  She had to concentrate on getting Logan set free.

She lifted her gaze to the platform.  Alissa was seated at the head of the courthouse, listening to Captain Montgomery reporting on the current security of Castle Fulton.  She barely stifled a yawn as she nodded to him, waving him away.  Then her eyes locked with Solace’s, and a stern look of disapproval thinned her lips and eyes.

To Solace’s left, a few villagers stood in a line, awaiting their turn to voice their complaints.

Graham lounged against a pillar not far from them, gingerly rubbing the cloth that covered his nose.  Despite her best resolve, fear surged within Solace at the memory of his body pressed to hers, his hands moving up her thigh.  She shivered and glanced away...

...to lock eyes with Logan.  His brows furrowed, and he looked in the direction she had been gazing moments before, his eyes searching the faces until he saw Graham’s.  His frown deepened and his body tensed before he returned his look to Solace.

She read the anger in his slitted eyes, the hatred in his clenched jaw.  During the battle, she had seen that same look on his face, that same single-minded purpose.  She had seen that look before, thirteen years ago when Peter was a prisoner.  He had looked at her father with the same fury and loathing, with an intensity that was so disturbing she had not forgotten it in all these years.  They were very much alike, Logan and Peter, the same build, the same height.  Why, they could be kin...  Something tugged at her mind.  A distant memory.  But just as a picture began to form, the guards urged Logan forward.

Solace quickly took up pace with him, as if she, too, were a prisoner.  She tried to keep her chin up and her back straight as the courthouse became hushed and all eyes turned to them.  Graham stepped before them, leading the way up the aisle.

Alissa’s gaze swept over Logan, then moved by Solace to land on Graham as they halted before her.  “What is the complaint?” she wondered.

Solace glanced at Beth.  Beth was seated with her long legs crossed, leaning back in a chair beside her mother.

“He struck me,” Graham answered, indicating the bandage on his nose.

“You struck a noble?” Alissa exclaimed in disbelief.

“I did,” Logan replied.

“He was defending me,” Solace proclaimed, taking a step forward, placing herself before Logan.  “Graham attacked me.”

A murmur spread through the courthouse.

“It’s a lie!” Graham replied.  “I found them together.  Apparently the falconer didn’t like being interrupted.”

Solace’s mouth dropped and a blush rose to her cheeks.  “That’s not true!”

“Then where did you get those scratches on your face?” Logan wondered.

Graham’s eyes pivoted to Logan.  “From our battle.”

“Women scratch,” Logan pointed out.  “I use my fists.”

“Enough!” Alissa shouted, standing.  When all eyes turned to her and the room quieted, she continued with a regal air.  “It is very clear to me that someone is not telling the truth.”  Her gaze burned into Solace.  “To discern the truth, I have no other choice but to proclaim a trial by fire.”

Solace stiffened.  Trial by fire!  It hadn’t been done in years!  The accused had to carry a piece of red-hot iron in their bare hands over a long distance.  If there were no burns, then the accused was innocent.  No one ever passed this test.

“If the falconer’s innocent, God will surely protect him,” Alissa said.

Solace cast a nervous glance over her shoulder at Logan.  Her mind worked furiously.  She had to do something to help him!  She caught the smug look in Graham’s eyes, the smile twitching his lips.  Bastard!  Coward!

Suddenly an idea came to her and she turned back to her stepmother.  “Why not make it trial by combat?”

“Surely you jest,” Alissa said in disbelief.  “You’re giving your falconer no chance at all.  He knows nothing of the art of fighting.  Graham is highly trained.”

“You’re right, Mother,” Solace said, quickly, slyly, and looked away.  “Forget I even mentioned it.”

Alissa stood silent for a moment, thinking.  Beth leaned over to whisper something into her mother’s ear.  Alissa’s face darkened with a cunning sneer, and she nodded at Beth’s comment.  She then turned to face the assembly.  “The guards need a distraction, as do the peasants.  It shall be trial by combat,” she proclaimed.  “They shall fight until one yields.”

***

An hour later, the castle courtyard was overflowing with expectant onlookers.  Soldiers packed the battlements.  Villagers watched from their shops.  An alewife moved through the crowd, collecting wagers on the coming fight.  She had to stop as Logan was ushered through the crowd before her by two guards.  Graham awaited him in the makeshift circle the crowd had created.

Logan couldn’t help but overhear the odds were not in his favor.  His eyes scanned the crowd.  He didn’t care about the damn odds.  He had faced far worse before.  He continued searching for Solace, knowing she would be here somewhere.  Then his gaze came to rest on her.  She stood near the garden fence, her hands folded, her eyes on him.  It had been a stroke of genius to suggest trial by combat.  No one knew him as a fighter.  He felt a strange stirring of pride.

He lifted his gaze to the sky, having to shield his eyes with his hand from the glare of the sun to see the falcon circling high overhead like a vulture.  “Damn bird,” Logan grumbled.  It seemed even the falcon was betting against him.

Alissa stepped forward.  “Let the trial begin!” she announced.  Then she turned to Graham, bowing slightly.  “At your leisure, lord Graham.”

Logan caught the handle of the blade Graham threw to him, but didn’t have time to inspect it as Graham attacked immediately.  Logan blocked his blow, feigning a stumble backward.  He was far too good a warrior not to expect an immediate attack.  But Logan also knew that if he didn’t pretend unease with the sword, his cover could be blown.  He stumbled again, allowing Graham to push him back.

The crowd parted as the two fighters moved too close.  Graham was a weak fighter.  Logan saw it immediately, the way he struck and pulled back in case Logan attacked.  The man was incapable of anything but a one-swing attack.  He was doomed.

Logan felt the press of a wall behind him.  A grin stretched Graham’s lips taut.  The image of those lips pressing on Solace’s flesh distracted Logan for a moment.  Graham sliced at Logan and was rewarded by a slash on his arm.  Logan grimaced, pushing aside any thoughts of Solace.

Then, more confident, Graham swung a blow at Logan’s head.  Logan ducked and sidestepped, the blade whizzing in the air just above his head.  He quickly moved around Graham to trap him against the wall, raising his weapon to attack.  He lunged, pinning part of Graham’s tunic to the wall.

The crowd gasped.  All around him, Logan heard shouts of encouragement, but none directed at him.

Logan withdrew the blade in time to block a frantic swing of Graham’s.  There was panic in the noble’s eyes, and it would have been Logan’s turn to grin, if he were prone to that sort of thing.  He stepped forward, arcing the blade toward Graham’s neck.

Desperately, Graham brought his sword up, blocking the blow.  As the blades hit, Logan’s gave way, splitting cleanly in half.

Again the crowd gasped, this time louder than before.  Coins began to exchange hands as murmurings of the falconer’s imminent defeat swept through the crowd.

Logan stared in shock at the straight break in the blade.  Then his eyes lifted to Graham’s.  There was no surprise there, only acceptance.  He had planned it this way!  That was why he hadn’t given Logan the chance to look at the sword.  Logan threw the useless blade to the ground.

He then backed away as Graham waved his blade before him, toying with him.  Logan doubted the man would stop with a yield, and he’d be damned if he would give him one.

Graham chuckled low in his throat as Logan retreated.  He swung his sword, and Logan leapt aside.  The man was out for blood.

“Logan!”

Logan turned and Solace tossed a piece of wood at him.  He caught it easily and turned back just in time to block Graham’s swing.  With his new weapon in hand, Logan attacked relentlessly, driving Graham back to the herb garden fence near the east wall.  He was tired of this game, tired of this man.  He wanted to bash his head in and spill his brains into the earth.

Suddenly, Logan stepped on the pointed tip of the broken blade and his ankle twisted.  He fell to the ground, the wood tumbling from his hands, sliding across the courtyard.

In the next instant, Graham was standing over him, his blade raised.  Logan reached out to his sides, groping blindly in the dirt, searching for something, anything.  His fingers closed over the handle of the broken blade.  He raised it to protect himself just as Graham plunged forward to slam the sword at his skull.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Logan moved his head to the side and Graham’s sword plunged into the earth beside his cheek.  Grimacing, Logan thrust his broken blade up.

He stared at Graham’s shocked face.  Graham coughed, spraying Logan with blood, before he slowly slumped to the side.  Logan sat up and was greeted by absolute quiet.  Hundreds gaped at the bloody scene, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief.  Slowly, Logan stood and looked down at Graham, who lay unmoving, blood soaking through his tunic.

A scream pierced the silence like a clap of thunder, and Beth shoved her way through the crowd, rushing to Graham’s side.  She dropped to her knees, sobbing.

Logan cast a look at Solace who stood motionless, as stunned as everyone, her hand planted firmly over her mouth, her green eyes wide.

“Murderer!” Beth hissed at Logan, her eyes full of real tears.

“Guards!” Alissa screamed.

Two men appeared at Logan’s side, both holding swords.

“Take him to the dungeon!” she shouted.

Logan made no attempt to resist as he was led away.  He turned one last time to glance over his shoulder at Solace, to see her slowly drop her hand from her mouth.

***

Solace watched the guards take Logan away, her heart breaking.  Guilt washed over her.  It was all her fault.  She was the one who had suggested trial by combat.  She was the one Logan was protecting when he hit Graham.  She was the one Graham had lusted after.

Beth’s wailing broke through her fragile shell of remorse, and she turned her eyes to her half sister.  She was sobbing onto Graham’s bloody chest, her fingers clutching at his tunic.  Alissa was at her side, whispering soothing words to her, gently patting her back.

Immediately, Solace moved to Beth.  She knelt at her sister’s side, despite the warning glare from Alissa.  Solace put a hand to Beth’s shoulder, offering her comfort.

But the scathing eyes that rose to her caused Solace to snatch her hand back as if she had just been burned.

“You,” Beth snarled with contempt and pure hatred.  “You little bitch!”  She lunged at Solace, catching her around the throat.  Solace fell back, trying to fight her off, but Beth’s grip was tight and unrelenting.  It wasn’t until Alissa grabbed Beth’s shoulders and hauled her away from Solace that she was able to back away from her sister.  She put her hands to her throat, massaging the tender skin, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“It isn’t enough to be heir to Fulton,” Beth hollered.  “You’ve always wanted what was mine!  You’ve tried to steal away the men I love.”

Her mouth dropped in shock.  She continued to rub her neck slowly, realizing for the first time the depth of hatred Beth felt toward her.  “I only wanted you to be happy.  I never tried to hurt you, Beth,” Solace said, her voice heavy.

“Hurt me?  You stole Robert away from me!  And you took Graham from me!”

Solace straightened her back.  “Graham was attacking me near the mews,” Solace said, raising her gaze defensively to her stepmother.  “He tried to rape me.”

Beth’s peal of deranged laughter echoed through the ward.  “Of course he did!” she chorded.  “Every man wants you!  Why, you’re the most beautiful woman alive.  No man can withstand your charms!”  She picked up a lock of Solace’s dark hair, toying with the rebellious curl.  “Why your hair is always tucked neatly under a headdress or combed to a brilliant glow.”  Her voice was filled with mocking sarcasm.  Solace always wore her hair down or braided.

Solace brushed her hair from her sister’s hand.

Beth snatched at Solace’s blue houppelande.  “You’re always clothed in the latest fashions!”

Solace stood, her brows drawing together in a frown.

Beth pursued her, pinching Solace’s sun-kissed cheeks in a mock kiss.  “Your skin is as white as the lime wash.  You’re never in the sun!  Your lips –”

Solace pulled her face free of Beth’s hold.

“Solace,” Alissa said patiently, “you must be mistaken.  Graham wouldn’t have wanted you.”

Solace’s anger deepened.  “Why?” she demanded.  “He had been following me around the castle for months.”

Beth snorted in disbelief.

“Regardless of what you believe,” she said to Beth.  “Graham attacked me.  That was why he had those marks on his face.  I did it, not Logan.”

“Logan,” Beth cooed in a strangely sensual way, before turning her gaze to her mother.  “He killed Graham!”  A sly smile twisted Beth’s lips.  “I want him executed, Mother!”

“No,” Solace gasped, stepping toward Alissa.  “You can’t do that.”

“He killed Graham.  Of course he will be executed.”

Horror filled Solace as a smug, vindictive look crossed Beth’s face.  “It was trial by combat.  He won.  He proved his innocence.”

Alissa turned dark eyes to Solace.  “Because of your interference, he dies at dawn,” she said.

“Interference?” Solace echoed in confusion.

“When he was defenseless you gave him the piece of wood.”

“No!” Solace gasped.

“Burn him, Mother,” Beth suggested in a retaliatory voice.

Alissa nodded in agreement.

“Please, Mother,” Solace begged, grabbing hold of her hand.  “He was helping me.”

Alissa’s eyes narrowed to cold slits and she pulled her hand free.  “Yes,” she murmured.  “Helping you become a whore.”

“Looks like you’ll have to find someone else to spread your legs for,” Beth hissed, joyfully.  “Harlot.”

“Mother...” Solace pleaded, glancing at Alissa.

“Slut,” Beth called out.

Solace stumbled back, horrified at the sudden turn of events, fearful that she couldn’t stop them.  She turned and fled from the courtyard to the keep, racing through the hallways of the castle, not seeing the faces of the villagers who watched her run past them.  She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away from their accusations.

She wasn’t a harlot.  She wasn’t a whore.

Solace found herself standing before the large wooden doors leading to the old hall.  Cobwebs still hung thick in the corners; the dust stirred around her, making her sneeze.

She pushed the doors open, and this time they didn’t seem to give as easily as they had before.  She raced to the window and dropped to her knees before it, resting her forehead against the cold stone of the ledge.  Its coolness felt soothing to her hot brow.  It was almost as hot as her guilt.  Logan had helped her, saved her from Graham.  And because of that he was going to be executed.

She could not let him die.  But what could she do?  If only she could postpone his execution until her father came home.  She would do anything to spare Logan.

She turned around to stare at the pictures against the wall.  “Tell me,” she challenged them.  “Tell me the secret.  How shall I help Logan?”

Her voice echoed through the room, answerless.

She shook her head and wiped a strand of hair from her eyes.  She couldn’t get over the fact that Alissa didn’t believe her.  Solace had expected as much from Beth, but not Alissa.  Perhaps if she were a man things would be different.  A brother to Beth.  Then there wouldn’t be any competition between them.  She had always wanted a brother, or a sister for that matter.  The closest thing to a brother she had was Peter.  He had always been there for her.  More like a family than her stepmother and half sister.

Then an image came to her mind.  She again remembered Peter fighting side by side with Logan.  They had been built so much alike.  So very tall, so broad.  It was strange.  Why, if she didn’t know better, she would think they were...

Solace straightened, her face dawning with realization.  That was it!  That was where she had seen the crest before!  She pushed away from the window, her heart hammering.  The crest!  Her mind kept screaming.  She knew she had seen it somewhere before.

She approached the plate armor she had knocked over and noticed no one had reassembled the fallen suit.  Her eyes scanned the floor, looking for the shield.  But it was not there.  It was gone.

Solace scowled.  It had been here.  The final piece to the puzzle.  She searched the floor, but it was nowhere to be found.  Frustrated, she stepped back, sighing.

She was sure it had been here.  Perhaps the crest was somewhere else.  On a tapestry, perhaps.  Her gaze moved to the tapestry on the wall behind where the suit of armor had been.

The tapestry depicted two mighty warriors on horseback.  Their swords crossed as their animals reared in combat.  But nowhere on the entire tapestry was there a crest.

Solace hung her head.  She had been so sure she could find answers here, so sure.  She was about to turn away when something caught her eye.  There was a strange bulge beneath the tapestry.  She stepped closer and noticed that something was hidden beneath the fabric.

She eased the tapestry aside and released a curtain of dust that assaulted her.  She swatted aside the annoying cloud, moving closer, refusing to give up her pursuit of the answer.  When the dust settled, Solace gasped.

The shield that had been hidden by the tapestry glinted in the sunlight.  On its surface she could see two crossed swords upon a full moon... the Grey family crest.  The same crest she’d seen on Logan’s sword!

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The constant drip-drip was going to drive Logan insane, he was sure.  He was bound by a metal collar around his neck that was attached by a thick chain to a large bolt on the wall.  For the first few hours, he had paced the cell, trying to relieve the battle lust surging through his veins, trying to tell himself that Solace would get him out of here.  She was his last hope.  His only hope.  The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He sat on the dirty ground, his forehead resting on his bent knees.  There was no sunlight in the bowels of the castle, no way to tell exactly what time it was.  He had slept once, restlessly and shivering.  In a rough guess, he figured half a day had passed because they had brought him two meager meals.  Earlier he had searched the cell for a means of escape, pulling his chains until his wrists were raw and chafed.  Now he began to doubt he would ever see the light of day again.  His only hold on sanity was a pair of bright green eyes and the hope that he would see them again.

As the hours inched by and the drip-drip was drowned out by another prisoner’s moans, Logan began to doubt he would be able to finish his mission.  Peter would never know that he was here, looking for him.  Solace would never truly know how much she meant to him.  He hadn’t realized it until he had seen Graham on top of her.  Then, when his opportunity came to destroy the monster, he had taken it, forsaking all else to save Solace.  To exact his revenge.

Revenge.  It was the wrong revenge.  He forced himself to think back, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus on his mission.  He closed his eyes and he could see Sullivan’s Hill as if it had all happened yesterday.

Dark.  It was so dark.  Then, Logan realized he was lying on his back in the grass, staring up at the starless night sky.  A strange light flickered at the edge of his vision, but he paid it no mind as he boosted himself to his elbow.  A sharp spear of agony cut through his head, and he raised a hand to his forehead.  His hair was plastered to his skin in thick clumps of wetness.  Logan knew it was blood.  Slowly, he sat up, gently probing the cut on the side of his head.

Burning wood.  The smell wafted to his nose, and he snapped his head up to see the castle -- his castle -- burning!  Thick, consuming flames billowed out from the interior of his home.

“Father,” Logan whispered, a frantic feeling knotting the inside of his stomach.

He was on his feet instantly.  The world swam before his eyes and he staggered, battling off the effects of his wound.  When the dizziness retreated, Logan searched the hill for his horse, but the animal was nowhere to be found.

He walked down Sullivan’s Hill, resisting the urge to run, knowing he would stumble and fall if he did.  How had the castle fallen?  How could his father have been beaten so quickly, so easily?  They had had food and reserves prepared for nearly a year!

His step quickened, his stomach twisted and every one of his muscles corded tight.  Something had gone wrong.  Terribly wrong.

He moved through town, fighting off the throbbing in his head, moving from shadow to shadow until the castle loomed before him.  Smoke churned skyward from inside the walls in thick black clouds of destruction.  As he came to the main road he had to pull back quickly.

Armored men were moving in groups along it.

Logan pressed himself close to the walls of the tailor’s shop.

The flickering red of the flames burning behind the approaching men swayed over their tunics.  Logan’s eyes gaped.  Lined with gold, the white tunics bore the symbol of the lion -- Farindale’s crest!

His jaw tightened as he watched the soldiers disappear into the blacksmith’s shop at the end of the street.

Suddenly, a movement across the road caught his attention.  Logan swiveled his gaze to the shadows.  He made out the figure of a man stumbling along the road.  He was dragging his leg behind him, hurrying to escape.

Logan glanced one way along the street and then the other, making sure it was clear of guards, before racing across.  He ignored the throbbing in his head as best he could, knowing he had to find answers.  As he neared the bent man, Logan could see he was severely wounded.  The man clutched his arm to his chest where his torn chain mail hung from his body, groaning with each step he took.  Logan recognized the man’s crest immediately, two swords crossed over a full moon.  His family crest.

Logan caught him by the shoulder and turned him.  The man whirled with a gasp.  When he set eyes on Logan he sighed slightly, but none of the tension left his body and his gaze darted anxiously down the street.

“What happened?” Logan demanded looking at the castle.

“Lord Farindale defeated us.  They burned the apartments and all who were within,” the soldier answered.

Logan’s eyes riveted on the soldier’s like hot metal.  “My mother?” he gasped.

“Dead, my lord,” the man answered grimly.

Logan’s lips parted in disbelief.  Dead.  “Father?” he asked, almost desperately.  “Where is he?”

“Killed defending the castle.”

Suddenly, anger burned across his vision and he grabbed the man, shaking him for speaking the words he didn’t want to hear, refused to believe.  “This can not be!  Farindale could not have gained entrance to the castle so easily!”

“The main gate was open!” the man hollered.

Stunned, Logan stopped shaking him.  His fingers dug into the man’s shoulders.  “What?”

“Your father refused to close the gate, my lord,” the man said.

“Refused?  But why?  He knew Farindale was coming.”

The sounds of voices came from down the street and Logan ignored them, glaring at the man.  The man tried to move from Logan’s grasp, but his grip tightened.

“We must go,” the man pleaded.

Logan’s hold was relentless.  “Why were the gates open?” he demanded.

The man shook his head.  “If we stay, it will be our heads!”

“Why!”

“He was waiting.”

“Waiting?” Logan repeated gravely.  “For what?  What could be so important to keep the gates open?”

“You.”

Utter horror swept through Logan.  The soldier easily broke away from him and scampered away, casting only one backward glance at his former lord who stood unmoving.  But Logan did not see him.  His mind’s eye saw Castle Fulton falling, his friends and family butchered.  He felt as though the life had been cut out of him.  He felt numb.  His father.  His mother.

All because of him.

The shock of guilt held him immobile in its clenched fist.  Finally, a consuming grief filled him and he fell to his knees, pressing his palms to his teary eyes, his body trembling with remorse.

Behind him, the castle burned.

Logan had spent years waiting and planning to return to Castle Fulton and seek revenge.  He clenched his fists.  And now that he was here, all he could think about was Solace.  Her innocence.  Her pure beauty.  He cursed silently.

The door opened.  Even as his hope soared, Logan turned his head away from the bright torchlight that was thrust into the cell.  Solace had come for him.  He was free.  Slowly, he rose to his feet, waiting for the manacle around his neck to be removed.  But as the moment stretched out and his binding wasn’t removed, Logan lifted his gaze.  He raised an arm to shield his eyes from the blinding light and a shadow formed in his vision.  A woman’s shadow.

But it wasn’t Solace’s.

Beth stared at him through icy blue eyes.  They glittered like frost in the torchlight.  She stood a few feet from him, well out of his reach.  Logan straightened his back, lowering his arm.

Finally, she clucked her tongue.  “You, my dear falconer, are in grave danger.”

Logan remained silent.  If she wanted the satisfaction of seeing him cower, she had come to the wrong man.

“You’re to be executed at dawn,” Beth added.

Logan tried to remain placid, but couldn’t quite stop the clenching of his jaw.  “So, you’ve come to gloat?”

“No,” she replied with the same nonchalance.  “Actually I’m here to save your life.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“All you have to do is say that Solace concocted this entire thing.  That she paid you to kill Graham.  That’s why she threw you the piece of wood.”

Logan’s heart skipped a beat.  “And what will happen to her?”

“She will take your place in the dungeon,” Beth said, shrugging slightly.  “Possibly banishment.”

“Not execution?”

Beth scoffed.  “Even my mother would not dare to risk Father’s wrath.”

“Why do you hate her so?” Logan wondered.

Beth raised a dainty eyebrow.  “All my life she has gotten whatever she’s wanted with an innocent look, a sweet, sickening smile.  It’s time she received what is rightfully hers.”

The description sounds more like you than Solace, Logan thought disgustedly.  But Beth had a good idea.  He should implicate Solace.  She was his enemy.  She was Farindale’s daughter.  He opened his mouth to tell Beth what she wanted to hear.

But nothing came out.  No words of accusation.  Nothing.  He could only remember Solace’s upturned mouth when she spun in the rain, her fierce determination as she raced out of the castle to rescue the pregnant woman, her soft curves enfolded in his arms.

“So, what do you say, falconer?” Beth demanded.  “Your life for hers.”

The way she said it sent a shiver of dread shooting up Logan’s spine.  “I don’t think so.”

Beth’s eyes slanted as she grimaced with contempt.  “Fool,” she spat, stepping aside.

One dungeon guard entered the cell, followed by another.  They grabbed his arms, pulling him back against the wall.

“I hope your sense of misplaced honor comforts you when your face is no longer so handsome and my whoring sister refuses to part her legs for you,” Beth hissed.

Logan scowled at her words, the first inkling of anxiety beginning to creep into his stomach.  Through the open door, the executioner entered the cell; in his hand was not a sharp-edged ax but a red-hot branding iron.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Solace!”

Solace looked up to see Peter walking through the Great Hall toward her.  He reached the table where she sat and slid into the chair beside her.  “I thought I missed you.  Sorry I’m late.”  He picked up a piece of bread from the trencher awaiting him and began eating.

Solace had long since finished her evening meal, or rather had not even touched her food.  She had thought Peter wasn’t coming.  But now that he was here, she was nervous.  She wasn’t sure how she was going to attempt this line of questioning.  She wasn’t sure how the shield or the sword fit into the scheme of things, let alone Logan.  “It’s all right,” she said, lifting a mug of ale to her lips.  She hardly drank.  Was Logan some family member?  A cousin perhaps?  Or had he stolen the sword from some man, making the whole thing just a coincidence?

“Barclay tried another assault,” Peter was saying.  “But we repelled it, thank the Lord.  I just wish your father would hurry and get here.”

Solace wet her lips with her tongue.  “Peter,” she said.  “Tell me about your family.”

Peter straightened slightly and looked at her.  He shook his head, his short cropped hair swaying.  “You’ve been up in that dusty old room again, haven’t you?”

Solace shrugged helplessly.

Peter dropped his head.  “I don’t know why you keep digging up the past.”

She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her eyes full of concern.  “I don’t mean to hurt you.  I just want to know.  Those people in the tapestries...”

“It doesn’t hurt me.  That part of my past is long gone.  Dead and buried.”

Solace dropped her hand from his shoulder as he took a long sip of ale.  She wondered if he even realized how much of a lie that was.

“What’s there to know?  I already told you everything,” Peter explained.

“Do you have any cousins?”

“Only a few.  I believe one is in Cavindale.  But I never heard from them.”  He bit into a piece of venison.

Cavindale.  Shivers of anxiety shot through Solace’s body.  Logan had said he came from Cavindale.  “And what about brothers?”

Peter’s hand dropped slightly; a distant, hard look edged his brown eyes.  “I had one brother.”

“You never told me you have a brother.”

“Had a brother.  He’s long dead now, too.”

“What happened to him?” she wondered.

He looked at her and Solace saw the pain in his eyes.  “He abandoned his family.”

“What?”

Peter glanced at her with burning, reproachful eyes.  “He left us,” he said vaguely.  “I never saw him again after the siege.”

Peter’s voice was cold, the frostiness of his tone chilling her.  Solace’s anxiety spread, encompassing her entire body.  She refused to look at Peter, locking her gaze on the blazing hearth at the far end of the room.  “What was his name?” she asked.

“Name?” Peter said, as if shaken from a bad memory.

“Your brother’s name,” Solace entreated.  “What was it?”

“Logan,” Peter replied.  “His name was Logan.”

***

Logan awoke to a burning pain in his cheek.  He struggled to sit up, wincing as he moved.  He raised a hand to his face.  The charred flesh of his cheek was painfully tender to even the most delicate probing of his fingertips.  He remembered the x-shaped brand moving toward his face, the iron glowing an evil red.  He had struggled, but against the guards’ holds and his steel manacles, his efforts were useless.  He didn’t remember much after the brand touched his cheek.

He scanned the cell.  The torchlight from the hallway flickered in through the bars on the cell window, falling across a tray of food near his feet.  He could still smell the sick scent of charred flesh.  His flesh.  Suddenly, he lashed out with his foot, kicking over his meal.  Immediately, he heard the scurrying of rodents as they rushed forward to take the scraps of food.  His neck burned from chafing.  He tugged futilely at the chain, but the movement caused the pain from his cheek to flare up.

He cursed Solace for entering his life.  He cursed her for being so curvy and soft as to attract Graham’s attention.  To attract his attention.  But most of all, he cursed himself for getting involved.

The drip-drip rang in the quiet dungeon again, sending the dull ache in his head flaring to a steady pounding.  Logan hung his head, resting his neck on the edge of the metal manacle.  His cheek throbbed in a grotesque, pulsating rhythm.

The clang of the lock echoed in his cell.  The guard coming to take his food tray, no doubt.  He did not look up as a circle of torchlight probed his cell.  He watched with dull eyes as the light moved to barely touch the tips of his black boots.  Then, strangely, he heard the rustle of silk.  I must truly be going mad now, he thought.  The beat of his heart rose in his ears, in cadence with the quick drip-drip sound in the distance.

Then a skirt moved to the very edge of the circle of light, the hem of the dress just touching his boot.  Was it Beth coming back to gloat?  Or was it...?  It couldn’t be hope that made his heart pound so madly.  It couldn’t be hope that made his breathing stop.  Hope had been extinguished in him a very long time ago.  It couldn’t be Solace; he refused to believe it was.

Then why couldn’t he lift his head to prove himself wrong?

The specter before him knelt.  He saw the skirt bend, and then gentle hands took his.  His gaze lifted over perfectly formed breasts to a slender neck, past full red lips to bright green eyes.  All the anger that had burned in him was extinguished at the sight of her.  She was lovelier than he remembered.  And he wanted nothing more than to bask in her radiance, her innocence, to feel her kindness touch his wounded spirit.

She moved toward him and the circle of illumination moved with her, as if the light were coming from her.  As it engulfed him in its warmth, washing over him like a warm blanket, he lunged for the shimmering splendor of her, capturing her in his arms, crushing her against his breast.  Her hair was so soft against his cheek, her body so warm in the coldness of the cell.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Sorry?” Logan wondered in a dry throat.

“It’s all my fault,” she told him, trying to pull free of his hold.

Logan refused to let her go.  “It’s not your fault.  That bastard got what was coming to him.”

“Oh, Logan,” Solace pulled back slightly and lifted a hand to his cheek.  It froze in midair, her eyes going wide with shock.  She gasped and pulled her hand away.

For a moment, Logan was afraid the light would recede with her, but it didn’t.

“Your face...” she moaned.

He had forgotten.  For one wonderful instant, he had forgotten the horrible X that had been burned into his skin.  He raised a hand to his cheek as if to shield it from her view.  He felt a moment of panic.  Would she reject him now as Beth had prophesied?  He fought the panic with the only weapon he had.  Anger.  He hardened his heart to her, lowering his hand obstinately.  “Come to stare?” he asked.

“Who did this?” she agonized, reaching toward his face.

Logan pulled away from her touch, afraid it would burn him worse than the branding iron had.

A wounded look crossed her face, saddening those large translucent eyes.  Then the look disappeared, replaced by determination.  She slowly stood, towering over him like an inquisitor.  “Tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“You know those answers already,” he said, tearing his eyes from her perfect face to look on the soiled ground near his feet.

“Did you kill the dungeon guard?” she wondered.

“Have you come to interrogate me or get me out of here?” he asked.

She ignored him, continuing, “Were you looking for someone?”

Logan’s entire body tensed.  She knew.  He was sure of it.  She knew why he was here, who he was looking for.  He knew for certain that he would never see the light of day again.

“Is Logan your real name?”

His eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes rose to lock with hers.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What are you doing here and who are you, really?” she demanded.

Logan narrowed his eyes.  Did she know the answers already, only wanting the truth from his lips?  Or was she searching, probing him for the answers?  How much of it did she know?

“Did you come for Peter?” she wondered.

A shiver of trepidation shot down his spine.  Should he tell her?  Dare he tell her?  Would she call to the dungeon guards?  Was this some elaborate trap set by Beth?  “Where is he?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Her eyes scanned his face, and he saw doubt there.  “What do you want of him?” Solace questioned.

She had to tell him!  He had to know!  “Where is he?”

“Are you here to hurt him?” she asked.

The question surprised him.  Why would he hurt his own brother?  “Is he a captive?”

He saw the shock on her face, or was it surprise he had guessed the truth?  He pushed himself to his feet.  “Tell me.  Tell me where I can find Peter.”  Logan took a menacing step toward her.  He grabbed her shoulders and was surprised to find his own hands were shaking.  “Where is Peter?”

“Right here.”

Logan looked past Solace.  A dark form stood in the doorway, outlined by a flickering torch from outside the cell.

The man took a step into the darkness, seizing Solace’s arm and pulling her from Logan’s hold.  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

Solace nodded.

Peter set Solace aside and stepped forward.  The light washed over his face, and it was all Logan could do not to gasp.  He knew that face!  He had fought beside this man just days ago and had not even realized who he was.  But as Logan looked closer, he could see the boy he once knew in Peter’s features, even through the lines of hardship around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes.  His face had matured, and his features had become pronounced.  He was a man now.  “Peter?” Logan asked.  He stood up straight, his heart stopping, for even though he stood face-to-face with his brother, he couldn’t quite believe it was him.

“Yes,” Solace breathed.  “Logan, I’d like you to meet Peter Grey.  Peter, your brother, Logan.”

Logan watched Peter’s face transform from frosty anger into anguished confusion.

“Logan?  Is it really you?” Peter asked in a thick voice.

Logan saw Solace slip out the door, leaving them alone, and he was grateful to her.  Tears came to Logan’s eyes as he nodded his head.  He couldn’t believe his brother was standing before him after all these years, after all the dashed hopes, the years of planning for revenge.  He wanted to embrace him; he wanted to touch him and make sure he was really there.

But before he could move, Peter cocked his fist back and delivered a blow to his chin.

Logan jerked back.  Pain seared through his jaw and through his burned cheek.

“I told you not to go!” Peter hollered.

Another blow to his stomach doubled Logan over.

“I cursed your name, Logan!  I thought you were dead,” Peter snarled.  “And I’m going to make you wish you were.”

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I am dead,” Logan answered his brother, clutching his stomach against the pain Peter’s blow caused.  “I’ve been in hell for thirteen years.”

“Good!” Peter shouted.  “You should have been.  After what you did.  It was your fault.  Mother and Father...”  He stopped, his voice cracking, and he turned away from Logan.

Logan lifted his head, staring at his brother.  He had thought this would be a joyous occasion, to find the last of his family.  He’d imagined embracing, slapping Peter on the back.  He had even imagined Peter helping to exact revenge.  But he had never imagined this reunion, had never realized the extent to which his brother would hate and blame him.  Almost as much as he himself did.

“Damn it, Logan,” Peter said in a heavy voice.  “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Logan stood, head bowed, allowing his brother to vent his hatred, his anger.  Everything Peter said was something he had already told himself over and over.

“You were supposed to come back,” Peter told him.  “You told me you would.  And then you didn’t show up.”

Would it matter if I told him it hadn’t been my fault? Logan wondered.  That the damn horse threw me.  That the damn rock smacked my head hard and knocked me out.  He shook his head sadly.  It would still be my fault.  It would not bring our parents back.

Peter grabbed him by the front of his tunic and shoved him back against the wall with enough force to make him gasp for a breath.  “Father was worried sick.  He blamed me!  Because I was the responsible one.  And I had let you go.”

Logan saw the pain in his brother’s eyes, the grief.  “I’m sorry, Peter.  I was wrong,” Logan confessed.

“Wrong?” Peter released him and stepped back.  “Is that all you can say for yourself?”

“What do you want me to say?” Logan asked.  “Don’t you think I’ve gone through it over and over in my mind?  How foolish I was, how naive!  What I could have done differently!”

“You should have stayed in the castle!”

“Yes.  I should have.  But I didn’t.”  Logan looked away from his brother toward the cell door.  “I thought you were dead.  I’d given up everything, all hope.  I had only revenge to concentrate on.”  He swiveled his gaze back to Peter.  “Then I found out you were alive.  I came as soon as I heard.”

“It wasn’t soon enough,” Peter retorted.

Logan ignored him.  “I had visions of you in chains in the dungeon.  But the dungeon was empty.  I looked in the stocks, everywhere I could think a prisoner might be.  But you weren’t there.”  Logan’s brow furrowed with confusion.  “Where have you been?”

Peter turned his back on his brother.  Logan saw the corded muscles of his neck tighten as he crossed his arms.  “I work for Farindale now.”

Outrage seared through Logan, hotter than the branding iron that had scorched his cheek.  “Farindale?” he gritted out.  “After what he did?”

Peter whirled on him, shoving a finger into his chest.  “No, after what you did.”

Logan batted Peter’s arm away, furiously.  “He invaded Fulton!  Do you think I made him do it?”

“It was your fault the gates were open.  We would have had a fighting chance against him if it weren’t for you!”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re working for him!” Logan shouted.  He looked to the door, then lowered his voice to keep their conversation private.  “That doesn’t explain why you’re working for our enemy!” he hissed.

“It was a long time ago!” Peter answered hotly.  “I was a prisoner at first.  I refused to be cooperative.”  He glanced about the dungeon.  “So I was locked in here for months.  Do you know what this place can do to a man?  Do you know what this place can do to a boy?”  Peter laughed harshly, more a bark of agony than a chortle of merriment.  “I couldn’t stand it anymore.  The darkness.  The gloom.  The silence.  So I gave them my word I would not try to escape and Farindale let me have the run of the castle.”

“And then you just decided to work for him?” Logan asked incredulously.

“It wasn’t like that,” Peter answered, some of the fire leaving his voice.  “It was a long time.  Years passed.  And it was still the home I had grown up in.”

“Minus your family,” Logan answered bitterly.

“Yes.  But the Farindales were kind to me.  Solace in particular.  She was so gentle and smart and patient.  And beautiful.”

Logan froze, dreading his brother’s next words.

Peter continued.  “Even though I spurned her efforts at friendliness, she kept trying.”  He laughed quietly, softly, remembering.  “I said some mean things to her.  But she has the patience and persistence of a saint.  I found myself looking forward to her visits.  We would take walks every day.”

Logan’s body trembled.  He didn’t want to hear any more.  He didn’t want to know how friendly they had become.  He could see himself in Peter.  And for the first time, it became clear to Logan how Solace had manipulated him, working her way into his life just as she had Peter’s.  He, too, looked for her every time he entered the courtyard, found his eyes following her when she walked.

“And then they offered me a position as a guard.”

“What better way to be near her,” Logan murmured, understanding.

“And protect her.  They gave me a sword, armor.”  Peter looked into Logan’s eyes.  “I love her, Logan.”

Stunned, Logan could not move.  Another man, his brother, loved Solace.  A fierce, sudden anger consumed him and he grabbed Peter’s shirt, shoving his face at him.  “How could you love her?”  He shook him, hard.  His fists knotted in the fabric of his tunic.  “She’s our enemy!”  Finally, Logan shoved his brother to the ground, snarling, “Traitor.”  He stood over Peter, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white, his jaw clenched so tight his cheek flamed with pain.  “You traitor!” Logan sneered, looking down at Peter’s ashen face.  “Get away from me!”  He whirled away, pacing the cell, keeping his back to his brother.

He had fallen into the same trap Peter had!  He had looked forward to seeing Solace every day, sought her out at any excuse.  Kissed her and made love to her as tenderly as if she were his wife.  Within months, would he be working for Farindale, too?  The thought enraged him, and he slammed his fist into the wall with a fierce cry.

Suddenly, he heard a lock being undone.  He turned to find Peter standing near the dungeon wall, the padlock of his captivity swinging open.  Logan raised startled eyes to his brother.

“I’m not a traitor,” Peter declared and tossed Logan a key.

Logan caught it in his open palm.  He saw a dagger drop to the ground near his feet.  When he looked up, Peter was leaving the cell.  Quickly, Logan unlocked the manacle around his throat and tore it off.  He moved to the open cell door.

Peter loved Solace.  Logan had come all this way, had put his revenge on hold for a traitor!  How could Peter love her?  Her father had killed their parents.  How could Peter hold her in his arms, knowing it was her family that had murdered theirs?

You did, a tiny voice inside him accused.

Logan moved out into the hallway, sneaking up on the unsuspecting guard as he bent to take a bite of his bread.  He slid the dagger across the guard’s throat.

I’ll show them, he thought.  I’ll retake Castle Fulton.

Peter loved her.

Logan snuck out of the dungeon, the shadows of the night hiding him like a cloaked spy.  I’ll reclaim the castle for my own.  I’ll rule in my father’s name.

Peter loved Solace.

Logan moved through the courtyard with the agility of a cat, moving from shadow to shadow like a thief

I’ll bring honor to myself.

Peter loved Solace!

Logan kicked open the door to his room with a howl of rage.  How could he have let a Farindale get the best of him?  How could he have let her manipulate him like that?

Furious, he shoved a blanket into the sack beside the table.  He whirled on the table and swept it clean with his arm, pulling his belongings into the sack.  He turned to survey the room when a gleam from beneath the mattress caught his attention.

He reverently bent and retrieved the sword, his father’s sword.  He ran his hand lovingly over the crest.  Peter was a traitor.  How could he work for Farindale?  How could he have turned traitor?  How could he love her?  The same questions refused to stop swirling about his mind.

“Logan?”

Logan whirled, bringing the sword around, finding it pointing at his enemy’s chest.

Solace froze with a gasp.

He rose, keeping the sword aimed at her heart.  “What do you want, witch?” he asked from between gritted teeth.  “How did you know to find me here?”

“Peter told me.  I wanted to see if you were all right,” she answered, eyeing the sword.

“What’s your real reason for coming here?” he demanded.  “Did you hope to bewitch me as you have my brother?”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

Logan eyed her.  Her long, brown hair was unleashed about her face in a flurry of curls.  Her cheeks were smooth and touched with pink, kissed by the sun.  Her large emerald eyes stared up at him in confusion.  Her lips were full and kissable.

Logan tossed aside the sword.  It clanged against the wall and fell to the straw mattress.  He was before her in one step, grabbing her shoulders.  “Why have you come?  What do you want of me?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but in the next instant his mouth was covering hers, plundering hers with a hunger, a vengeance, a longing that consumed him.  He felt her stiffen and try to pull away, but he held her still against him, kissing her savagely.

Solace yanked her head away from him, shoving at his chest.

Logan thought to punish her for being so pure, so beautiful as to lead him away from his mission.  Instead, he felt utter horror and complete embarrassment over what he had just done to her.  He stiffened in fury at himself, his face twisting in an ugly grimace.  “Get out,” he snarled.

Her large eyes pooled with shock and then confusion.

With a savage cry, he shoved her away from him.  She landed in the dirt just outside his room, stunned.  “Get away from me, witch!” he hollered.

She stumbled back and tears entered her large eyes.  Then she turned and ran.

As she fled, she took with her any compassion he had left.  A coldness spread through Logan, leaving a desolate wasteland inside him.  He turned back to his room and picked up the sack and the sword.

He marched out of his room, through the courtyard, clutching his sword.  His vengeance was just beginning.  It was time to finish it.

It was time to retake Castle Fulton.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Solace ran to her room and threw herself onto her bed.  Tears streaked from her eyes and she found she was unable to stop them.  Why would he hurt me that way? she wondered.  Why would he push me away?  There had been no tenderness in his touch, no kindness in his eyes.  Only anger.  Only hate.  With that realization came a searing pain through her heart as if he had slashed it with a sword.

She trembled at the haunting look she had seen in his eyes.  She couldn’t believe it was the same man who had kissed her so passionately, touched her body with such devotion, brought her to such a sweet explosive release, the same man she had fallen hopelessly in love with.

She sat up, wiping a sleeve across her runny nose.  How could she have allowed herself to love him?  Because he was strong and handsome, even with that horrible burn now branded into the side of his face.  Did Logan somehow blame her for his branding?

Suddenly, a disturbingly familiar noise rang through the air, a sound that sent shivers up her spine.  She stiffened, listening.  The clashing of metal echoed distantly in the otherwise silent night air.  Solace tilted her head, straining to hear.  Like an approaching storm, the sound came closer, and with it screams and shouts.  It sounded more like...

Dread filled her so completely that for a moment she couldn’t move.  Then she bolted into action, running from her room.  A feeling of doom seemed to shadow her steps as she moved toward the Great Hall.  She glanced over her shoulder, searching for someone.  But no one appeared, no page, no servant, no knight.

She reached an alcove where a large window stood shuttered against the night’s cold.  She could hear the muffled sound of clashing swords from behind the shutters.  The sound was close.  Too close.  Solace reached for the shutters, but then pulled her hands back, afraid of what she would find.  Hesitantly, she reached again for the shutters and pushed them open.  Below her, her soldiers were battling a swarm of men dressed in purple and black tunics; her men were obviously outnumbered.  No, her mind screamed.  It can’t be!

Slowly her gaze rose and through the open outer ward gates she saw the castle gates were wide open, inviting the steady swarm of attacking soldiers that poured in.  A shudder shot down her spine.  Open?  But how?  Had Barclay bribed one of the guards to open the gate?  She had heard of such a thing in a siege at Williamsburg.

A chilling scream sounded from down the hallway.  Solace spun toward the cry, but stood for a long moment, indecision plaguing her.  What could she hope to do against a barrage of enemy soldiers?  They were attacking her people!  Her heart ached and despair consumed her.  I can’t leave the villagers to Barclay, she thought and grim determination filled her as she ran toward the scream.

Then, Father Davis’s words rang in her head.  I want you to promise me that if they enter the castle, you‘ll run.  To her father.  How could she run?  How could she leave her castle?  Her people?  She couldn’t.

The clunk of armored boots reached her ears.  She whirled to see Barclay’s soldiers behind her!  Where had they come from?  It was as though they had materialized out of thin air.  Was Barclay using some sort of black magic?

Frightened, she bolted out the open doors into the courtyard.  And raced into chaos!  Flames engulfed the blacksmith’s shop, its heat threatening to sear her skin.  The desperate shouts coming from the battlements thundered in her ears.  Smoke billowed out from the doorway of the arrow maker’s shop, the thick black cloud blowing around her, stinging her eyes and stealing the breath from her lungs.  All around her, Solace heard the clang of metal against metal.  She stumbled from the black cloud, disoriented and scared.  Fear made her run through the night, through the turmoil.

She found herself before the mews, racing toward the sleeping compartments.  She threw open a door.  “Logan?” she called out in a desperate, shaky voice.

But his room was empty.  Everything was gone.  His sack.  The table was bare.  She ran to the side of the bed and dropped to her knees.  With trembling hands, she lifted the straw.  It was gone.  She stuck her hands beneath the straw, searching frantically.

No.  No!  It wasn’t there.  It was gone.  Logan’s sword was gone.  He had left.  Tears welled in her eyes; her throat constricted painfully.  Slowly, she rose to her feet.

Why should he have stayed?  He had done what he came to do.  He had found Peter.

Her body trembled and she wasn’t sure whether it was because he was gone or whether it was because her castle was lost.  She stepped out into the night, trying to think clearly.  But all around her, she heard defeat, the cries of the dying, flames spitting at the night sky, screams of her people.

“What do we have here?”

Solace whirled to see one of Barclay’s men staring at her.  He clutched a bloody blade, which he lowered slightly.  His face was red from exertion.  “It looks like it’s time for my reward,” he said with a grin.

Solace straightened as he took a step toward her.  Think, she told herself.  But she couldn’t.  Her mind wouldn’t function.  She knew that look in the soldier’s eyes.  She had seen it before.  In Graham’s eyes.  In lord Randol’s eyes.  An all-consuming fear began closing in on her mind, fogging her thoughts.

“Wait,” she pleaded desperately, holding her hands up before her, trying to ward off the evil gleam glowing in the soldier’s eyes.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he growled and lunged for her, catching one of her wrists in his hold.

Images of lord Randol ripping Anne’s clothing filled her mind along with memories of Graham’s body pressed against her own.

The man pulled her to him, slamming her hard against his chest.

No, she thought.  It seemed to be the only word her mind could focus on.  She tried to speak it, but the horror of what was happening kept her voice frozen inside her.

“The Baron said whatever treasure we find is ours,” he whispered hotly in her ear.  His hands roamed her breasts, squeezing them savagely.

Solace tried to shove his hands away, a growing desperation surging in her soul.

“And I think your treasures will be a mighty fine reward,” he chuckled.

“I’ve got gold,” she said, trying to buy herself a moment.

The soldier paused, pulling back to look at her.  “Gold?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with a different kind of lust.

Solace nodded.  “I’ll give it all to you if you let me go.”

“You’ll give it all to me anyway.  Where is it?” the soldier demanded, his eyes narrowing.

The moment of reprieve set her mind working furiously.  Over his shoulder, she spotted a pile of wood.  “Over there.”  Solace pointed a trembling finger to the stack of logs.  “I hid it beneath the wood.”

“Show me,” he commanded.

Solace knew he probably didn’t believe her.  But he didn’t have to.  All he had to do was look for it.  The moment he was distracted, she would break free of him and run to the keep.  She led him to the pile, pointing at the bottom.

His dark gaze narrowed, and he seemed to sum her up with one glance.  Then he turned his back to her, bending toward the bottom of the pile of wood.  “Where?”

Run! her mind screamed.  She moved to obey, but her gaze alighted on a loose piece of wood on the ground at her feet.  A piece of wood just like the one Logan had used to defend himself against Graham.  Slowly, Solace bent to retrieve it.  “Right there at the bottom.”

As the soldier ducked his head to peer between the logs, Solace raised the wood above her and brought it down over the soldier’s head.  She quickly retreated, shocked at what she had just done.  The soldier staggered back against the pile of wood, sending the logs tumbling to the ground with a loud clatter.  He shook his head clear and turned to face her, snarling.

Desperate, Solace swung again.  The soldier caught the wood in his palm, yanking it from her grip.  He threw the wood to the ground and raised his blade over her head.

Solace instinctively raised her hands to shield herself and squeezed her eyes closed against the impending blow.  She felt something hit her shoulder and wondered why there was no pain.  Then a loud thump jarred her eyes open.

Solace lowered her arms to see the soldier lying prone at her feet.

“Nice try,” a familiar voice said.

Solace snapped her head up to see Logan standing before her, a staff held easily in his palm.  Relief crested the tidal wave of joy surging through her body.

“You’re too small.  You have to hit him with all your strength or else –”

She threw herself into his arms.  “Oh, Logan,” she whispered.  She pressed her cheek against his chest, felt his free hand encircle her waist, his cheek brush the top of her head.

“I thought...”  It didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered except that Logan was there.

And that Barclay had entered her home.  Her head snapped up to look him in the eyes.  “We have to get out of here.  Barclay’s gotten into the castle.  We need to –”

“It’s all right,” Logan said, smoothing her hair away from her face.

Something in the way he said it made her believe him.  Everything would be all right.  He took her hand in his and led her out of the mews, past the burning blacksmith shop and back into the keep.

Solace went without a fight.  Maybe he was going to get them food before leaving.  Or maybe the only escape left open was the secret rear exit.  But how would he know about that?

He led her back through the double doors of the keep.  He was a Grey.  Maybe he knew about the secret escape passage from living at Castle Fulton before.

He led her through the empty corridor toward the Great Hall.  One of Barclay’s men stood guard at the entrance.  Solace squeezed Logan’s hand tight, anticipating another battle.  But Logan did not even pause in his stride as he marched past the man.

Something was wrong.  Very wrong.  She could feel it.  She tightened her grip on his hand.  “Logan...” she said as they entered the double doors of the Great Hall.

Her words died on her lips.  Barclay’s men were all over the hall!  They encircled the room, lining the walls like statues.  Solace’s heart pounded madly in her chest, and she pulled at Logan’s hand, trying to get him to leave.

But Logan continued on, tugging her along with him.  He stopped a few yards before the flaming hearth.  His hand bound hers like a manacle.  She looked up into his face, to find it devoid of emotion.  She followed his cool gaze to see Beth and Alissa standing near the hearth, its gentle light flickering over them, casting them alternately in shadows and in light.  Beth’s face was tear-streaked, her blue eyes red and swollen.  Alissa held her hand, her face pale against the darkness around them.

A man stood before the dancing flames with one arm resting on the mantel.  He was nudging a log with his plate-mail boots, sending sparks shooting up as a larger log smashed a smaller one.  He wore a black cape and his blond hair billowed over it in sharp contrast.  He stiffened, raising his head as if sniffing the air, and spun to face them.  His stark blue eyes narrowed like a fox’s when sighting a rabbit.  Solace knew instinctively she faced her enemy, Baron Barclay.

She glanced desperately at Logan.  Surely he had a plan.  Had he come to kill Barclay?

“Could this be Solace?” Barclay asked, drawing her gaze back to him.

Solace raised her chin slightly as his gaze ran slowly over her body, a grin curving his thin lips.  What was Logan’s plan?  Why had he brought her here?

“I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.  I’m sorry it must be under such unpleasant circumstances,” Barclay said in a sly voice.

Solace’s jaw clenched.  Barclay surveyed her and Logan with a cool stare that made her shiver.  She still clutched Logan’s hand with fear and desperation.  A low rumble of amusement issued from Barclay’s throat.

“Well done, Logan,” he said.  “Very well done, indeed.”

Solace wavered, trying to comprehend what she was hearing, but not wanting to understand it, refusing to believe it.  She looked to Logan for answers, but he refused to meet her gaze.

“It was you!” Alissa accused, stabbing a finger at the falconer.

Solace’s bright eyes shimmered with the tortured dullness of disbelief.  She was frozen in some bizarre limbo where all actions and decisions were impossible.  She could only stare at Logan, waiting for him to deny Barclay.

But he never did.

“Logan and I have been friends for years,” Barclay explained.

His words didn’t register on her dazed senses.

“He gave us detailed plans for all the secret passageways leading into Castle Fulton,” Barclay was saying.

Solace’s heart refused to believe what her mind was telling her, what her ears were hearing.

“He opened the gates for us,” Barclay gleefully explained.

The screams of frustration remained at the back of Solace’s throat as she snatched her hand from Logan’s grip.

“Secret passageways?” Alissa echoed, casting a confused glance at Barclay.

“Oh, yes.  They were elemental to the overtaking of Castle Fulton.  We were able to infiltrate from inside, as well as outside.”

Solace backed away from Logan.  She felt as if her heart had been ripped out of her chest, cast to the ground at his feet and trampled.  Her vision blurred beneath the onset of tears as she stared at him.  But he would not meet her gaze.

“Without his help, we never would have taken Fulton this quickly,” Barclay said, drawing his sword and glancing at himself in the flat edge of the blade.

Solace drew herself up proudly, but her spirit was dead.

“A pity about your face,” Barclay commented.  “What were you punished for?  Striking a noble?”

Logan shook his head, his dark hair swaying over his shoulders.  “Killing one.”

Barclay’s chuckle rumbled through the room.

Solace’s throat closed around unshed tears.  She tried desperately to cover her agony and wrenched her gaze from Logan back to Barclay, only to find his gaze locked on her.

“Did you find your brother?” Barclay asked Logan.

“Yes,” Logan said, a bit stiffly.  “Your efforts are greatly appreciated, but your work here is done.  I can handle the situation now.”

“Of course,” Barclay murmured, shifting his gaze back to Logan.  He turned the blade over in his palm.  “You know, it would have been so much easier to kill Farindale.”

Solace felt numb.  The pain of betrayal engulfed her.  She tried not to think of it.  She tried to ignore it.  She had to focus, to shake herself out of her tortured selfishness by concentrating on her family, but she could not.  It had all been a lie.  The way he’d looked at her, the way he had loved her.  He had used her.

“The time will come,” Logan replied.

Solace shivered at the coldness in his voice.

“What should we do with them?” Barclay jerked his head at Alissa and Beth.

Logan turned and Solace saw his profile.  His gaze was icy, his jaw clenched.

“You know how I hate loose ends,” Barclay said.

“They’re my problem, Edwin,” Logan said, stepping forward.  He placed his staff on a table as he approached the hearth.

“This is your fault!” Alissa snarled at Solace.  “He should be in the dungeon!”

Guilt overrode Solace’s feelings of betrayal, but she raised her chin slightly in the face of her stepmother’s accusation.

Logan rebuffed Alissa.  “It’s not her fault.”

“Is that any way to speak to your daughter?” Barclay reprimanded Alissa.

“She’s not my daughter,” Alissa snarled.  “And you.  You are a barbarian, and I demand you leave my home this instant!”

Barclay’s eyes narrowed.  “You, my dear, are a bigger thorn in my side than either of your two lovely daughters.”  Suddenly he whirled, his sword raised, and, with one mighty blow, cut Alissa’s head off.  “The thorn has been removed.”

Beth’s anguished cry rent the air.

Solace covered her mouth in sheer terror, her eyes wide with disbelief.  She raced forward and reached her stepmother’s side just as the body fell before her.  Blood splattered her dress, gushing from her mother’s fatal wound like water spouting from a fountain.

Solace screamed in horror, clenching her fists at the sides of her head.

She turned tearful, hate-filled eyes on Barclay.  “You monster!” she cried.  “You bastard!”  She launched herself at him, her fingers curved into claws.  She never saw him aim his bloody sword at her abdomen.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Logan lurched forward, catching Solace around the stomach, and pulled her away from Barclay’s sword.  Beth’s hysterical cries resounded all around them, echoing off the stone walls.

Logan saw the evil enjoyment glittering in Barclay’s eyes and stepped in front of Solace, trying to protect her from the sight of her slain stepmother.  The blood from the dead woman spilled over the rushes on the floor, soaking them.  “What the hell are you doing, Edwin?” he demanded.  “There’s no reason for this!  The castle is taken.”

Logan felt Solace try to twist free of his hold, but he tightened it.  She was trembling with grief and anger.  His own heart twisted.  He couldn’t look at her face, couldn’t look into her eyes for the anguish he would see there.  He steeled himself against the attack she was waging on his emotions, emotions he never knew he had.

Barclay removed a bloody rag from his belt and slowly wiped the sword’s blade free of blood.  His eyes followed the red cloth with obvious enjoyment as it trailed over the stained sword.  “These people must be taught their place.  It will be a difficult job.”

“I’m fully aware of the difficulties I face,” Logan said.  “We’ve discussed this.  There was nothing said about murdering women.”

Barclay resheathed his sword and bowed.  “A slight change of plans, old friend.”

Something was wrong and every instinct Logan had was telling him to run.

“You know, Logan.”  Barclay strolled over to the fire again.  “When you didn’t open the gate at our appointed time, I feared you had died or had been captured.”

“I needed more time to find my brother,” Logan explained.

“Well, I must say that I had time to think.  To consider our arrangement.”

Logan opened his mouth to respond, but Barclay turned to him, his gloved hands calmly clasped before him.  “The heir to Fulton is a beautiful girl, one I wouldn’t mind taming.”

Logan tensed immediately.  He didn’t like where this was headed.  “I opened the gates as soon as I could.”  His hand tightened convulsively around Solace’s wrist.

“And there are the lands.  You did neglect to tell me how rich they are.”

“They were not your concern.  They are mine.”

A cold smile spread over Barclay’s lips.  “Castle Fulton is a mighty fortress.  A powerful addition to any lord’s lands.  I really do thank you for all your help.  You’ve saved me weeks, perhaps months of siege.”

Logan quickly scanned the room to see row after row of Barclay’s men.

“Did you really think I would just hand the castle over to you?  I’m not a fool,” Barclay said calmly.

Four knights came up behind Logan.  “You treacherous bastard,” Logan growled.  He cast a quick glance at his staff.  It was lying on the table, where he had tossed it just before he’d grabbed Solace.  He needed to get to it.  But he also knew the odds of getting out of this alive if he attacked the Baron were very slim.

“But rest assured I do have other plans for you.  We can’t leave a member of the Grey family alive with some silly notion of revenge.  You see, I tie up loose ends, unlike Farindale.  Sloppy job, there.”

“What do you want from me, Barclay?” Logan gritted out.

Barclay inclined his head and the four soldiers put their sword tips to Logan’s spine.  “The dungeon,” Barclay said.  “Until we find your brother.”

Logan glanced at Solace.  “What are you going to do with her?”

Barclay’s eyes shifted to her.  “She will make a fine bride.  After I wed her, I will be legal heir to Fulton.  When Farindale is dead, no one will argue my claim.”

Logan cast a glance over his shoulder at Solace.  Her dress was splattered with blood.  Her face was pale, her cheeks wet with tears.  She refused to look at Logan, and he was momentarily thankful for that.  He didn’t want to see the pain and betrayal he was sure would be mirrored in her bright eyes.  Where before there was joy and happiness, now there would be hatred and anguish.  He had seen the look before.  He had seen the same look when he’d glanced into a mirror.  He couldn’t let Barclay have Solace.  But first I have to find some way to save my own neck, he thought as four guards escorted him to the dungeon.

***

Solace stood stoically in the Great Hall, surrounded by the victorious faces of her enemy.  She tried to push aside her swirling emotions to draw forth anger.  But it wouldn’t come.  All she could think of was Logan’s betrayal.  She had been a fool to trust him, a fool to give herself to him.  An even bigger fool to let him take her heart.

Sobs filled the air and Solace turned her head to see a hysterical Beth, her large blue eyes focused on Alissa’s body.  She instinctively moved toward her half sister, gently taking Beth’s arm to pull her away from the grisly sight.

But Beth yanked free of her hold.

“Give me your word you won’t try to escape,” Barclay said.  “Otherwise I’ll have to keep you under lock and key.”

Solace’s gaze swiveled to Barclay.  He elegantly removed his black cape, draping it across one of the chairs near the table.  “I’ll give you nothing but my contempt,” Solace sneered.

“Tsk, tsk,” Barclay admonished.  “I won’t tolerate disrespect from my betrothed.”

Solace swallowed down her bruising retort at seeing the strange gleam in his eyes.  It sent a shiver of loathing through her.

“It’s a shame about Logan, wouldn’t you say?” Barclay wondered.  “He’s such a treacherous bastard.”

There was a sly grin on his lips.  Solace looked away from him, afraid he’d read the anguish on her face.

“Don’t tell me the cur charmed you, too?” Barclay shook his head.  “You mustn’t feel bad, Solace.  I’ve seen him work his talents on many women.  Some much more experienced than you.  You mustn’t blame yourself.”

She remained silent.

“Tell me where his brother is,” Barclay crooned.

Solace froze in horror.  She would never tell Barclay where Peter was.  “I don’t know the exact location of every one of my guards!”

“A guard?” Barclay smiled.  “It’s somewhere to start.”

Solace winced.  She had fallen into his trap and, in doing so, endangered Peter.

Barclay walked up to her, a smile lingering at the corners of his lips.  “Thank you.  You’ve been most helpful.”  He placed a finger at her jaw line, but she pulled her head away from his touch.  “I hope your accommodations won’t be too... confining.”  He raised a hand and two guards moved forward to flank her.  “To her chambers.”

***

Solace stared at the shuttered window of her room.  The weather had suddenly turned cold.  There was a brutal bite to the air that hadn’t been there before.  She had changed her clothing immediately, donning a black dress of velvet.  She had cleansed her arms and face of Alissa’s blood, replacing the horrible red smears with patches of skin scrubbed raw.

What does Barclay have planned for me? she wondered.  Is he truly going to wed me as he told Logan?

Logan.  She clenched her teeth against the fresh onslaught of tears threatening to break through her resolve.  Everything was suddenly making sense.  He had been the killer searching for Peter in the dungeons.  He had opened the gates for her, not out of honor as she had thought, but because he had wanted her to tell him where Peter was.

Traitor! her mind kept repeating.  But her heart did not repeat the bitter rhythm of her mind; it lay shattered in thousands of pieces inside her chest.

She had trusted him.  Hadn’t it been her father who had said she was too trusting, too naive?  Fool!  She had actually thought she loved Logan.

She pushed Logan’s image to the back of her mind.  She didn’t have time to dwell on her pain.  She had to concentrate.  What was she to do?  She couldn’t just wait for Barclay to force her into marriage.  She had to leave Fulton.  She needed to find her father.

Images of Barclay’s brutality plagued her.  The blood haunted her.  Who was to say when Barclay would behead her, too, having decided he didn’t need her.

One thing stopped her from taking action.  Beth.  She couldn’t leave Beth to Barclay.  She had to free her somehow.

Solace moved to her window, shoving open the shutters.  A cold breeze lifted the ends of her hair and touched the nape of her neck, making her tremble.  The rising sun stretched over the sky, blanketing it in a pink glow.  She didn’t see the beauty of the sun; her eyes were locked on Barclay’s guards walking the battlements.

Solace bent her head into her hands.  She had not slept at all.  A sensation of desolation swept through her.  She was suddenly overwhelmed, struck immobile by the torment of the past night.  What was she to do?

She had no time for self-pity.  She needed to come up with a way out of here.  But how?

Where is Father? she wondered.  When will he come for us?  Why hadn’t he responded to the message he was sent?

She knew she couldn’t wait for him.  If she or Beth were still in Barclay’s hands when her father arrived, he would not be able to do anything.  He would never risk their lives.

Suddenly there came a knock at the door, jarring Solace from her reverie.  “Yes?”

The door opened and a guard stepped into the room.  “The Baron requires your presence in the Great Hall to break your fast,” he said.  He stepped aside and waited for her to approach.

Solace cast one last wistful glance at the freedom the new day taunted her with before closing the shutters and moving past the guard.

The hallways were filled with Barclay’s men, laughing and gambling away their newly stolen coin.  As she walked by, groups of men hooted at her, chortling drunkenly.  Solace continued on without casting them a glance.

When she entered the Great Hall, she saw Beth sitting to one side of Barclay at a long table.  Her dainty fingers held a piece of venison.  Solace swallowed hard.  Beth glowed.  Her cheeks were pink with color; her hair was immaculate; her dress fit her slender figure perfectly, accenting her breasts.

A feeling of doom settled in the pit of Solace’s stomach.  What had Barclay promised Beth to make her so radiant?

The guard behind her cleared his throat, drawing Barclay’s attention.  A smile stretched across the Baron’s mouth and he stood, inviting Solace forward with an outstretched hand.

Solace’s jaw clenched and she refused to budge, until the guard shoved her forward.

“I’m pleased you could join us,” Barclay cooed, making Solace almost retch.  He signaled the empty seat beside him.

The guard escorted Solace to the chair and remained stationed just behind her as she sat.

“Please,” Barclay said, pushing his mug of ale toward her.

Solace did not move.

Barclay sat back in his chair, his eyes perusing her face.  “I see you’re not thirsty,” Barclay mused.  “Perhaps venison?”  He gently offered her some of his meat.

Solace turned away.

“Has the taste of falconers soured your lovely lips?” Barclay inquired.

Solace cast him a surprised glance.

“I assure you the taste of a Baron is far superior,” he mocked.

Solace threw Beth a condemning stare, but her sister didn’t bother to glance at her.

“We’re to have a guest this morning,” Barclay said, gnawing on a bone.  He wiped a sleeve across his mouth.

A prickling of warning shot up Solace’s spine.

Suddenly the doors at the far end of the room opened and two guards led a chained Logan into the room.  His shoulders were bent in supplication; his head was bowed.  They pushed him to his knees in front of the table.

Agony tore through Solace at seeing the bruises on his face.

Barclay was suddenly standing behind her.  He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she stiffened.  “Your sister told me that you and Logan were almost inseparable.”

Solace forced herself to be nonchalant.  “I hate him,” she professed.

Barclay bent to whisper.  “Now, perhaps yes.  But I hear that at one time Logan’s charms were quite penetrating,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.

“You wretch!” Solace accused, standing and whirling on him.  “How dare you speak to me that way?”

Barclay took a step forward and Solace retreated, but came up short against the table.  He continued to approach until she had to reach back, supporting herself with her arms on the table.  “How would it look for my wife to be anything but a virgin?” Barclay wondered in that disturbingly gallant voice.  “I’m going to take you now,” he told her, pressing up against her.  He forced her knees apart until her velvet dress was the only barrier between them.  “And if I don’t see your virgin’s blood, I will give you to the men like a common whore.”

Solace’s hand closed around the mug of ale behind her as he began to draw her dress up.  She swung it forward, the amber liquid splashing wildly out in a wide arc.  Barclay caught the mug in his palm, his eyes glowing with rage.  His retribution was as quick as a flash of lightning.  His fist struck her soft cheek, spinning her half around.  Barclay flipped her over onto her stomach, forcing her to the table with strong hands, pushing down on her shoulders.  “If you choose to act like an animal, you shall be treated like one,” he snarled.

Solace’s gaze searched one soldier’s face.  But all she saw in his eyes was burning lust.  Her frantic gaze shifted to the other soldier, only to find a hungry grin curving his lips.

Barclay threw her skirt over her hips.

Solace’s terrified gaze locked with Logan’s.  Strands of dark hair had fallen over his eyes, eyes fuming like swirling clouds of vapor from hell itself.  “Barclay,” he warned from behind clenched teeth.  “Let her go.”

Barclay put a hand to her head, forcing her face down into the table.  “You should enjoy watching your enemy’s daughter be taken like an animal.  Retribution for what he did to your family.”

Understanding coursed through Solace, even while Barclay’s hand held her firmly in place.  That was why Logan had made love to her!  He did it as vengeance, not as love or even desire.  Utter desolation swept through her, sweeping her soul like the barren winds of a desert.  Hope abandoned her.  She clamped her eyes shut tightly, her hands gripping the edge of the table.  A lone tear squeezed from between her clenched lids.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“What is going on here?”

Solace’s eyes flew open as she recognized Father Davis’s voice.  Immediately, Barclay released her.  But she could only lie on the table, shaken and scared.

“Father!” Solace heard Barclay say, his tone overly boisterous.  “Welcome!”

Solace pushed herself up from the table with shaky arms, her trembling hands adjusting her skirt, pulling it down over her bare skin.  She watched Father Davis approach, his brown eyes locked on her, his brow furrowed with concern.

Logan’s gaze was on her, also.  She could feel it, but she was afraid if she looked at him she would crumple into the trembling, fearful child she was fighting to keep at bay.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Father Davis demanded.

“Why, just eating,” Barclay exclaimed, a note of nervousness in his voice.  “Won’t you join us?”

Father Davis scowled at Barclay for a long moment, causing the Baron to shuffle his feet and shift uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Father Davis passed Logan, eyeing him sympathetically.  Solace saw something cross his face, but it was gone before she could figure out what it was.  He continued to approach the table.

“Return the prisoner to the dungeon,” Barclay said quickly with a flick of his wrist.

The two guards hauled Logan to his feet, pulling him back toward the double doors.

“How dare you treat that man in such a way?” Father Davis scolded.

“Surely God will forgive me if I donate another two bags of coin to the Church.”

Father Davis ignored Barclay’s comment and put a kind hand on Solace’s shoulder.  “Are you all right?” he inquired.

Solace opened her mouth to reply, but Barclay motioned her guard forward.

“Lady Solace looks a bit weary,” he said.  He cocked an eyebrow at her.  “Return her to her room.”

Father Davis raised suspicious and angry eyes to Barclay, but he withdrew his hand from Solace’s shoulder.

The guard took her arm, leading her away from Father Davis.  And Barclay.  For that she was grateful.  She glanced over her shoulder at Father Davis to find Barclay’s head bowed while Father Davis raised a hand to bless the food.  His eyes were locked on her as he said, “May God watch over you.”

***

Solace paced her room, hugging her elbows.  She had to get out of there.  And she had to do it quickly.  But how?  There was only one door out of the room.  Or was there?

Her eyes drifted to the wall.  Barclay had said something about secret passages.  She walked to the wall, running her hand along the masonry work, wondering if there was a passage in her room.

Logan would know.  She pushed the painful image of him from her mind.  She couldn’t think about him.  She couldn’t dwell upon his betrayal, not now.

She had to escape the castle.  And she had to take Beth.  Where were those passages?  Did they connect her room with Beth’s?  Could she use them?  How complicated were they?  And how much did Barclay know?

Again the thought came unbidden.  Logan would know.  He could tell her.  But why should he?  Why would he help her?  And why should she want him to?  She couldn’t trust him any longer.

She bowed her head as images of the past weeks came back to her.  She had trusted him, befriended him, loved him.  And now she was a prisoner in her own castle.

Solace wiped at her eyes, refusing to shed the tears of betrayal brimming in them.  She wouldn’t let him win.  She wouldn’t let Logan defeat her.  She had to fight.  She had to get Barclay from her castle.  But how?

Her gaze came to rest on the wooden chest at the bottom of her bed.  Her eyes narrowed.  She ran to it and opened it, searching through the dresses and gifts her father had bestowed on her over the years.  Silk dresses that glistened in the candlelight.  Rich velvet houppelandes that were the softest in the land.  Deep emerald rings.  Red ruby necklaces.  But she shoved these aside, digging deep down into the chest, almost to the bottom.  She parted two silk chemises and stopped.  There, cushioned on the sleeve of an embroidered dress, was what she was searching for.

Solace reached into the chest and cupped the blade in her hand lovingly.  Her father had given it to her, but she had no use for such a deadly weapon and put it away in her chest long ago.  She thanked her father for his foresight, then grabbed the pommel of the dagger and brought it forth into the candlelight.  Its golden blade shone.  It was untouched by scratches, had never tasted the blood of an enemy.  But all that was to change.

She stood gazing at her weapon.

A whistling sound caused her to whirl, her eyes scanning the room, the walls.  Were they watching her through some hidden hole in the passageways?  She quickly hid the dagger behind her arm, its blade brushing her wrist.  She reached down and hid the weapon in the folds of her dress.

A loud caw caught her attention, and she turned to the shuttered window.  She walked over to it and pushed it open.  The black falcon swooped down to perch on the sill.

She stared at the beautiful bird for a long moment.  It watched her with large, unblinking eyes.

Suddenly Solace called, “Guard!”

The door opened and the guard appeared.  “What do you want?” he asked.

She rose up before him, lifting her narrowed gaze to meet his.  “Take me to the dungeon,” she announced.  “I want to spit in the face of the man who betrayed me,” she proclaimed.

He began to shake his head “Baron Barclay – ”

“The baron told me I deserve at least that much,” she lied.

The guard stared hard at her.  “I was ordered to watch you.”

Solace met his gaze unflinchingly.  “You can watch me.  I don’t care.  I just want to see Logan Grey chained to the walls like the animal he is.”

“But the Baron –”

“Will not appreciate being bothered,” Solace again interrupted the man.  “He has given me permission.  If you want to seek him out and question his word, that is your decision.”

After a long moment, the guard nodded and turned, leading the way out of the room toward the dungeon.

***

Logan angrily rattled the chains that bound his arms.  The heavy metal links were attached to the handcuffs biting into his wrists at one end and imbedded into the stone wall of his dungeon cell at the other.  His legs were securely bound as well.

Damn that lying bastard!  Logan cursed silently; the image of Barclay’s hands on Solace scorched his mind’s eye.  He cursed again, his voice echoing in the cell.  If it hadn’t been for Father Davis.  Father Davis.  Why hadn’t he thought of the priest earlier?  Davis could have helped him locate Peter.  Father Davis had been loyal to his father when Logan was growing up, always chastising Logan for whispering to Peter in chapel.  And the priest had taught Logan how to read and write.  He was a patient man, devoted to his faith.

It had only been luck that Father Davis had come to take his meal at that moment.  Barclay was a very Christian man, believing in prayer before battle, in thanking God for everything.  Logan knew deep inside, Barclay was afraid God would turn against him for his barbaric acts, so he loyally gave staggering amounts of gold to the Church to cleanse his spirit, to buy his way into heaven.

Logan gritted his teeth for the thousandth time.  Barclay had been his friend for years!  The man had fooled him completely.  I should have been suspicious of his easy acceptance of my request for help.  Curse me for a fool.  I was too caught up in my own quest for vengeance to question any help I was getting.

He shook his chains violently, the small cell filling with the sound of clanking, grating metal.  Barclay will kill me soon, Logan thought.  There is no reason to keep me alive much longer.  He will realize Peter is no threat to him.  What could a vengeful brother do against Barclay’s army anyway?  Look where vengeance got me.

Rage exploded through him and he again shook his chains futilely, growling like some wild bear caught in a trap.

The clang of the lock being undone echoed in the small cell, silencing him.  Then, the door swung open.

A torch blinded Logan for a moment, and all he could see was a shadow move toward him.  A familiar scent wafted to him on a slight breeze.  Roses!  As the pain from the light lessened and his vision cleared, he saw Solace standing before him.  One of Barclay’s soldiers stood behind her, holding a torch.

“Solace,” he said, trying to hide the surprise in his voice.

But before he could say another word, she slapped his face as hard as she could.

The soldier behind her chuckled, relaxing somewhat.

Even though she had struck his other cheek, the branded cheek flared and pain pierced his skull.  Logan let the stinging of his flesh subside before he turned cold eyes to Solace.  “I’m pleased to see you, too, m’lady.”

“You bastard,” she sneered, stepping closer to him.  “I despise you for what you’ve done to me and my family.”

Logan felt the leather hilt of a dagger pressed into his hand.  He quickly glanced up into Solace’s eyes, but he could read nothing there.

“Help me!” she suddenly cried.  “He has me!”

The soldier stepped toward Logan, snarling.  “Let her be, dog!”  He raised a fist to strike Logan.

Solace stepped out of the way.

Logan struck quickly, sinking the blade deep into the soldier’s gut.  He then quickly withdrew the blade and slit the enemy’s throat.  The man gurgled and dropped to the floor.

Logan fell to his knees beside him.  Searching his waist until he found the keys, he quickly unlocked the manacles.

The torch flickered in the water of the dungeon floor and went out, casting the room in darkness.

Logan glanced up at Solace.  She was just a shadow against the light from the open door.  “Are you all right?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer for a long moment, and he wished he could see her face.  When she did answer, he heard the ache, the bitterness in her voice.  “I want you to take Beth and leave Castle Fulton.”

“Solace,” he said in a tortured voice.  He stood, grasping her arms, pulling her close to him.  “Did Barclay touch you?  Did that bastard hurt you?”

She eased herself from his grip.

The anguish her silent rejection caused him was worse than anything Barclay could do to him.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly.

He saw her turn her head away from him, tried to discern her features in the darkness, but couldn’t.  Guilt settled on his shoulders.  He had felt guilt for years, but never like this.  She had shown him what he had been missing.  He had tasted her innocence, basked in her kindness and love.  And the only thing he had shown her in return was how to hate.  “Solace, it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said desperately.

“You didn’t mean to open the gates?” she asked, and there was bitterness in her voice that hadn’t been there before.

“I was supposed to have Fulton.  Barclay was to give me the castle, and in exchange I would give him some of the northern lands and a percentage of the crops.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured.

“It does matter.”  Again Logan reached out and grabbed her hand.  “Had I known what he intended, I never would have brought you to him.  You have to believe me.  I wanted to protect you.  I wanted you by my side.”

She was silent for a long time, and Logan could feel the warring emotions inside her.  He could feel her hand trembling.  He thought he heard her swallow hard.  When she spoke, her voice was thick and strained.  “And you thought that once I learned what you had done I would want anything to do with you?”

He dropped her hand.  “It appears I hadn’t thought things through.”

“Will you take Beth and leave the castle?  Will you do this one thing for me?” she asked.

Logan turned away from her, unable to face her sorrow any longer.  “Yes,” he answered quietly.

“There’s one more guard, the dungeon guard, the one that gave us the keys,” Solace told him.  “He’s at the entrance to the dungeon.”

Logan glanced past her to the door.  “Call to him,” he told her.  “Get him to come in here.”

There was a moment of silence before Solace cried out, “Help!  Help me!”

Running feet sounded in the dungeon, and a silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway.

An awkward moment of silence stretched on.  “He’s got me!” Solace shouted.  “Help!”

“Where’s Pavia?” the guard demanded.

“Help!” Solace screamed.

The guard stepped hesitantly toward her voice.

Logan lunged forward, catching the guard around the waist and tackling him to the floor.  He plunged the dagger into his stomach and then lurched for Solace’s hand, leaving the guard for dead.  He pulled her toward the stairs and stopped just beneath a torch.  He quickly wiped the dagger blade clean on his leggings to stop the drips from leaving any trail.  Logan chanced a look at Solace.  There were rings under her eyes, and her lids were swollen from crying.  Her usually bright eyes were dull with sadness.

He looked away from her.  All these years he had seen the world through angry eyes.  For one brief moment, she had allowed him to see it through her eyes.  Now, he had made those once bright eyes as angry and bitter as his own.  “Where is she?” he asked.

“This way,” Solace said, and led him up a spiral staircase, then down a hallway.  She stopped in the shadows of the staircase when she saw two guards standing outside Beth’s room.

“I’ll distract the guards,” she said.  “Get Beth and leave the castle.”

As she began to move away from him, Logan grabbed her wrist and pulled her back against him.  “What about you?” he demanded.

She looked into his eyes for a moment and he saw her resolve, her willingness to sacrifice herself for her sister.  Finally, she looked away.

“I won’t let you stay,” Logan said.  “He was going to rape you just hours ago.  You can’t possibly be thinking of staying!”

“And the alternative is trusting you?” she asked bitterly.

“I know how you’re feeling.  But you have few other choices.”

“You’re wrong,” she answered and tried to pull away from him.

Logan saw determination burning in those weary eyes.  Even after the horrors of the night, she still had spirit.  He refused to release her wrist.  “What are you going to do, Solace?  You can’t marry Barclay.”

“Don’t you mean you won’t let me?”

“He’d have control of Fulton then,” Logan retorted.

“And that would just kill you, wouldn’t it?”

Logan’s jaw clenched.  “Fulton is my birthright.  I’ve waited thirteen years for my revenge.”

Solace stared at him for a long moment.  “Then you must be a very bitter, angry man.”  She turned her back on him.

“Solace, sacrificing yourself isn’t the answer.”

“You have a better one?”

“Join forces with me,” he said.

For a moment he swore he saw longing wash over her face, but then it was gone and in its place was a cold anger.  “Oh, that’s promising!” she laughed bitterly.  “Let’s see.  My choices are to marry a man who killed my stepmother or to become allies with a man who betrayed me.”

I deserved that, Logan told himself.  “I want to help you.”

“Help me what?  Help me betray my people, my family?  You’ve done quite enough already.”

“Help you get Fulton back,” he said sincerely.

“Liar!” she hissed vehemently.  “You would only help me because you think it easier to steal from a woman.  I trusted you before, Logan, and you taught me that there is no compassion in the world.”  She yanked her arm free.  “It’s a lesson I won’t ever forget.”  She whirled, her long hair slapping his face.

Logan stood, watching her.  He gritted his teeth against the guilt that suddenly rose in him like bile.  I have done nothing wrong! he told himself.

He reached out, clamping a hand around her mouth, and dragged her back into the hallway with him.  Then, with her struggling against him, he pushed a rock and a panel of the wall swung open.  He pulled her into the darkness.  The wall swung shut behind them, sealing them in.

He released her.  “You can’t stay here,” he insisted.  “I can get you and your sister out of the castle safely.”  He felt her eyes on him, sensed the indecision plaguing her.  He knew how she must feel.  Betrayed, hurt.  But Castle Fulton was his.  He would do everything in his power to get it back.  She would do the same.  He stiffened slightly.  Yes.  She would do the same.  He had turned her into him.  The animosity, the bitterness.  She now possessed them as he did.  He feared he had just created something very dangerous and unpredictable in Solace Farindale.

She turned away from studying the small, hidden walkway she now found herself in and looked at Logan.  “Give me the dagger,” she finally said.

“Why?” Logan asked.

“Because if you’re lying to me I want to be able to plunge it into your cold heart.”

Logan grinned.  “Fair enough,” he replied.  He handed her the weapon.

Logan pushed open the wall just enough so he could see into the room from where he and Solace were lurking in the hidden corridor.  It was dark except for the soft glow of a candle that washed over a form in the bed.  Logan’s eyes narrowed.

Solace moved to step around him, but Logan’s arm shot out, covering her mouth.  When her eyes turned to his, he put a finger to his lips in a motion for silence.  Then, he removed his hand from her mouth.

It took only a moment for the form to shift and separate into two bodies, one moving off the other.  Torchlight washed over Barclay’s features.

And Beth’s.

Logan heard Solace stifle a gasp and felt her stiffen.  She leaned into him for support.  He kept a firm hold on her.  Had the blackguard raped her sister?

Beth’s hair lay in dark strands across the pillow.  Her face glowed.  “You see, darling,” Beth cooed, “I can be most accommodating.  You needn’t dispose of me.  I can make myself most indispensable.”  Her hand snaked beneath the blanket toward his manhood.

Barclay chuckled, seizing her wrist and withdrawing it.  “What a lusty wench you are.”

Logan jerked forward.  Now was his moment.  Barclay was defenseless.  He could easily strangle the life out of him.  Break his neck.  Bash his skull into the stone wall.  Logan’s eyes narrowed.  But Beth would call out for help, and two armed guards lurked just outside the room.  He glanced at Solace.  He had to see her safely away from the castle.  His revenge would have to wait.  Again.

Logan slowly pulled Solace from the room, quietly closing the secret passage’s door.  He had seen enough.  Seen enough to turn his stomach.  That woman had no morals.  The man had just killed her mother and she was lying with him!

“Why?” Solace asked.  “Why would she do that?”

Logan had to admit he didn’t have the answer.  He shook his head.  “We can’t stay here,” he advised.

For a long moment, Solace said nothing.  Logan tried to see her face, tried to read her dilemma.  He knew she didn’t trust him.  And he knew he should trust her even less.  Could he travel with a companion who might turn him in at any moment?  Knowing that she might stab him in the back?

He knew he could never leave her here.

Finally, she nodded her head.  “Yes.  We have to leave.”

Relief coursed through Logan.  But it was tinged with something else.  Warning.  Was she coming with him to seek her own revenge?  Did the same vengeance that had consumed him in the past now eat away at her?

He took her elbow and guided her through the dark passages, then down a narrow stairway leading straight into a solid stone wall.  He was grateful he and Peter had played games in the hidden tunnels, pretending they were chasing down villainous thugs, because now all the twisting turns easily came back to him.

Peter.  Logan hoped he had survived the attack.  He thought how ironic it was that he spent months agonizing over his brother’s safety only to find Peter had chosen to work as a soldier in the enemy’s army.  Peter has chosen his own path to travel, Logan thought.  As have I.

Logan quickly pushed one of the stones set into the wall, and the wall slowly moved away from them, revealing a crack just wide enough for a man to pass.  Logan moved through, pulling Solace with him.

His pace increased as he moved through the new set of tunnels.  Barclay must know we’re gone by now, he thought.  It won’t be long before he has men searching these corridors.

Finally, Logan pushed a wall open an inch, scanned an empty room and shoved the wall open farther.  He signaled for Solace to wait, then dashed into the room and quickly grabbed a rope that hung on the wall before rushing back into the corridor.

When they finally emerged from the darkness of the secret passageways, they were in Alissa’s room.  Logan quickly tied one end of the rope around the bedpost and fastened the other end around Solace’s thin waist.  He couldn’t help but notice the curves of her shapely hips as he secured the rope, but he forced his attention to the window.  He grabbed her arm and led her over to it.

“What are you doing?” Solace asked, a note of panic to her voice.

“I’m going to lower you down,” Logan told her.  He felt her apprehension as if it were a tangible thing.  “Don’t be frightened.  I won’t let go.”  He patted the window ledge.

She looked at the ledge, then at him.  Her eyes narrowed slightly.  Just when Logan thought she was going to protest, she stepped up onto the ledge.  “Feet first,” he instructed.  “Then just hold onto the rope.  And whatever you do, don’t look down.”

The sounds of booted feet in the hallway caught Logan’s attention.  He heard doors being opened and closed.  “There’s no time,” he said.  He quickly untied the rope from her waist.  He turned his back to her and pulled her roughly against him.  Logan had to fight the jolt that speared his body at contact with hers.  He could feel her breasts pressed to his back, feel her small hands clutch his tunic.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Just hold onto me,” he said.

“Why?” she wondered.

“Do it.  There’s no time to argue.”

She slid her hands beneath his arms and clutched his shoulders.  Logan wrapped the rope around their waists and tied it tight, effectively binding her to him.  “Hang on tight,” he advised, hoping the danger would ease the passion that was beginning to stir his blood.  He gripped the rope tightly, climbed onto the ledge and turned to face the room.

Solace’s feet hung over the side.  She squeezed her eyes closed, whispering, “Don’t fall.”

Every muscle in Logan’s body strained as he lowered himself and Solace over the window ledge.  As they descended the wall, Logan felt Solace’s grip tighten.  He tried to ignore the scent of roses teasing him as a cool breeze blew a strand of her hair before his face and around his neck.

The rope burned into his palms, and he struggled to keep his grip.  He used his feet to guide them down the wall.  Halfway down it, the muscles in his arms and shoulders felt as if they were on fire.  He paused to glance down at the ground and muttered a curse when he realized how much farther they had to go.  His palms began to sweat.  In the moat below, he saw rows of logs spanning the brackish waters.  He knew that during the siege Barclay’s men had filled in part of the moat with sand and rock and had created a bridge with the logs so they could cross.  He never thought he would be thanking Barclay for their escape route.

Solace gasped loudly and he felt her grip falter.  She slipped down an inch, jerking him hard.

He braced himself against the wall, stopping their descent.  “Hold on,” he commanded through clenched teeth.

Solace clutched desperately at him, grabbing at his tunic.

When Logan had his balance again, he continued downward.  Finally, after what seemed like hours, his feet touched the ground.  He quickly undid the rope, freeing Solace.

Suddenly the cry of his falcon sounded in the air above him, its shrill call sending a shiver of alarm racing through him.  Without thinking, Logan grabbed Solace’s hand and dashed for the logs that filled the section of moat in front of them.  The logs shifted beneath their feet as they raced across them.

The first arrow missed Logan’s head by inches, lodging in a log at his feet.

But the second arrow came closer to the mark.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The arrow pierced Logan’s tunic, ripping through the fabric near his ribs, barely missing his skin.  Logan pulled Solace close as they cleared the moat, quickly leading her into the trees bordering the west end of the castle.  But he didn’t stop there.  He continued his breakneck pace through the woods, dodging trees, sidestepping bushes, splashing through small brooks.  All the while, Solace followed silently, keeping pace.

They reached a stream and Logan plunged into the water, planning to throw any pursuers off their trail.  He trudged a great distance in the chilly brook before he glanced back over his shoulder to see how Solace was faring.  She had raised her skirt up to her shins, the hem of which was soaked.  Her slippered shoes were heavy with water, and her bare skin was pink from the cold.

Logan glanced down at his warm, booted feet.  He quickly moved back to her, scooped her up into his arms and continued on despite her protests.

We need to find horses, Logan thought.  He chanced a look at the woman in his arms, only to find her staring at him, a scowl on her face.  When she saw him looking at her, she glanced away, into the direction they were heading.  He caught himself studying the soft outline of her face, the delicate arch of her neck.  The dark rings underlining her eyes were in sharp contrast to the pale complexion of her face.  We need to get sleep, he thought.  For, even though adrenaline pumped through his veins, he felt the beginnings of fatigue sapping his strength.

Suddenly, Solace turned those brilliant green eyes to him and it was Logan’s turn to look away.

“Where are you going?” she wondered.

“For now, just trying to make a path the guards won’t be able to follow,” Logan answered, emerging from the stream and setting her feet on the ground beside an old oak tree.

“Westhaven is only a day’s walk that way.”  She pointed south.

Logan’s gaze followed her finger as if he could see the town.

“I have friends there who might be able to help,” Solace added.

Help.  Every nerve in Logan’s body tensed.  Yes, he thought.  Help you.  Leave me to rot in some dung heap.  “I think we’ll head in this direction,” he said, moving north.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.  “I said I knew people who could help hide us.”

“I’m not here to escort you to your destination,” Logan snapped angrily.  “And I don’t intend to hide like some frightened kitten.”

“You said you would see me to safety!” Solace shouted.

Logan spread his arms wide.  “Here you are.”

Solace gasped at him, anger flaming her cheeks.  “You’re going to leave me here?”

He shrugged.  “You can travel with me.”

“You... you unchivalrous lout!” she shouted.  “I should have known I couldn’t trust you!  Not after what you did!”

Logan approached her, his jaw tight with leashed fury.  She backed away from him until she bumped into a tree and could retreat no further.  “Let’s get one thing straight.  I did what I had to do.  The same thing you would have done had you been in my place.”

He expected her to shiver and cower before his rage as he towered over her like some angry ogre.  What he didn’t expect was the sparkle of tears in her bright eyes.

“I never would have betrayed someone I...”  Her words faded.

A frown creased Logan’s brow as he found himself gazing into the most spectacular eyes he had ever seen, eyes bright with courage and defiance.  A shadow of sadness haunted them, and something else.  Fear?  What had she been about to say?

Her tongue traced her lips before she finished with, “I never would have done that to you.”

Her declaration cut into his resolve, slashing a hole in the wall he had built around his heart.  No, he knew with certainty she never would have done that to him.  With the realization came a tidal wave of regret.  He battled through the wave with his anger, trying not to drown in those green waters that flooded from her eyes.

His gaze lowered to her sweet lips.  He had tasted their honeyed depths before, had sought comfort in her arms as he’d devoured them.  But he knew he could never do that to her, or himself, ever again.

“I don’t need your friends’ help,” Logan snapped, turning away from her and heading into the forest again.

“We’re in no position to turn down any kind of help.  We have no food, no water, no –”

“I’ve gotten along fine by myself,” he said, fighting the logic to her thinking.  She wanted him captured.  Would her friends set a trap for him?  Protect her and send him to Barclay?  Could she now betray him?  Had she changed that much?  He knew that was what he would do if he were in her position.  “Are you coming?”

For a long moment, he didn’t hear anything.  Then, he heard her footfalls and knew she was storming after him.

***

Solace shivered as the night wind snaked its cold fingers around her.  She glanced for the thousandth time at Logan.  He sat across from her, his back to a tree, his long legs stretched out before him.  He had found a long, thick branch on their travels and now his new staff lay at his side within easy reach.  Darkness had fallen over an hour ago.  If she weren’t so cold, Solace knew she would be able to sleep, regardless of whether or not she was in her own bed.

But she was freezing.  Logan had informed her there would be no fire so as to not attract any unwanted attention.  In addition to being cold and tired, she was hungry.  She had been trying for what seemed like forever to dig out a root with the dagger, but the stubborn thing wouldn’t let go of the ground.  She had pulled at it, chopped at it, but she just wasn’t strong enough.  The relentless wind laughed around her, encircling her in an icy hug.  She shivered, sitting back, exasperated.

She looked at the dagger in her hand.  It wasn’t enough.  She blew a strand of hair from her eyes, wishing she had some stronger tool.  She needed help.  A rumble moved across her stomach as if it were alive.  Solace stood and stared down at the root.  Damn thing!  She kicked it before turning and heading for Logan.

She wiped the dirt from the dagger on her black skirt as she moved closer to him.  His hands were folded over his stomach, his head resting comfortably against a tree, his long legs outstretched as if he were in a bed.  She stopped at his side, gazing down at him, watching the slight rise and fall of his chest.  She absently turned the blade over in her palm.  A breeze ushered her forward, and she swallowed her pride as she bent down to touch his shoulder.

Logan’s eyes flashed open, full of suspicion and recrimination.  He snapped his wrist toward her and easily slapped the dagger from her hand.  “Branding’s not good enough, eh, Solace?”

She pulled back, surprised and shocked.  She rubbed her smarting fingers, staring at him in total bewilderment.

Logan grabbed the dagger off the ground and stood, slipping the thin blade into the belt at his waist.  “You don’t mind if I hold onto this for you, do you?”  He tapped the dagger’s leather-bound handle.  “I wouldn’t want you to accidentally cut anything you weren’t supposed to.”

Confusion washed over her.  “Why did you hit my hand?” she asked.

“Did you think I would just lie here while you slit my throat?” he growled.

“What?” she gasped.  “I -- I wasn’t going to slit your throat.  I wanted...”  His words penetrated her bewilderment.  She clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes.  “I’m afraid I’m not as bloodthirsty as you.”  How could he accuse her of a thing like that?  She wasn’t the one who had betrayed him.  She smiled coldly at him.  “Although, it’s not a bad idea.”

Logan took a threatening step closer.  “Then what were you doing with the dagger?  Contemplating giving me a shave?”

Solace raised her chin, refusing to budge a step.  “How dare you accuse me of lying!  All you have done is lie to me.  Use me for your own vile purposes.  It must have been very hard for such an accomplished lover to pull the wool over a virgin’s eyes!”

“Virgin!” Logan exploded.  “You were no virgin.”

Solace tried to keep his hurtful words from cutting her.  “I have been with no other man,” she proclaimed, facing his accusations with all the bravery she could muster.

“There was no blood,” Logan said, but doubt had crept into his words.  “All virgins bleed.”

“Not this one,” she replied and turned away from him.  Whore, harlot, slut.  The words of her sister and her stepmother echoed in her memory.  She couldn’t explain the fact there had been no blood.  And she knew Logan would never believe her.  He would think the same thing Alissa and Beth had.  So what did it matter?

Everything.

She returned to the tree, sat down and drew her knees up to her chest.  She was just as cold and hungry as she had been when she’d approached Logan.  But now she was without a dagger.

The root sat there in the ground at her feet, half dug out, refusing to release its hold on the life-giving earth.

As Solace laid her head on her knees, a tear trickled over her cheek.

***

Logan stood over her, watching her sleep.  She was curled tightly in a ball, on her side, shivering.  Most women would have broken down by now, crying out against the injustice of the world.  They would have lost their will to fight.

Moonlight washed over her small frame, caressing her with a pale kiss, giving her more warmth than her mother and sister, giving her more tenderness than he had bestowed upon her.  In the shadows of the night, he felt hidden, free to explore his feelings.  And as he stared at her, an emotion rose within him so strong that it threatened to choke him.  In her small body, Solace possessed more courage and determination than most knights he had known.

Logan thought back to her declaration of innocence.  He had never heard of a virgin who did not bleed.  But as he thought back on their encounters, there were other things, other signs, which now seemed to confirm her inexperience.  The way she had first kissed him, with reserved passion.  Everything she had done had been filled with an innocent curiosity.  That was what had drawn him to her.  Now it was more than that.  He admired her defiance, her will, her strong spirit.

A chill breeze wrapped Logan in a blanket of cold.  They had brought nothing from Castle Fulton.  No blankets, no food, no water.  They had fled only with the clothing on their backs.

A caw came from the tree above him, drawing Logan’s attention.  His falcon was perched on a branch to their right, drawing one of its legs up under itself to sleep.

“Wretched beast,” Logan grumbled, even though he was secretly glad to see the falcon.  “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

He turned his dark gaze back to Solace.  She was everything a man could learn to love, to care for.  But he was not any man.  He had no time for tenderness, no time for love.  He had to get his castle back.  He wouldn’t let himself fall under her spell, not the way Peter had.  Peter.  Had he survived yet another siege?  Logan’s heart ached for his brother, for the kinship that could never be.

He turned his back on Solace, but as he walked away he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder.

***

The warm sun streamed in through Solace’s bedroom window, warming her face.  She turned her head to the sunlight and a sharp pain flared in her back.  Something was sticking her in the spine.  She reached under her to discover it was a solid chunk of earth.  Her arm brushed the dirt from beneath her.  Then she realized that in her room the sunlight didn’t reach her bed.  She opened her eyes to see a canopy over her, but it was not the soft velvet canopy of her bed; it was a crisp canopy of leaves.

She had not been dreaming.  Her castle was in the hands of Baron Barclay.  Alissa had been brutally killed.  Beth had welcomed the enemy into her bed.

The wind whistled around her, its icy breeze kissing her body, weaving its way beneath her skirt.  She pulled her skirt over her feet to block it out.  Then she sat up, her gaze searching the trees for Logan.

He wasn’t there.  He had left her.  The thought didn’t shock or surprise her.  Then why did she feel disappointed?  She rose, using the tree as support.  Logan had done what he said he would.  He had seen her safely away from Fulton.  There was no reason for him to remain with her.  There was not an ounce of chivalry in him.  In that strong body.  The body that had hovered over hers before he’d filled her with his manhood, sating the desire and passion that had seized every part of her.  The body that had protected her from the arrow attack.

“Solace?” Logan called.

She whirled, surprise and guilt written on her face.  She gaped for a moment, then masked her look, afraid he was able to read every one of her thoughts.

Logan walked up to her, his hands cupped in front of him.  “Here,” he insisted, nudging her with his fingers.

She dropped her gaze to his hands, her cheeks flaming.  Her mouth dropped open.  But not in agony or embarrassment over her unkind thoughts of his desertion.  In wonderment.  In his cupped hands were berries.  She pooled her skirt into a pocket and Logan deposited them into her lap.

Her stomach grumbled in anticipation as she popped one into her mouth.  Sweetness exploded on her tongue, and she chewed the berry slowly as if she were savoring the most delicious delicacy from France.

When she opened her eyes, she found Logan gazing at her.  The smoldering flame she saw in his eyes confused her.  She hadn’t seen that look since he’d bedded her in his room days ago.  A heated flush crept into her cheeks.  She quickly indicated the berries with a nod of her head.  “Eat,” she suggested.

A wry smile formed on his lips as he studied her berry-stained mouth.  “I already have,” he replied.

It was the way he said it that made her blush darken.  His deep voice had suggested something other than partaking of the fruit.

They stood, staring at each other for a long moment, sharing another place in time.  Around them, the leaves wavered in the gentle breeze.  Birds sang to their mates.

Solace knew it could never be the same for them.  He saw her as a whore and his enemy.  She lowered her eyes and turned away from Logan.

“I’m going to Cavindale,” Logan finally said.  “I think you should come with me.”

It was the way he said it.  It was not a request.  The decision had already been made.  Suddenly, the berries didn’t taste so sweet.  “You won’t make it to Cavindale.  Winter’s coming.”

“It won’t be here in a week.”

“Be reasonable, Logan,” Solace pleaded.  “You have no food, no shelter, no coin and no blankets.”

“The food is there,” he said, pointing to the berries in her skirt.  “The shelter is the forest.  What do I need coin for?”

Solace stared hard at him, trying to see past the stubbornness.  Finally, she asked, “What do you need me for?”

“Need you for?” Logan echoed.  “I don’t need you.  I thought you had nowhere else to go.  I know what that’s like.”

“I won’t die with you.  I’m going to Westhaven.”

She saw his jaw clench, his fists twitch.  “Then go,” he said.

A twinge of pain flared inside her, but she refused to acknowledge it.  “I can’t go alone, Logan.  It’s too dangerous.  Please.  Westhaven is a day’s walk.  Take me there.”  She straightened, pushing aside the sudden onslaught of tears threatening her.  “Leave me with my friends.  Then you don’t have to trouble with me anymore.”

Logan bowed his head, considering her words.

She watched the breeze blow through his soft hair like fingers raking through the strands.  Longing and sadness filled her.  “I think you owe me that much,” Solace whispered.

Logan stiffened.  He raised dark eyes to her.  “Westhaven it is.  Then I never have to lay eyes on you again.”

Solace nodded and turned away from him.  She hadn’t realized she’d released her skirt, dropping the berries, until she stepped on one, smashing it beneath her foot.

***

The town of Westhaven was aglow.  The afternoon sunlight shimmered on the stone-and-thatch buildings making up the heart of the town.  Patches of clouds drifted languidly across the sky, but somehow always seemed to leave a wide hole above Westhaven for the sun to shower the town in its golden streams.  It’s some kind of beacon, Logan thought.  But is this heavenly sign meant for Solace or me?

He cast Solace a sideways look.  She was gazing on the town from their crouched position behind some bushes with more excitement than he had seen on her face since before Castle Fulton had been taken.  If she wanted to go, let her.  He struggled with uncertainty, as he had since that morning.  Uncertainty and anger.  He didn’t need her, he told himself for the thousandth time.  He gazed at her profile, that straight nose, those high cheekbones, that sensual mouth, those large eyes filled with such joy, and he wondered how such perfect beauty could make him so sad.

Logan turned his gaze back to the town.  At midday, Westhaven was a gathering of merchants and craftsmen.  He watched the activity from a distance now, waiting for nightfall.  His original plan was to walk into town at midday, well hidden in the crowd.  Then Solace reminded him about the cross on his cheek.  Every person in the town would notice it.

He was a criminal, a man marked for what he had done.  Some townspeople would steer clear of him, some would mock him, others would throw stones or pelt him with rotten food.  He had seen it happen to others.  Logan found himself rubbing the tender skin on his face.  As the pain built, he rubbed it harder, as if trying to erase it.  The damn thing was a beacon for Barclay.  He knew he could no longer walk through the streets unaccosted.  He would have to become a creature of the night.

Perhaps getting away from him was best for Solace.  He couldn’t ask her to share his nocturnal life.  And I don’t want to! he told himself emphatically.  He had more important things to think of.

His gaze shifted to her again.  She had sat back against a tree and pulled her knees to her chest.  Her tiny feet were tapping the ground beneath the dirty hem of her gown.  Her head was buried between her knees, the black material hiding her face.

She would be gone soon.

The thought had come unbidden, though Logan had tried to push it aside all day.  Now, with her departure so close he found he couldn’t rid himself of it.  She would be gone.  A pang of remorse shot through his chest.  He didn’t want to leave with her hating him.  He didn’t want her as an enemy.  He opened his mouth to tell her...  But what could he say to her?  She wouldn’t believe him anyway.  Slowly, his mouth closed and his chin dropped to his chest.

It was useless to try to make amends.  He remembered the fierce anger that had coursed through him when he had found his home taken, the insatiable need for vengeance.  No one could have talked him out of his hate.  No one could have taken his pain away.

He felt a prickling along the length of his neck and lifted his eyes.

Solace was staring at him, quietly surveying his face, each of his features.  Her brow was furrowed slightly as if she were trying to figure something out.  Then she looked away toward the village.

A coldness settled around him as if a biting wind had suddenly lashed his cheeks.  There was a wall between them, one as thick and impenetrable as the walls of Castle Fulton.

He followed her stare to the town.  From their spot behind the bushes, Logan could smell the loaves of bread one of the merchants had just pulled from his oven.  Pickled fish wafted to him on a small breeze.  He was hungry.  He glanced at Solace.  She must be just as hungry as he, even though she didn’t show it.  Possibly more so.  She hadn’t eaten the berries that morning.

They waited in silence, trying their best to ignore each other’s presence.  Finally the sun dipped below the horizon.  Just a few more minutes now and they would sneak toward the blacksmith’s shop.  They had seen no sign of Barclay’s men, but Logan knew they were there.

His falcon landed on his shoulder, but Logan took little notice.  He watched a group of men saying good night to each other as they moved into their houses.  Shops closed their windows.  Mothers called their children to come home.  Husbands went to share their beds with their wives.  Again, Logan couldn’t resist the urge to glance at Solace.  She had put her face back into the rich darkness of her dress.

“Solace?” he couldn’t help but call.

For a long moment, she didn’t raise her head, didn’t reply.

He scowled and crawled toward her.  “Are you all right?” he wondered, a knot closing around his throat.

She nodded her head, a strand of her dark hair falling forward to brush the leaves on the ground.  He wanted to capture it in his palm, to hold its softness one last time.  And even though he knew he shouldn’t do it, his traitorous hand shot forward to cup the silky strand.  He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were spun gold.  His throat closed around the despair engulfing him.

He turned his gaze to her to find she had lifted her eyes enough to look at him.  In the fading light he could see they were ringed with redness, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if the rays of the setting sun or tears had caused it.  The light from the dying sun turned a tear golden, and he followed its lonely path from her eye to her cheek.

Anguish overwhelmed Logan, and he reached forward to brush the golden drop from her skin, only to find that it was not alone.  She lifted her head higher, revealing to him her complete sadness.

Grief and shock washed over Logan.  Had he done this to her?  The thought tore at him, and he turned away from her.  “We’ll start toward your friends in a few minutes,” he murmured.

Suddenly, she was on her feet behind him, and before he could stop her she was racing out of the cover of the bushes toward the village.  Startled, the falcon took flight, leaping off his shoulder to climb into the sky.

“Solace!”  He lunged forward to grab a hold of her dress, but was too late.

As she ran toward the village, he heard her heart-wrenching sobs and her muttered cry, “I hate you, Logan.”

It was as if a sorcerer had cast a spell over him.  He could not move.  He lay on his stomach, the branches of the bush digging through his tunic into his ribs, his arm outstretched before him, his hand closed around nothing.  He watched her small, fragile form race toward the blacksmith’s shop and disappear into the blackened doorway.

It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me, he told himself.  She should hate me.

He pushed himself up onto his hands and then onto his feet.  He cast one last look at Westhaven.

The town blurred, and he blinked quickly to clear his eyes before turning and moving away into the woods.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The sunshine was bright as Logan entered the village of Cavindale.  It had been a long time since he had been there.  As far as he could see, there were seven or eight new farms.  The village has changed, he admitted grudgingly.  But my memories have not.

The tree just beyond Marion’s farm was where he had watched as his cousin, William, had carved his name into the tree with a heart and Elizabeth’s name.  Logan had been too busy with thoughts of vengeance to care much for girls.  He had carved a name into the tree, too.  But it had been Farindale’s, with an X through it.  Logan lifted his hand to his cheek.  Now, he was the one who bore the mark.

Logan moved through the village, his head swiveling to the west.  The windmill was on the outskirts, near the stream.  He and William used to go swimming there.  William for fun, Logan to strengthen his body.  Logan turned his head to the east.  The meadow just past Widow Jane’s shop was where they used to practice sword fighting.

He kept to the shadows when he entered the main part of town, kept his head lowered, a hand across his cheek to hide the brand.

The streets were crowded and memory upon forgotten memory invaded Logan’s mind.  The stand of apples was still in front of Copplepot’s.  Years ago, Logan had knocked the cart over and gotten a sharp reprimand from old Copplepot, as well as Uncle Hugh.

At the thought of Uncle Hugh, Logan’s eyes rose to the distance.  Cavindale Manor stood like a great rock, its square structure looking sturdy and strangely comforting.  A fond grin spread over Logan’s lips.  What would they think upon seeing him?  It had been so long.  All the tension suddenly drained from his body, like a sigh.  He was home.

A part of Logan still seemed empty and this surprised him.  There was something missing.  He knew what it was, and before he could block the vision, a pair of brilliant green eyes came to his mind.  He pushed the image aside.

As Logan neared the home, he saw an old man speaking with a younger man.  The older man’s hair was completely white, and he was very thin.  Logan narrowed his eyes slightly.  Could it be?

As he moved forward, he heard the man’s droll voice and he smiled.  Crox!  Logan stopped just behind the white-haired man.  After a moment, the man turned familiar blue eyes to him, assessing him.  Then a scowl creased his wrinkled brow.  “Can I help you, sir?” he wondered.

He belonged in court, Logan thought as he had all those years before.  Always so proper.  But Crox hated it there.  He preferred the countryside.  Logan smiled.  “After all this time, you’re still a rambling old man,” Logan said, jovially.

Crox’s eyes slowly lit with recognition.  Then a smile came to his weathered face.  “Logan, old boy, is that you?”

Logan embraced the man.  “Good Lord, Crox, don’t you change at all?” he asked.

Crox slapped Logan on the back.  “No need to change perfection,” he answered, stiffly.  When Logan released him, he stepped back to look at him.  “It’s been years, lad.  We were starting to wonder if you were dead.”  A caw sounded from the sky, and Crox raised his eyes to it.  “Oh, good heavens!  You don’t still have that wretched bird!”

Logan shrugged.  “Can’t seem to get rid of him.”  He started toward the large wooden door of Cavindale Manor.  “Where’s Uncle?  And William?”

“Master Hugh is at the castle, not to return for two days.  Master William is in the fields.”

“Thanks,” Logan said.

“Logan,” Crox called.  “Might I inquire what happened to your face?”

“You might,” Logan answered evasively and continued inside.

The Great Hall was strangely empty.  It was as large as he remembered.  To his right, the stairs to the upper apartments disappeared into blackness.  Two tables lined the back wall and behind these were the kitchens.  The walls of the room were whitewashed and bare.  Logan felt like a stranger.  He was not the same man... boy... who had lived here.

“May I help ya?” a voice wondered.

Logan turned to find a young boy standing beside him, staring at him with large dark eyes.  This child was new to Cavindale Manor.  Logan hadn’t seen him before.  But before he could answer, a booming voice came from the table at the far end of the room.

“There’s no help for the likes of him!”

Logan squinted at the man clothed in a black tunic and leggings, tipped back in one of the chairs.  There was something familiar about him.  Logan stepped by the boy, moving toward the man.  Slowly, a grin slid across Logan’s face; the same grin that faced him.

“Just get him an ale,” the man instructed.  “From the looks of him, he hasn’t tasted one for quite some time.”

“What are you doing here, Alexander?” Logan wondered.

“Heard about Fulton and knew you’d come here,” Alexander replied, placing a booted foot on the table.

“No jobs available so you’ve come to harass me?” Logan asked, sitting in a chair beside him.

“I was in Lexington when Barclay’s men arrived,” Alexander explained.  “Apparently, you’ve made yourself quite indispensable to the Baron.  He’s willing to pay a pretty sum for your return.”

Logan shrugged slightly.  “He won’t find me here.”

“Are you so sure?  I did.”

“You know I grew up here.  He doesn’t,” Logan explained.

Alexander shook his head in disapproval.  “Nothing’s a secret if you have enough coin.  There are men willing to sell you out.”

“Only friends know about Cavindale.”

“Friends like Barclay?” Alexander wondered.

Logan clenched his teeth and looked away from Alexander toward the door.  “I already told you, he doesn’t know about Cavindale.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed slightly.  “Is that mark on your face a gift from your friend?”

“No,” Logan replied, raising his hand to absently massage the scar.  “Barclay didn’t do this.”

“That’s going to make it harder with the ladies, eh?”

“Perhaps one,” Logan murmured.

“Solace?”

Logan glanced up sharply at Alexander.

“Barclay’s men were looking for a branded man and Farindale’s daughter,” Alexander said.

Logan grit his teeth, staring off into the distance.  Solace’s large eyes appeared in his mind’s eye, as bright as the most precious of gems.  They were beguiling in an innocent, sultry way.  He remembered the way her lips curved in a tender smile that seemed to brighten his day.  He clenched his jaw tight against the images threatening to chip away at the wall he had erected around his heart.  She hates you, remember? he asked himself.

“Why didn’t you ask me, Grey?”

Logan glanced up to see Alexander staring into his mug of ale pensively.  “Ask you?” Logan echoed.

“I kept waiting for you to ask me to help you retake Fulton.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.  Logan had no gold, nothing to offer Alexander as payment.  Besides, he had Barclay to help him.  “I didn’t think I would need you,” Logan said.

“Didn’t think you needed me?” Alexander echoed in disbelief.  “The man who saved your hide from that axeman at Willow’s Ridge?  The man who took that arrow in the shoulder for you at Woodland Hills?  You didn’t need me?”

Logan shrugged.  “I heard you were doing pretty well with your Gypsy hunting.  And still making good coin from it, I warrant.  You certainly dress better these days.”

Alexander’s look sobered.  “You could have used me to watch your back,” he said.  “I could have helped.”

Logan stared at him for a long moment.  Yes.  He should have asked Alexander.  He should have asked Blade or Goliath or McColl.  But he had looked to Barclay, and all of Barclay’s wealth and resources without nary a thought of his true friends.

The boy brought an ale and some bread, and placed them in front of Logan.  Logan immediately took a long drink of the smooth ale.  It wet his parched throat.  Then he wiped at his lower lip with the backs of his fingers.  “Yes, you could have.”  Logan took another drink.

“A guest?” a voice called from the doorway.  A man about Logan’s age rushed in.  “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

Logan stood, knowing the man immediately, even though he was gazing upon William for the first time in years.  His cousin was a slender man, always happy and jovial.  When he entered the room, it seemed to come to life.  A servant appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  Crox followed William into the room with a grin on his face.

William approached Logan.  “Good day, sir,” he greeted.  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure...”

“Pleasure?  Last time I was here, you called me a warted piece of dung before shoving me into a trough.”

William slowed as recognition dawned on his face.  “Logan?  Is that you?”

“Didn’t you see the falcon?”

“Ha ha!” William leapt over the table to embrace his cousin.  “It’s been years!  Years!  We thought you were dead!”

“Crox told me,” Logan said.

William pulled back to gaze at Logan’s face.  His smile vanished beneath a scowl as he saw the brand.  “A criminal?” he wondered.  “For what?  Striking a noble?”

“For killing one.”

“I warned you,” William said.  He shook his head, and his mane of golden hair shook with the movement.  When he next locked eyes on Logan, there was sincere concern in his gaze.  “Are you in danger?  Do you need shelter?” he asked.

“Not hidden, but not announced either,” Logan said, glancing at Alexander meaningfully.

Alexander grinned.  “I’ll keep quiet.”

“Of course,” William said.  Then he threw back his head and laughed.  “What are you doing back here anyway?  I thought you weren’t returning until you could say Fulton was yours.”

The gentle mocking tone in William’s voice irked Logan, and the dark cloud that had hovered about him since leaving Fulton returned.  Logan took a long drink from his cup.  He sloshed the liquid around in the mug.  Barclay that cur, he thought.  I’ll have Fulton back, this I vow.  It was a long moment before Logan realized William was staring at him.  He raised his eyes.

“You’re still obsessed with reclaiming the castle, aren’t you?” William wondered.

Logan grunted softly.

“You would have been a lot more fun if you weren’t so single-minded.”

“I’ll have plenty of time for fun once Fulton is in my hands.”

“Logan, give it up, man!” William pleaded.  “It’s been thirteen years!  Get on with your life!”

“I can’t.  Not when my mother and father were murdered.  Not when –”

“It wasn’t your fault, Logan,” William said softly.  “How could you have known?”

“It was my fault!” Logan said, slamming the mug of ale onto the table.  “If I had been there…”

Alexander lifted the mug of ale to his lips, ignoring their fight.

“You’re wasting your life!  Don’t make it one of hate,” William said.

Logan glared at William.  Some things never changed.  Finally, he looked away from his cousin, battling his anger.  “I don’t want to fight with you again, William.”

William sighed.  “What will it take to make you see how few days we really have?”

“Don’t you think I’ve seen it?  I’ve been in wars and sieges that have killed hundreds of men.  I’ve seen people killed in the streets of London for nothing more than the clothes off their back.  I’ve wasted enough time sitting and waiting.  I have to get Fulton back now.”

William stared at him until Logan turned away, his fists clenched, his jaw tight.  William leaned in closer to Logan, gazing at him with an intense frown.

Logan’s fists tightened as he prepared himself for one of William’s lectures.  Finally, he turned to his cousin, fighting the anger racing through his veins.

“God’s blood!” William exclaimed.  “That’s an ugly mark!  Matches your ugly face!”  A smile eased its way across William’s good looks.

Surprise rocked Logan and he burst out laughing.  Alexander sputtered with a mouth full of ale before his guffaws joined the merriment.

It was good to be home.

***

Despite William’s best attempts to draw Logan into the celebration of his homecoming, including a game of chess and a lusty wench, Logan resisted, choosing to separate himself from the others.

Alexander watched Logan’s brooding, pensive mood with curiosity.  All the while Alexander had known him, Logan had a single purpose, a focused goal.  There was only one thing he wanted, and that was Castle Fulton.  Women, for instance, never held the same appeal for Logan as they did for other men.  He never wooed women.  When they sought him out, he used them to satisfy a need, never bedding one more than once, never thinking back upon the night of lovemaking.

Alexander had to admit that he had never seen Logan like this.  It was as if he were at odds with himself.  And Alexander knew it had nothing to do with Fulton.

It wasn’t until everyone had retired for the night that Alexander approached Logan as he sat before the hearth, the light from the flames flickering over him.  Alexander seated himself in the empty chair to Logan’s right and stared at the fire for a long moment.  “You miss her, don’t you?” he asked, tipping back in his chair.

“No,” Logan snapped.  “She can do whatever she wants.  It’s of no concern to me.”

The force of his denial told Alexander he had hit the mark.  “You know I stopped over in Westhaven on my way from Lexington.”  He watched Logan’s expression harden, his eyes flash with just the right amount of interest and coolness.

“What’s your point?” he demanded.

“I just thought you might want to know there’s some boy in Westhaven you might consider joining forces with.”

“Boy?” Logan echoed.

“Or should I say a woman disguised, very badly I might add, to look like a boy.”

Logan’s fingers tightened over the arm of the chair, his eyes pinning Alexander with a hot glare.  “Is this one of your poor jokes?”

“She tried to hire me for the army she was mounting against Barclay.”

Logan’s face paled to an ashen gray.

Alexander scowled at him, feigning ignorance.  “Do you know her?”

“Solace,” he groaned.

“Very courageous.  It’s too bad she won’t get to see her plan come to pass.”

“What do you mean?” Logan wondered.

“She’s trying to recruit mercenaries, Logan.  With no coin.  She doesn’t know what she’s doing.  And not all mercenaries are as fine and respectable as I.”

Logan rose from his chair, moving toward the hearth.  He grabbed a stick resting against the brick wall of the hearth and absently rolled it between his fingers.  “She’s going to get herself killed.”

Alexander shifted slightly in his chair.  “I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t,” Logan snarled.  He shoved the stick into the burning logs and the flames exploded upward with a hissing screech.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Solace sat in the far corner of the Wolf’s Inn, staring at the motley assortment of men who inhabited the tables.  One, a hooded monk garbed in a dark brown robe, probably on his way to the Abbey of St. Michael, sat at the table closest to the door.  Another was a peasant with a mug of ale clutched tightly in his fist as he lay slumped over a table, sleeping soundly.  A third man was a fighter, from the looks of his scarred face.  He ate with his head down, shoveling the food into his mouth.

Solace stared at the man, ignoring the rabbit stew in the bowl before her.  She gently bit her lower lip, pulling the cloak around her face.  She hated having to bind her breasts, but she kind of liked the breeches.  They had been itchy at first, but two weeks later she had become accustomed to them and was enjoying the privacy they offered.  Her friends, Mitch and Geoffrey, had taken her in immediately, and she had come up with the disguise of an apprentice.

Now, if she could only recruit a mercenary, she would be on her way to taking back her castle.  She knew she had to be careful.  She couldn’t just walk in and hire the first mercenary she saw.  She had developed a plan.  She would sum up the inn early in the evening, before most of the patrons had retired.  Then she would approach one man a night until she had an entourage.

The door opened, letting in the last rays of the setting sun.  A chill wind weaved its way into the inn, twirling around Solace until the fire warmed it and it disappeared.  Autumn was coming to a close; winter was almost here.  Solace knew she couldn’t mount a successful attack against Fulton in the dead of winter.  Her time was running out.

A man filled the doorway.  He was two heads taller than the innkeeper who greeted him.  His face was hidden by a hood.  Solace’s eyes narrowed slightly.  He had a sword strapped to his waist.  One of Barclay’s men? Solace wondered.  But he wore no colors, no crest.

The innkeeper pointed to a table just in front of her.  The man made his way toward her, and Solace’s breath caught in her throat as he moved.  Each step was filled with graceful power.  He paused just before he got to her table, and Solace could have sworn he brushed her with a guarded look before he swept his cloak out and sat in the chair.

She couldn’t see his face at all, but she could see his hands as they eased his sword to the side.

He must be a mercenary, she thought.  Wearing a sword and chain mail.  A mercenary who was doing quite well.  He would be an asset to her army.

The innkeeper brought him an ale.

Solace waited until the man had a few sips of his drink, then stood and approached him.  His face was hidden in the shadows cast by his hood, as she imagined her own face was.  She noticed how his large hands encircled the mug.  The image of those hands around a neck came to mind, and she shivered.  But she needed him.  The moment stretched out, and she indicated the empty chair across from him.  “May I?” she inquired.

She saw the hood move and took it as a nod.  She slid into the chair opposite him, folding her hands in front of her.  She tried to see into the recessed depths of the hood, but couldn’t.  She should have taken comfort in knowing this because that meant he could not see beyond her disguise, but somehow not being able to see his face made her all the more cautious.  She could be dealing with the devil for all she knew.

“You’re a mercenary?” she asked, knowing the answer.

Again, he nodded his head.

Solace frowned slightly.  Couldn’t he talk?  “I’d like to hire you,” she added.

The man was silent for a long moment, then slowly lifted his head a bit higher.

Solace could feel the gaze of his hidden eyes penetrating her to her very soul.

“I’m a killer,” he told her, his voice a deep, menacing rumble.  “I’m just as likely to slit your pale throat as to have a cup of ale with you.”  He took a drink from his mug.  “Depends on my mood.”

The timbre of his voice shook her from head to toe.  “And...” she started, somewhat hesitantly.  “Do you feel like another ale?”  She placed a coin on the table top.

He slammed his hand down atop hers, trapping the gold beneath her palm.

Unnerved by his actions, Solace yanked her hand back, hiding it in her lap.

He took the coin and put it into the worn leather pouch at his waist.  “I’m not thirsty,” he said.

Solace swallowed hard, her stomach knotted tight with trepidation.  She dredged up every last ounce of courage to ask.  “Are you for hire or not?”

“Maybe I’ve already been hired.  Have you thought of that?”  He took another drink of ale and slowly set the cup down on the table.

A feeling of alarm made the nape of Solace’s neck tingle.  “Then, if you’re already hired, I’ll be going,” she said and rose.  There is no way he could know who I am, she told herself, trying to calm her pounding heart.

The man thrust his arm across the table and grabbed her wrist, forcing her back down onto her seat.  “I didn’t say that I wasn’t available.”  He released her wrist and tapped the leather pouch at his waist.  “Besides, where there’s one, there’s usually another.”

Solace took a deep breath.  She wasn’t going to tell him she had no coin to pay him with.  “Are you for hire or not?” she demanded a bit sharply.  He was making her nervous.

“Let’s just say I’m intrigued.”  The man flashed her two rows of white teeth in what could have been either a snarl or a smile; she wasn’t sure which.  “You obviously haven’t done this kind of thing before,” he told her.  “Terms aren’t discussed in a public place.  You never know who might be listening or watching.  Do you have a place where we can talk?”

His words bothered Solace more than she was willing to admit.  It was true, she knew nothing of hiring men.  Nonetheless, she wasn’t a fool.  She wasn’t going anywhere with this man.  It was too dangerous.  “No,” she said, trying to sound sure of herself.  “This place will do fine.”

Suddenly, she felt the sting of a sword against her belly beneath the table.  “Listen...”  The man paused.  “... boy.  Put all your gold on the table or I’ll run you through.”

Solace gasped, her mouth falling open.  The tip shoved into her belly and she blurted out, “I -- I don’t have any gold.  I don’t have any coin at all.  You took the only one I had.”

The man again flashed his teeth at her, and this time she was certain it was a snarl.  “You want to hire me with no coin!  Are you mad, boy?  Does a demon afflict you?  I ought to run you through just for aggravating me.  I’ve killed men for less.”

“Please,” she whispered, a note of fear edging her voice.  “I’m desperate.  I can feed you for however long it takes.  I can give you all the gold you want when my task is complete.”

Even though it was dark beneath the man’s hood, she could sense his eyes narrowing.  “How can an ugly boy like you pay me all the gold I want?  What kind of task will reward you with untold riches?”

She opened her mouth to tell him her father was rich, but closed it immediately.  This man would, no doubt, take her for ransom.  She could tell him who she was, but that might be even worse.  With the price Barclay put on her head, he might very well hand her over to him.  The tip of the sword pressed against her abdomen.  “I plan to take Castle Fulton,” she finally whispered.

The man was silent for a long moment.  “Would you mind telling me that again?  I think my ears must be full of wax.  I could’ve sworn that you, an ugly boy with no coin, just told me you are going to attack Fulton.”

The words spoken back to her sounded utterly ridiculous.  Everything he said was true.  She had no coin, no army.  A sense of defeat swelled inside her, but she pushed it back with a strong sense of determination.  She refused to be ridiculed and intimidated by him.  She straightened her shoulders, drawing forth all of her courage to face him.  “That’s what I told you,” she retorted.  “Rome wasn’t built in a day.  Either join my cause or let me get on with my recruiting.”

“You’re a damn fool!” the man hissed.  “Rome was built by breaking the backs of thousands of slaves.”

“The men I employ will not be slaves,” she reminded him.  “They will be well rewarded for their efforts.  Now remove your sword.”

The man hesitated for a long moment, then abruptly removed his sword and set it on the seat next to him.  He looked out into the tavern at the patrons, the fighter, the monk and the drunk peasant.  “Gather round, men!” he called out.  “The boy here promises us all gold!  Bags of gold!  All we have to do is risk our lives without pay!  He assures me we shall all be rewarded in the end!”

The monk raised his head slightly, but then turned back to his food.  The fighter eyed the pair with disinterest.

“Bastard,” Solace hissed, rising.  “I wouldn’t call food and board ‘without pay.’”  She had to get out of there.  She couldn’t be seen dealing with mercenaries.  All sorts of suspicions would be aroused.

The man dismissed her with an impatient wave of his hand.

Solace quickly took the rear door out of the Wolf’s Inn.  A cold breeze accosted her as she exited into the street behind the inn, catching her hood and almost pulling it from her head, but she grabbed it before it could blow off.  Damn, she thought.  Now I’ll have to wait a couple of days, perhaps a week, before I can return to the inn.  She paced two steps one way and whirled, pacing the other way.

She paced for a few moments longer, trying to get rid of the fear and anxiety and anger gripping her.  The honorless blackguard!  How could he rob some helpless boy?  This was the type of man she was dealing with.  She rubbed her hand along her forehead.  Where is Father? she wondered.  Where could he be?

Solace turned toward the blacksmith’s shop.  The streets at this time of night were vacant, the shops lining them all closed.  She refused to give up her plan, no matter how outrageous it sounded!

“It isn’t safe to be out alone after dark.  Even for a boy who thinks he can command an army of mercenaries.”

Solace whirled, hearing the voice.  She couldn’t see where it was coming from, but she was sure it was the mercenary from the inn!  What did he want of her?  Whatever it was, she wanted no part of it!  A shiver of dread shot up her spine.  She took a step backward, scanning the dark street, the shadows near the shops for the owner of the ominous voice.  But it was useless.  The night’s blackness was all around her, enshrouding her in its impenetrable cloak.

Solace turned and ran.

A dark shape stepped in front of her, moving out from behind a store front, and she slammed into a solid wall of flesh.  Terror seized her in an icy hold.  She barely noticed her hood had slipped from her head.  She jerked back from the man, trying to move around him.

The man clamped a hand over her mouth and ensnared her waist with his free arm, trapping her against his body.  “Barclay has a very high price on your head,” the man whispered hotly in her ear.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Solace struggled uselessly against her captor, pushing against his strong chest with powerless fingers.  The heavy hood he still wore hid his face deep in its black shadows, giving him the appearance of an executioner.  Finally, desperation overpowering her fear, she brought her knee up, driving it into his groin.

The man doubled over, releasing her mouth for a moment.  Solace inhaled for a scream, but the man shoved his hand over her mouth again, grabbing the nape of her neck roughly.  Cursing, he pulled her toward a dark alley, stumbling as he moved.  She tried to fight, but his hold tightened, bruising the back of her neck.  He stopped in the darkness of the alley, gasping and still partially bent.

Solace pulled at the strong fingers clamped over her mouth, trying to break free of his hold, trying to call for help.  He pushed her back against the rear of the inn, snarling, “Shut up!”

For a moment Solace could barely breathe.  He held her still, one hand clamped over her mouth, one at the back of her neck.  Solace watched him with wide eyes.  But his gaze was not on her.  It was on the street.

Then she heard it.  Footsteps.  Had someone else been following her?  What was going on?  The footsteps faltered just before the entrance to the alley.

The man released the nape of her neck, and his hand dipped to the handle of the sword at his waist.

For a moment everything froze.  She instinctively knew the danger was not from the cloaked man who held her against the wall, but from the person at the entrance to the alley.

Then the footsteps moved off.  With a sigh that sounded more like a groan, the man dropped his hand from her mouth and leaned against the wall beside her.  “That was a pleasant greeting,” he murmured.

Solace straightened, instantly pulling away from him.  “Who are you?” she demanded.

“It’s only been a month, Solace.  You can’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”  He brushed off the hood.  The moonlight fell over his dark, wavy hair.  His gray eyes shone like silver, gleaming like the eyes of some nocturnal animal.  The once black X on his cheek was healing, becoming a permanent fallen cross etched in his skin.

“Logan!” Solace gasped.  A tumult of emotions flared within her.  Disbelief.  Anger.  Joy.  She didn’t know how to react.  She wasn’t even really sure he was standing before her.  She had missed him so much.  An overwhelming sadness filled her.  Every night she had replayed the events leading up to his opening the gates, the way he had looked at her, the warm feeling that had encompassed her when he was near.  Now it started somewhere deep inside of her and raced through her veins.  She knew with certainty she would do it all again, just to relive those few blissful days with him.

“That’s a new look for you.  Do you think it fools anyone?”  His words were cold and clipped.

She refused to be baited by his anger and smiled grimly in the face of his irritability.  “It’s the same look for you, Logan.  Scowling brows and all.”

He pushed his face close to hers.  “This isn’t a game, Solace,” he snarled.  “Do you know how dangerous it is for you to be walking the streets at night, not to mention trying to recruit mercenaries!”

“Have you come all this way to lecture me?”

“I came to make you stop this crazy plan of yours,” he snapped.  “And you will stop.  You’re only going to aggravate Barclay and keep him in a high state of alert.  And then no one will have a chance to retake Fulton.”

“When I get my army…”

“Damn it, woman!” Logan snarled.  “Do you have a death wish?  Didn’t I just prove to you that you’re risking your life?”

Solace stared at him for a long moment.  She wished he would smile at her.  She wished she could touch that soft wave in his hair.  She wished he had greeted her with a warm hug, a gentle kiss.  A somber feeling settled over her.  “All you’ve proved is that you’re an expert at deceiving me,” she retorted.

Logan exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his dark mane.  “Look, I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Then why did you come here?” Solace demanded.

“Because someone has to tell you what a foolish thing it is you’re doing,” he said.  “You don’t know how to go about this.  It’s dangerous business.  You could get hurt or killed.”

“I can’t let Barclay harm my people.  I have to get my castle back.”  She turned her gaze to the stars.  They splattered the sky like freckles across a lad’s face.

Logan stood for a long moment, and eventually she turned her gaze to him.  He reached out, slipping his hand around hers.

Solace watched the way his large hand enfolded hers, the way his thumb easily, comfortingly, slid back and forth across her knuckles.

“I want you to come with me to Cavindale.”

Solace began to shake her head and opened her mouth to object.

But Logan continued quickly, “I have an army waiting there.”

Logan saw the greedy light in her eyes even in the darkness, saw her green orbs spark like fire when he mentioned the army.

“An army?” she asked.  “But how?”

Logan called forth a grin.  “A month is plenty of time to put out the word,” he said.

“An army of mercenaries?” she inquired.

He nodded.

“And you’d let me command your army?”

He couldn’t help admiring her bravado.  She was a courageous woman.  “With my help,” he said.

Logan prepared himself for her anger, but it never came.  Instead, a look of weary sadness crossed her features.

“I wish I could believe you,” she said in a thick voice, and dropped her gaze to the ground.

“You can, Solace,” Logan said desperately.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder, a guarded skepticism in her lidded eyes.  “Then what do you need me for?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, setting his jaw.

Solace turned away from him and started out of the alley.

“I don’t want to see you hurt again,” he called.  When she didn’t stop, Logan cursed and rushed after her.  He reached her before she entered the street, stepping in front of her to block her path.  “Why do you think I came all this way to stop you?”

“I think you did it to keep me out of the way,” she replied.

“Do you think that one woman is going to make a difference in this battle?” Logan wondered, sternly.  “Think about what you’re saying.  Think about what you’re doing.  It’s madness!”

“Because I’m a woman.”

“No.  Because you don’t know how to go about hiring mercenaries.  You don’t know what kind of men you’re dealing with.”

“I don’t need your help, thank you.”  She moved around him.

Logan blocked her path with his body again.  “All it takes is one man.  Maybe the next one you approach.  He’ll follow you through the streets like I did, then pull you into a lonely alley, a vacant field, a dark corner.”  He watched her fight the horror threatening to engulf her and knew this was his only weapon.  “He’ll take your body in ways you can’t even imagine!  Then drag you back to the inn and share you with his friends.  When they’re done playing with you, he’ll slit your throat and leave you on the dirty floor of the inn.”

Solace swallowed hard.

“If you’re dead, it won’t really matter who has Castle Fulton, will it?”

She raised that stubborn little chin, fighting to find her voice.  “And you know mercenaries so well?”

Logan pushed his face close to hers.  “I’m one of them.”

Solace reared back as a tremor shuddered through her.  She pushed past him, moving down the street.

Logan watched her for a moment, wondering if it had been enough, wondering if the foolish chit would cease trying to raise an army.  He knew his answer immediately.  She was far too stubborn to leave her people and her castle in Barclay’s hands.  He had to convince her to come to Cavindale with him.

He raced after her toward her friend’s shop.  He caught up to her as she rounded the last corner before the blacksmith’s.  Voices floated to him on a dark breeze, prickling the back of his neck.  His arm shot out, grabbing her wrist.  When she turned to him, he put his finger to his lips in a motion for silence.

He led her into the shadows of a nearby building.

“What?” Solace asked in a whisper.

Logan’s eyes were locked on the blacksmith’s shop.  Three horses were tethered out front.  The window covering flickered with light from a burning candle inside the shop.  Something was not right.  His senses tingled with warning.  Something smelled strange.  He knew the smell, but the wind dragged it away from his nose before he could place it.  He strained to hear the voices again, but could not make out a sound.

From the outside, everything looked calm and normal.

Solace yanked her arm away from him, taking a step forward.

Logan seized her shoulder and dragged her back into the shadows.  “Wait,” he whispered urgently in her ear.

The door to the shop opened, and the voices floated out into the night air.  Logan couldn’t hear the words, but one melodic voice set his teeth on edge.

A scream ripped through the night, erupting from the open door.  The stench assaulted his sense of smell again and Logan reeled back, recognizing the pungent odor of burning flesh.  The brand on his cheek throbbed as the unwanted memory of his own agony lurched to the front of his mind.

Solace pushed forward, but Logan caught her around the waist, pulling her farther away.

Two of Barclay’s men exited the shop, carrying a body between them.  Inside, the screaming continued.

Logan placed a hand over Solace’s mouth to stifle her horrified gasps of disbelief.

A third man appeared in the doorway, his face hidden in dark shadows.  But Logan could still see his features in his mind’s eye.  Thin, cruel lips.  Cold blue eyes.  A once handsome face turned ugly from inside.  Logan froze, his muscles tensing, his jaw clenching so tight that his teeth ached.

“I want her found,” the man ordered, stepping into the street.

Logan’s eyes narrowed as the moonlight struck Baron Edwin Barclay’s face.

“She’s in this village.  Seal off all the roads.  No one is to leave without my knowing about it.  If she escapes, I will burn the town to the ground.”  Barclay whirled, but suddenly halted.  His billowing cape settled around his shoulders.  Then he swiveled his head, pinning Logan and Solace to the spot.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Logan felt Solace stiffen in his arms.  He tightened his hold on her to keep her absolutely still.

Barclay’s blue eyes seared into the spot they were standing as if he were able to see into the darkness.  Finally, he turned and went back into the shop.

For a long moment Logan couldn’t move.  He watched as the soldiers threw the body over one of the horses and reentered the blacksmith’s shop.  Then three mounted soldiers appeared from behind the shop and, before riding hard into the night, passed not five feet from where Logan and Solace stood.

Logan exploded into motion, pulling Solace with him.  He moved with precision and purpose through the streets.  He knew he didn’t have much time.  Barclay’s soldiers were setting up guards at the roads even now.

They quickly reached the Wolf’s Inn to find Alexander waiting for them, the horses untethered and ready to ride.  “Looks like you stuck a stick in the hornet’s nest,” Alexander mumbled.  Logan took the reins from his friend’s hand, and the two of them mounted their horses.

Logan reached down to help Solace mount, but she didn’t offer him her hand.  “I can’t leave,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Logan demanded, his horse dancing anxiously beneath him.

“They killed Geoffrey,” she said softly.  “I have to help Mitch.”

“What do you think you can do against an armed garrison?” Logan demanded.  “You exposed yourself at the inn.  What did you think was going to happen?  Any fool could see you weren’t a boy!”  He extended a hand to her.  “Come on.”

She shook her head stubbornly, glancing back at the village.

Alexander’s mount pranced nervously.

Logan saw the tears in her eyes, but there was no time for sympathy.  He knew if they stood around much longer they would be trapped.  His anger rose.  “You should never have gone to the inn.  It wouldn’t have taken much to ask a few questions, or follow you and find out where you were staying.  It could have been one of the villagers that gave you away.  It could have been a mercenary.”  He shoved his hand toward her.  “Come on!”

“It’s my fault,” she whispered.  “I should never have gone to them for help.”

“It’s not important whose fault it is.  What’s important is that you’re still alive to fight Barclay.”

Solace raised her eyes to him.  Logan saw the pain there, and then he saw her lips clench in firm resolve.  She grabbed his hand and he pulled her up behind him, spurring the horse hard toward Cavindale.

***

Castle Fulton’s towers appeared red in the setting sun, as if blood ran from the turrets.  The red light splashed through a small arrow slit in one of the towers, casting a bloody cross over Nolan Ryder’s body.  He gazed down upon the land with apathetic black eyes.

His long black beard nearly touched the thick leather belt around his waist.  “I don’t like doing business like this.”

“Take the terms or leave them,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.  “I can find others who will take the job for half the coin.”

Ryder knew this was true, but none were as skilled as he.  He rubbed his hand across his mouth, massaging his red lips.  “You say she was last seen in Westhaven?”

“Two days ago.  It shouldn’t be hard for such a talented tracker as you to pick up her trail.”  She jingled the pouch of gold in her hand slightly.

Manipulative bitch, Ryder thought.  “I’ll have to bribe many men.  There’ll be lodging and food to pay for.”  He turned to her.  She was a beautiful woman, but there was coldness in her blue eyes that he found even more intriguing.  “I need more up front,” he finally said.

Her eyes narrowed.  “Fine,” she snapped.  “I’ll get you what you need.  But not a shilling over half of what we agreed to.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

A grin curved her full lips.  “But you will.”

“I don’t like killing women,” Ryder professed.

“I don’t give a damn what you like and what you don’t.  If you want the gold, you’ll do as I tell you.  Do we have a deal?”

Ryder pondered the offer.  Kill the girl and get the gold.  It shouldn’t be hard.  For the coin she was paying, he could hire a man to do the work and oversee the job himself, still have enough to buy a sturdy steed and a wench when it was all over.  A grin curved his lips and he bowed slightly.  “You have yourself a deal.”

A smile darkened the woman’s face.  She pulled a gold-tipped dagger from her belt.  She held it out to Ryder, handle first.

“What’s this?” Ryder wondered, taking the dagger from her, studying the finely etched flowers in the black handle.

“You’ll need it,” she answered.

Suspicious, Ryder lifted his gaze to meet hers.  “For what?”

“I want her blood on my dagger,” she murmured with a strange glow of excitement in her eyes.  “I want you to bring me Solace Farindale’s head.”

***

Solace sat near the bank of the small stream where they had stopped to rest.  They had ridden relentlessly for two days, stopping only when necessary.  Logan offered no words of sympathy, no condolences, for the loss of her friends.

Geoffrey’s death had been her fault.

The thought sent prickles of pain throughout her body.  She had grieved for her friends the first day, silently shedding tears as the horses rode.  Now, as she stared down at the clear, calm water, she said a silent prayer for them.

Solace bent to splash water over her face.  It was icy cold, but she couldn’t resist the refreshing feeling it gave her.  She rubbed the water from her eyes and splashed some of the chill liquid over her neck.  A cool breeze whipped around her and she shivered slightly.  The Yuletide would be here soon.  She wondered how Barclay would treat the pilgrimage of monks that would soon arrive at Castle Fulton.  Every year, for as long as she could remember, scores of monks had stopped at Fulton on their way to the Abbey of St. Michael for the holiest of celebrations.  Her father had always welcomed them with open arms and tables full of food.  Barclay seemed to have respect for the pious.  Solace remembered how he treated Father Davis.  Maybe the monks would fare well with Barclay.  For their sake, she hoped so.

The cloth binding her breasts was tight and itchy.  She longed to remove it and had come to the stream to do just that.  Solace lifted her tunic and fumbled with the knot at the front of her chest.

She turned her thoughts to that other man.  The mercenary.  Logan’s friend.  Alexander.  He must have been the first man she had approached in Westhaven.  She now understood how Logan had found out about her plan to recruit an army.

She pulled the cloth off her chest, freeing her breasts.  They tingled, and she rubbed the circulation back into them, groaning softly.  It was pure pleasure.  She splashed water over them, cleaning her body.

Logan had an army.  The thought rose unexpectedly to her mind.  An army.  Dare she believe him?  Dare she hope she could trust him?  But she didn’t.  Not with his betrayal so fresh and painful in her mind.

Solace wanted to believe in him.  She pulled her shirt back over her torso.

Feeling a chill at the nape of her neck that had nothing to do with the wind, she turned her head.  Logan was leaning against a nearby tree, his arms crossed over his chest.  A shiver shot through her body at his smoldering gaze.  She watched the slow, predatory way he approached.

“How long have you been standing there?” Solace wondered.

“Long enough to tell you that it’s about time you took that ridiculous thing off,” he replied, gently kicking the cloth that had bound her breasts.

Solace blushed slightly.  “You shouldn’t spy on people,” she chastised.

“I wasn’t spying,” he said in a husky voice.

Warmth flooded through Solace at the deep timbre of his voice.  She did her best to ignore the traitorous reaction of her body.  “Do you really have an army?” she asked quickly, changing the subject.

His eyes darkened, and Solace felt a door closing somewhere inside him, sealing off some part of his soul.  “Yes.”

“Tell me about it,” she encouraged.

Logan’s gaze swept the distant horizon; his look was lidded and somehow secretive.  He crossed his arms over his chest again.  “There aren’t a lot of men, but they’re good.  Only the best.”

“Are there enough to retake Fulton?” Solace wondered, searching for something that would reveal the truth to her.  It would be foolish for Logan to lie to her.  They would be at Cavindale in a few days.  She would see his army for herself.

“Not yet.”

His words confirmed her suspicions, and she glanced sharply at him.

“But soon,” he added quickly.

Her brow remained furrowed.  There was something he was not telling her.

“It takes time to build an army,” he defended.

Solace nodded, looking away from him.  “We’ll attack before winter?”

Logan wet his lips.  “It might be better to wait until spring.”

Solace objected, “It will give Barclay too much time to settle into the castle.”

“If winter hits when we’re laying siege, we’ll lose.  It’s as simple as that.”

Solace stood before him, looking deeply into his gray eyes, wishing she felt as sure about the plan as he did.  Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, pride rose in her breast and she realized she was glad he had returned.  His dark hair fanned across his face as a whispered breeze slipped by.  She reached up and gently brushed it away from his cheek, unveiling the brand.

A criminal, her mind said.  A man wrongly punished, her heart countered.  He saved your life more than once.

Only to shatter it.

She dropped her hand.  But he caught it in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.  There was an intensity in his eyes, a fevered desire that was more than lust, more than truth.  It penetrated her skin, soaring through her blood to her spirit.  But before she could figure out exactly what it was, he turned away, leaving her alone and more confused than before.

Solace finished up at the stream before following Logan’s path back to the horses.  He was nowhere to be seen.  Alexander was checking the shoes of his horse.  Solace walked up to him, her gaze scanning the forest for any sign of Logan.  She chewed her lip gently, debating the best way to question him.

“What do you want?” Alexander demanded, making her jump slightly.

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “I was wondering how long you’ve known Logan.”

Alexander didn’t look up from his work.  “Why?”

Solace straightened her back.  “Because I want to know if you’re close.”

“Close enough for me to accompany him to Westhaven to find you,” he retorted.

“Oh,” she said casually.  “I see.  So, you’re part of his army.”  It was a bluff and she didn’t know whether it would work or not.  But she had to try.

He finally raised his eyes to her.  But they were blank and unrevealing.  He didn’t say a word, just regarded her coolly.

Solace scowled at him, unnerved by his distant demeanor.  “You should try to smile sometimes,” she snapped.  “It might improve your disposition.”

She whirled and stormed to the other horse to await Logan’s return.

***

That night, after a hard day’s ride, Logan sat with his back against a tall oak, dragging his dagger along a thick piece of wood he had found.  His eyes, however, were not on his whittling.  They were locked on Solace as she slept.  She had kicked free of the blanket, even though the night wind was cold.  Golden, red and orange colored leaves lay scattered around her.  One red one had entangled itself in a lock of her hair which fanned out beneath her.

She was beautiful.  The most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.  With every ounce of his being he wanted to kiss her, to touch her, to make her the center of his universe.  But he couldn’t.  Not yet.  Not until he got Fulton back.  Not until his revenge was complete.

Besides, what would she want with a man like him?  Not even a knight.  He found himself absently rubbing the brand on his cheek.  A marked man.  Could she ever love him?  No.  Not after what he had done to her home, to her.  Logan was sure of it.  She was using him to get to his “army.”  He almost laughed out loud at the thought.

His army.  The mighty, grand army awaiting him at Cavindale.  He shook his head.  He would have said anything to get her out of Westhaven.  She was in danger, attracting attention to herself.  Any fool with two eyes could see the gentle sway of her hips as she walked.

And Logan was the biggest of all fools.  He was allowing himself to care for her again.  She was getting in his way.  A distraction of the most dangerous sort.  That was why he had come a week’s journey from Cavindale.  Two weeks of valuable time away from his mission.  Time that could have been better spent making contacts, gathering much needed allies.  From what he had learned before leaving Cavindale, Barclay was not a well-liked man.  Logan had known that years ago when he’d allied himself with Barclay, but they had gotten along well enough.  He had trusted Barclay.  It seems I am no good at putting my trust in the right place, he thought.  He vowed not to make that mistake again.

Solace turned her head, calling his attention to her.  Her soft lips parted slightly and something inside Logan softened.  The joy he saw for a moment on her face when she knew it was him was worth the time he had taken from his revenge, and more.  He watched the slight rise and fall of her chest, and suddenly had the strongest desire to see the unbound treasures lying beneath that tunic.  The leggings she wore curved around her hips and thighs, arousing him every time he glanced at her.

Logan cursed silently and looked away.  Too dangerous a distraction, he reminded himself.

Suddenly, a hand clamped over his shoulder and Logan whirled, bringing the dagger up.

“Whoa!” Alexander cried, backing up a step.

Grumbling, Logan lowered the dagger.  Damn, he hadn’t even heard him coming.  Too much of a distraction, he thought again.

“A little jumpy today, hey, my friend?” Alexander wondered, squatting beside him.

Logan scraped the dagger across the wood again.

“We should be at Cavindale the day after tomorrow,” Alexander said, his eyes shifting to Solace.  “I like her,” Alexander murmured after a quiet moment.  “She had the courage to tell me I should smile more.”

Logan almost laughed out loud.  “You mean she didn’t tremble under your glowering?”

“Tremble?” Alexander rumbled.  “She didn’t even blink.  She must be used to dark looks by now.”  He cast a telling glance at Logan.  “She’s worth giving up a lot for.”

“She’s dangerous,” Logan insisted.

“Dangerous?” Alexander echoed in disbelief.

“Because she is worth giving up a lot for.  I don’t trust her.”

“Don’t, or can’t?”

“I don’t even trust you,” Logan replied.

“Stop flattering me,” Alexander said.

“We’ve been through a lot together,” Logan said.  “You’ve got morals and as much as you’d hate to admit it, you have honor.”

“And she doesn’t?”

“I don’t.  I would do anything to get my revenge.  I can’t help thinking if it were me in her position, there would be no way in hell I would trust me.  Not after what I did to her.”

“She’s not you.  Maybe she has more confidence in you.”

Logan stood up, his eyes darkening.  “Maybe she shouldn’t.”

Alexander shrugged.  “She’ll find that out when your army of farmers and ale makers welcomes us home, won’t she?”

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY

Logan rode his stallion into Cavindale with Solace sitting sidesaddle in front of him.  He was pensive and quiet, waiting for her warmth and growing excitement to change into bitter hatred.  He had told himself he wanted to tell her the truth about his army, but he couldn’t.  Not until they reached Cavindale.  Now that they were here, his dry mouth wouldn’t say the condemning words.

He could feel the anticipation simmering inside her.  She didn’t want to believe him, he knew, but something inside her was trusting and naïve, and very foolish.

As they approached Cavindale Manor, Alexander spurred his steed on ahead of them.

Solace craned her lovely neck.  “Where’s the army?” she wondered, scanning the surrounding hills.

Was that anxiety in her voice or was she mocking him?  Logan wondered if she even knew which it was.

The roads remained empty.

Logan knew he had to tell her.  He couldn’t let her go on believing.  She would find out soon enough.  And then it would be too late to redeem himself.  It was his only chance.  “Solace,” he began.

“Over there?” she asked, pointing to a slight rise.

“Solace...”  Logan shook his head, but she seemed oblivious.  She slid off the horse.  Her feet barely struck ground before she proceeded toward the rise on a run.

He couldn’t move for a long moment.  He hung his head.  He would hear her disappointment soon, the hurt in her voice.

“Oh, Logan,” she sighed.

He closed his eyes for a moment.  Then he dismounted and walked to her side, expecting to see sorrow in those brilliant green eyes, expecting to see disappointment.  “I wanted to tell you...” he started to say as he came to stand beside her.

She launched herself into his arms, her hands encircling his neck.  “It’s wonderful!” she murmured.

Logan’s eyes swept the valley before him to see tent upon tent cradled between the rises.  Men and horses milled about everywhere.  Weapons of all kinds sparkled in the sunlight.

Logan’s mouth dropped and he gasped, “My God.”

Solace lurched forward, running to greet her army.  An army Logan knew nothing about.  He reached out to stop her, trying to grab her arm, but she was too far away.  What if it is Barclay’s army? Logan wondered fleetingly.  But he knew it wasn’t.  There were no colors on the tents; there were no banners flapping in the breeze.

His eyes scanned the tents again.  There was nothing.  No heraldry, no crests, nothing.

Suddenly, a large bellow resounded across the valley.  Logan turned and drew his weapon instinctively.

***

Solace reached the bottom of the small hill when she heard the war cry and turned to see a giant man racing toward Logan, a sword raised high above his head.  He had tight curly red hair crowning his massive head.  His thick arms, covered with numerous scars, bulged with muscle.  Solace gasped as Logan and the man collided, and she swore the ground beneath her feet trembled with the impact.  She could see the strain in Logan’s corded neck as he locked swords with the man, holding him at bay.

She bolted back up the hill.

Logan almost fell over as the giant pushed off with his sword.  Then the huge man grumbled and swung.  Logan ducked and Solace’s heart stopped as the blade barely missed his head.

She started forward, but an arm on her wrist stopped her.  She glanced up to see Alexander.  He had a strange grin on his face as he watched the two men fight.

“Help him,” Solace begged Alexander.  Logan’s friend didn’t move.

Logan glanced at her and the giant man punched him in the jaw, sending him back onto his bottom.  Logan raised his sword in time to block the next blow.  He rolled out of the way as the giant swung again.  The giant’s sword lodged in the earth as Logan jumped to his feet to face the man.

Solace scanned the field for a weapon.

With a growl of rage, the giant man ripped his sword from the earth, sending a clump of dirt flying through the air.  Logan sidestepped to the right as the giant swung.  He deflected the next blow, losing ground to his opponent.

Alexander relaxed his grip and Solace pulled free.  She ran to Logan’s horse and flipped the backpack open.  She rifled through the leather pouch, searching around a blanket, finally grabbing the large stick Logan had been working on.

As she turned, she saw Logan and the giant man were battling on the top of the rise.  A crowd of spectators had gathered around them.  Determined to help Logan, Solace slowly climbed the hill, careful to stay out of the giant’s sight.

The giant lurched forward and Logan caught the blow, grabbing the giant’s arm.

Solace approached the giant from behind, the stick raised.

Logan’s eyes locked on the raised log and the giant kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying back just as Solace slammed the wood over the giant’s head with all her might.  He toppled forward to his hands and knees.

For a long moment, all was quiet.  Solace ran to Logan’s side.  “Are you all right?” she asked, helping him to sit up.

A crooked grin curled Logan’s lips as Solace helped him to rise.  He gazed into her eyes and ran a gentle finger across her jaw.  “You’re getting pretty good at that,” he murmured before turning from her to approach the giant.  “You must be slipping,” he told the big man.  “This is the first time I’ve beaten you.”

The giant raised his eyes to Logan and Solace saw the trickle of blood from a cut on his head.  “Ya didn’t tell me you had an accomplice.”

Logan offered the giant his hand.

“Goliath this is Solace,” Logan introduced.  “Goliath is a friend.”

“A friend!” Solace repeated in disbelief.

“I tried to stop you,” Alexander murmured.

“Do you always greet friends like this?” Solace asked with chagrin.

“Goliath and I do.  We always have.  Ever since we met on the battlefield.”

Goliath staggered and Logan placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“The little weasel kept ducking me best blows,” Goliath complained, swiping the blood from his head with his sleeve.  “If he’da kept still I woulda won.”

Logan chuckled.  “We were the last ones standing.  We fought until we were too exhausted to finish each other.  So, instead, we became friends.”

Solace stared at them in disbelief.  “And you greet each other like this all the time?”

“All the time,” Logan said, swiveling his gaze to her, a wry smile on his lips.

Solace looked away from Logan’s stare to Goliath.  The trickle of blood dripped down his forehead.  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s all right, lass,” Goliath responded.

She felt Logan’s gaze on her, and looked at him again.  His eyes seemed to deepen to a cloudy gray, and her blood began to boil.

Logan stepped up to her.  She felt protected by his closeness, his strength.  But his gaze wasn’t on her; he was scanning the crowd.  “Blade.  McColl.  John Jones.  Doric.  Ryder.  What are you doing here?”

A light-haired man grasping a hunter’s bow stepped forward, offering Logan his arm.  Logan grabbed it fiercely.  “Blade,” Logan greeted with a smile.  “Good to see you.”

“We came when we heard about Castle Fulton,” Blade said.

“All of you?” Logan gasped in disbelief.

“One by one,” the man named Ryder said.  He stroked his long black beard.  He turned his beaming gaze onto Solace as Logan stepped away from her to greet more of the men.  “Who do we have here?” he asked, taking her hand in his and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.  “My name is Nolan Ryder.”

Logan intercepted her hand, sliding it from Ryder’s hold.  “This is Solace,” he said.  “Solace Farindale.”

“Farindale?” Goliath echoed.

Solace heard the crowd of men grumble as if they were tethered wild beasts sniffing an approaching enemy.  Hostility shone in the eyes of some, confusion in those of others.  She swallowed down her trepidation.  She was here to lead these men, and she couldn’t show fear.  She had to be brave.  “Yes,” she said, stepping around Logan.  She had to look up to meet the shortest man’s gaze, but she did it unflinchingly.  “I’m here to lead you against Baron Barclay.”

“Solace...” Logan began.

A couple of men’s brows rose in disbelief.  A few others chuckled.  And some shifted their gaze in silent query to Logan.

“You?” a man with a dark gruff beard and scraggly hair asked in disbelief.

“Solace, I have to talk to you,” Logan said.

A caw sounded from above him, and Solace craned her neck to see Logan’s black falcon circling above.

“Logan!”  The voice boomed over the valley.

Solace followed its source to see an older man strolling toward them over the rise, his look dark and harried.  “Logan!  You’d better have an answer for all of these... these... men trampling my fields and harassing my people!”

Logan’s falcon alighted on his shoulder, but he barely acknowledged it as he winced at the man’s tirade, raising his eyes to Blade.

Blade shrugged.  “I’m not their keeper.”

Logan shook his head and turned to greet the man.  “Uncle.  This wasn’t my idea.  I –”

“They’re your friends, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but I had no idea they would all come here.”  Logan splayed his fingers before him in a helpless gesture.

“No idea?” Solace echoed.  “You knew they were here.  You told me so.”

“He had no idea,” Blade said patiently.  “We arrived after he left.”

An ill feeling settled unsteadily in the pit of Solace’s stomach.  “After?” she murmured, turning to look at Logan.  “He told me he had an army –”

“An army to eat me out of my home!  If they stay, we’ll have no winter storage!  We’ll starve,” Uncle Hugh ranted, his hands on his hips as he glared at Logan.

“Relax, old man,” a gruff-looking short man said.  “We already told ya we don’t need yer food.”

“Don’t call me an ‘old man,’ you worthless codger!”

Solace pulled at Logan’s arm, confusion knitting her brows.  “Logan, you said you had an army.”

Logan suddenly yanked his arm free of her hold.  “There is no army!” he hollered, standing amidst the group of men.  “I lied to you to get you to Cavindale.  To make you stop that stupid plan of yours!”

Solace pulled back as if he had slapped her.  She had known he was lying, but to hear it from his lips wounded her as no dagger ever could.

The falcon nipped hard at Logan’s shoulder, drawing blood through his tunic.  He shrugged his shoulder so hard the bird took flight.

Alexander chuckled.  “It looks like your feathered friend doesn’t like your attitude.”

Logan whirled on his uncle, his face a mask of anger.  “They’ll restock your stores!  They’ll replow the fields!  They’ll stop harassing your people!”  His fists were clenched tightly, his jaw taut with fury.

Everything stopped, everything froze.  Logan’s friends stared at him in shock; Uncle Hugh’s mouth hung open.  Logan stood under the gazes of all for a moment before whirling and heading down the hill.

The falcon flew to a nearby tree and perched on a branch, watching Logan storm off with impassive eyes.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

There was only one thing that calmed Logan when he was angry.

“You ready?” Alexander wondered.

Logan stared at the blade in his hand.  He had dragged Alexander into the field near Cavindale’s northern border, desperate to vent his raging anxiety.  He twisted the sword slightly, watching the sunlight reflect off the polished blade.  He thought about --

-- striking.  He swung the weapon at Alexander, aiming for his head.  Alexander easily blocked the blow with his own blade.  “Why so angry, Grey?” Alexander taunted, sidestepping another swing.  “Because Hugh is so furious with you?”

Logan grunted.  “Hardly,” he snapped, arcing his weapon toward Alexander’s blabbering mouth.

Alexander caught the blow and deflected it.  “Because you made an ass of yourself?”

Logan thrust toward Alexander’s stomach, only to have his sword swiped aside.  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“What then?” Alexander wondered.

“Are you going to talk or fight?” Logan demanded.

Alexander cocked his head slightly.  “The girl?” he wondered.  He thrust at Logan.  “You can’t tell me you actually care for the daughter of your enemy?”

Logan just barely parried the blow.  “She hates me for lying to her,” Logan said in a rush.

“What do you care what she thinks?”  A swing.

“She should have known better!”  A block.

“So what?”

Logan raised his blade and then drove the sword deep into the earth.  “Why does she keep trusting me?”

Alexander set a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “Because she loves you.”

Logan shrugged Alexander’s hand from his shoulder.  “You’re wrong.  How could she love me?  I let Barclay into her home.”

Alexander chuckled.  “Love is blind, dear fellow.  Or she’d certainly see that ugly scar on your cheek and seek a more dashing companion... like Blade.”

Every muscle in Logan’s body stiffened.  Blade.  God’s blood!  Blade!  They had competed for many women in the days they had worked together.  Blade found it amusing, and Logan had played along good-naturedly, not really caring one way or another.  But now, for some reason, his insides twisted with fear and dread.  “Oh, Lord!” he half cried, half groaned.  He pulled the sword from the ground and headed toward Cavindale Manor, hoping he wasn’t too late.

With each step, visions danced mockingly in his head.  Solace sobbing by the hearth, all his friends gathered around to offer their sympathies.  Solace crying on Blade’s shoulder.  Blade’s hands caressing her back, moving upward to caress her breast.

Logan broke into a run.

He swung the door to the Great Hall open, expecting anything.  But he wasn’t prepared for the vision that greeted him.

When the door to the Great Hall slammed opened, all eyes turned to pin Logan where he stood.  Solace stood in the middle of a group of his friends, Blade at one side, Goliath at the other.  They were bent over one of the tables, quietly discussing something.  Logan’s gaze locked on Solace.  She raised that defiant little chin, her deep green eyes flashing with challenge.

Logan approached the group with large strides.  His friends parted for him like a curtain until he stood beside Solace, glaring at her.  What was she planning?  A secret rendezvous with all of his friends?  He glanced down at the table.

There was a sketch of the borders to Castle Fulton drawn on the parchment.  Solace was planning an attack, with his own friends, against Barclay.  They were planning to retake his castle without him!  He dropped his head, and the laughter churned in his throat.  The little vixen had not seduced his friends into her bed, but into her allegiance.

“Go ahead and laugh,” she challenged.

His eyes rose like the moon to gleam at her.  There was accusation and rebellion in her large eyes.  Logan realized, perhaps for the first time, that this was not the same woman he had met at Fulton.  She had changed, grown into a woman capable of many things.  A woman capable of taking back her home.  He could not laugh at her.  He could only admire her.

Finally, he stepped away and turned his back on them, moving silently to the hearth.  She had gotten her army, it appeared.  And he had handed it to her.  What a fool I’ve been! he thought.  A small army has been within my reach for years, and I haven’t even seen it.

Solace’s gaze returned to the paper laid out before them, and slowly, each of his friends turned with her.  Damnation!  With friends like this who needs Barclay? Logan thought.

Logan’s eyes narrowed as he saw Blade ease a hand to her lower back.  Logan grumbled and called for an ale.  Ryder leaned closer to the paper, brushing her arm.  Logan’s look darkened as Alexander moved over to the group.  He listened for a moment, and then a smile lit his usually pensive face.  To Logan they looked like a group of moon-eyed admirers.

Logan clenched his teeth so hard it hurt.  Well, he wasn’t going to be one of them, he vowed.  He had other more important things to do.  He threw back a drink of the ale a somber servant had just delivered.  But he could not tear his eyes from the sight of Solace surrounded by his own friends.  Traitors, he thought.  Every one of them.  Sniffing about her skirts like rutting bulls.  That’s fine.  Let them entertain her, he thought darkly.  It’ll give me time to plot my own revenge.

But the only revenge he was able to come up with was the attack he planned on her sweet body.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Early the next morning, Solace shivered, sitting up in her bed in the spare room Uncle Hugh had prepared for her, her arms peppered with goose bumps.  She wrapped the covers tightly around her, wondering why it was so cold.  Then she looked at the window to find one of the shutters had blown open during the night, letting in a chilling draft.  She swung her legs out of the bed and padded to the window, keeping her blanket curled around her.  But as she reached a hand out to close the shutters, she halted.  A winsome smile grew on her lips, and she threw the shutters wide.  Joy soared through her.  Large flakes of snow were falling from the gray sky, tumbling end over end, floating earthward with silent grace.  The ground was covered in a downy white blanket.  The trees were splashed with a shimmering coat of ivory.

The cold abruptly vanished from her body as an excited warmth consumed her.  The laughter of children sang to her from somewhere outside, their sweet voices filling her with comforting cheer.  She threw the blanket from her body and quickly rummaged through a chest at the foot of the bed.  It was overflowing with dresses that Uncle Hugh had told her had belonged to his late wife.  She quickly donned one of them, pulled on some shoes and raced down the stairs, out into the chill morning air.  She turned her face up to the sky, letting the large snowflakes kiss her skin with cold lips.  She laughed out loud and held her hands out to capture the elusive flakes.

“Are you mad?”

The voice startled her and she whirled to face Logan.  Slowly, a grin spread across her face.  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she cried.  Another snowflake kissed her lips, and her mouth shimmered in the sun’s morning light.

“You have no cloak on.  Your shoes are soaked through,” Logan answered darkly, approaching her from the barn where he had chosen to sleep.  His angry breath was clearly visible, white puffs of air erupting from his mouth and nose like the outraged snorts of a disturbed dragon.

“You’re one to talk,” she said, looking over his disheveled white tunic, black leggings and black boots, which he had obviously just thrown on.

As she turned her back to him, she heard him retort, “That’s because someone’s insane cackling woke me and I came out to see who was up so damned early.”

She moved to a tree stump covered with snow and bent over the wood, slowly gathering a handful of fallen flakes.  “Yes.  Laughter is such a strange sound around here,” she said, hoping to distract him for a moment.

“Get inside this instant before you catch your death,” he ordered.

Solace whirled, letting the snowball fly.  It sailed through the air, spinning straight for its intended target, but Logan easily sidestepped it.  His face darkened with outrage and disbelief as he continued to approach her.  She burst into giggles and stooped to grab another handful of snow.

“Don’t!” he warned.

Splat.  The ball of snow hit him squarely in the chest, spreading a dark smear of cold wetness across his tunic.

Solace clapped in glee.  Ignoring the frigid chill in her reddening fingers, she bent to retrieve another snowball.  The insolent dog deserves to have an entire avalanche of snow fall on his stubborn head, she thought.  And I’m going to start it!  As she straightened, she saw Logan was only a few feet away from her.  She quickly pelted him with the next snowball.  Without seeing where it hit, she turned to race away.

Logan launched himself at her, catching her around the waist, tackling her.  Snow billowed up all around them as their bodies hit the ground.  He pinned her in the snow, his body pressing tightly against hers.

Solace laughed and soft, white clouds of happiness slipped out from her lips as her warm joy mingled with the cold air.

Until he picked up a handful of snow.

Then her laughter trailed off as her eyes widened incredulously.  “You wouldn’t!” she half laughed, half shrieked, grabbing his hand and holding it away from her.

A smile crossed his handsome face, lighting up his features with a warmth she had always hoped to see again.  Surrounded by freezing wind, entrapped in a frozen cocoon of snow, Solace’s heart melted.  His smile was the most devastatingly beautiful thing she had ever seen.  Her hold on his hand eased, and the laughter left her face.  “You should smile more often.”

He sobered, his smile fading as he stared down at her, inspecting her face closely.  His gaze caressed her cherry nose, her red cheeks, and finally came to rest on her moist, parted lips.

Her lips parted even more, obeying the command his eyes were giving them, inviting entrance to their temptation.

A trickle of icy water traced its way from the snow in Logan’s hand down Solace’s wrist, disappearing beneath her sleeve.  She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to breathe for fear he would leave her, but the snow melting in his palm was a temptation she couldn’t resist.

She shoved his hand into his face, smearing the frozen white rain across his skin, breaking the spell they were falling under.  He hissed steam and she squirmed wildly, trying to get away from him, but his weight effectively held her hostage.  He wiped the snow from his cheek with his shoulder and scooped up another handful.  “You’ll pay for that one.”

“Don’t!  Don’t!” she squealed as an evil smile crossed his face.  He easily held her hands aside with one of his, trapping them above her head.  He touched the snow to her lips and slowly made a cold, wet line from her chin to the top of her dress.  Solace squirmed helplessly in his clutches.  He paused at her neckline, then lifted the fabric and tucked the snow down the front of her dress.

Gasping in disbelief, Solace shoved him from her and stood, arching her body away from the snow in her dress, dancing like some mad drunk in her effort to escape the stinging cold.  The ball of melting snow traced an icy path down her body, dipping between her breasts, then rolling across her stomach and finally out her skirt.  She shivered and glared at him.  “This is war,” she vowed.

He approached her, and she backed away from him.  “You want a war,” Logan murmured, “you’ve got one.”

She backed up slowly, stopping short as her back touched the stone wall of Cavindale Manor.  “Wait,” she said, holding up her hands and pressing them tentatively against his chest.  His muscles were hard.  “I was just kidding.  I don’t want to be at war with you.”  There was honesty in her voice.

Snowflakes swirled around them, drifting lazily through the morning air, sparkling as the sun bounced off their delicate shapes.  For a moment, Solace felt a stirring of magic in her soul, and she wondered if it was from nature’s wintry gift or from the look on Logan’s face as he gazed tenderly at her.

He reached a hand to run it down her nose and over her cheeks.  “You’re freezing.  Let’s get inside and warm up.”

The sudden thought of curling into a blanket beside Logan warmed her spirit as well as her body.  She allowed him to take her hand in his and lead her inside Cavindale Manor.

“Go upstairs and get changed,” Logan instructed as he closed the door behind them.

Something like alarm flared through her.  She felt so close to him now, so at ease.  She was afraid if she left him, if she even let go of his hand, the distance would somehow be in his eyes when she returned.

“Go on,” he ordered, gently disengaging his hand from hers.

“Wait for me by the hearth,” she replied.

His lips curved in a warm promise and Solace turned, fleeing up the stairs.

***

Logan leaned against the roaring hearth, spreading his fingers before him to warm them.  As the snow melted from his chest and hair, the magic began to fade and Logan’s old, cynical mood returned.  Finally, he heard the rustle of cloth and turned to see Solace crossing the Great Hall toward him.  He saw her tiny toes appear and disappear with her steps beneath her blue gown; she hadn’t even taken the time to don a pair of shoes.  She wore a blanket around her shoulders.  Her hair was wild and uncombed, a tangle of rebellious curls.  But it was her large emerald eyes that kept his gaze riveted.

When she joined him, Logan turned his gaze back to the dancing, twisting flames, flames that ate away at his soul.

She stood beside him for a long moment, staring at the wavering flames.  “When I was young I was never allowed to play in the snow or in the rain.  Father said I had too many other, more important things to do,” Solace explained.

Logan shifted his gaze back to her face.  So, now she is making up for the denied pleasures of her childhood, he thought.  I wish I had time to do the same.  And for a moment, under her guidance, he realized he had.

“Now he’s not here to tell me I can’t do it.”  She stared down into the hypnotic flames.

Logan watched the reflection of light shimmer on her face.  The soft glow of the flames caressed her skin.  She was achingly beautiful.  Any man in his right mind would fall hopelessly in love with her.

Any man except him.

He seized her arm and pulled her close so she could hear his words distinctly.  “I don’t want you,” he snarled, his anger directed more at himself than at her.  “The only thing that’s important is I regain control of Castle Fulton.”

“I know,” she replied weakly.

Her soft voice drove him wild with want.  Her large green eyes made him desperate to cast aside every vow he had ever made to himself and to his family and love her.

He gritted his teeth.  What was she doing to his mind, to his reasoning?  He had to keep a clear head.  He had to keep focused on what was important.  Instead, all he could see, all he could think about, was Solace.  With an anguished growl, he pulled her to him, assaulting her lips with an onslaught of kisses.  He reached around behind her, coming up from the rear like a vanquishing army, trapping her tightly against his body.  Like an expert in war, he attacked her senses, leaving her powerless against his victory.

When his kisses traveled to her neck, she rallied her final defenses.  “I thought you didn’t want me.”

Her soft-spoken reminder branded him a lying fool.  He pulled back sharply to stare into her eyes.  “The treasure between your thighs is enough to bring the strongest man to his knees.”

A broken sob tore loose from her throat.  “But what of you?”

“Is that what you want?” he demanded.  “To bring me to my knees?”

“No,” she whispered.  “To bring you to my side, as my ally.  I need your help.  You know the castle.  You know the secret passages.”

Her green gems shone at him, pleading in their innocence, dark in their want.  He could see her desire in them.  He knew he would give her the world, the heavens, the stars.  But he could not give her his allegiance.  The only allegiance he had was to his family.  His dead family.  But they were gone and she was so very alive.  With a groan of despair and indecision, he pushed away from her.

“Don’t fight me, Logan,” Solace insisted.  “I’m not your enemy.”

He stepped away from her.  Logan Grey had never been truly frightened of anything in his life.  He knew his future, knew his destiny.  He knew someday he would regain Fulton.  It was all he ever wanted, all he ever needed.  But now, staring down at this woman, the woman who should be his enemy, he doubted his destiny.  He doubted his duty.  He would push it all away to spend an eternity at her side.  He had fallen into the same trap as Peter, and he would not let it consume him.  “No,” he whispered hotly.  “I will not let you destroy everything that I am.”

“I don’t want to destroy you.”  She reached for him.

Logan moved away from her touch.

“Don’t shut me out,” Solace begged.  “Don’t do this.”  Logan heard the anguish in her voice and steeled himself.  “Let me help you,” she beseeched him.

“You can’t,” he whispered hoarsely, turning away from her.  “No one can.”  He knew he had to rid his thoughts of her.  His original plan of revenge and reclaiming Castle Fulton depended on him having a clear head.  There was one thing he could do to rid himself of the memory of their lovemaking.  He headed for the door.

***

Logan stood outside the inn, staring at the wooden structure in the moonlight.  He didn’t need Solace to satisfy him.  He had learned long ago one woman was as good as the next.  He entered the inn, shoving the door so violently it smacked hard into the wall.  All the patrons looked up.  Logan paid them no heed; he stalked into the room, taking a seat at the rear of the inn.

His eyes scanned the small room.  The other patrons resumed eating and talking.  A woman made her way over to him and boosted herself onto the table, her legs dangling from the side.  He didn’t need to raise his eyes to know who it was.

“It’s been a very long time, Logan,” the soft voice said.  She was an expert in pleasing a man.  She had shown him her skills years ago, and he was sure she was still quite proficient at it.

He nodded.  “Marcie.”

She bent toward him, and before Logan raised his eyes to her face, he saw the swell of her breasts all but bursting from her excruciatingly tight dress.  When he raised his eyes, he noted the face from so long ago had barely been changed by time.  But something had changed.  The eyes he had once found flawless were now but a dull blue compared with the bright green gems haunting his nights.  The lips he had so wanted to kiss were now thin and pale compared with the full kissable red lips taunting him in his dreams.  Even the face itself was plump and blemished compared with the tanned, flawless complexion that had burned itself into his brain.

Cursing, he rose, taking her hand in his.  He didn’t care if she wasn’t Solace, he told himself.  He dragged her from the inn, but once they got outside, she pulled free.

“Hey!” she objected.  “I’m not some whore you can simply throw to the ground and ravish in the middle of the night.”

Logan stepped toward her, grabbing the nape of her neck and drew her lips to his.  He would prove to himself it didn’t have to be Solace, that it didn’t much matter who it was.  Her lips parted beneath his, and he drove his tongue into her mouth, wanting to prove to himself it didn’t matter.  But the taste of her mouth wasn’t the taste of sweet honey.  It was the taste of stale ale and rotten meat.

Logan pulled away from her, just as she began to wrap her arms around him, to push her hips against his.  He stepped farther away from her, horrified at what he learned.

It mattered.  It mattered very much that she wasn’t Solace.  For the first time in his life, something truly mattered other than his revenge.  And it scared him.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Solace stared out over the hills, gazing down at a farm at the outskirts of Cavindale.  She had walked a great distance that morning, trying to clear her mind.  Most of the first snow had melted, leaving behind a soggy, mud-filled land.  Despite the bright sun, her feet were cold, her hands red from the biting winds.  She pulled her cloak tighter around her neck.

She wanted Logan’s friendship desperately, but he refused to have anything to do with her.  Solace knew that it was she who should want nothing to do with him.  She needed someone she could depend on.  Someone who would be there for her.

And that wasn’t Logan.

Then why did she feel so empty?  She didn’t know what to do, who to turn to.  She rubbed her red hands as the wind whipped about her body, trying to blow the cloak she wore from her shoulders.  It was hopeless.  Simply hopeless.  Even the elements attacked her, refusing to give her a moment’s respite.

A caw made her lift her gaze to a young tree near where she stood.  Logan’s black falcon perched on a branch, watching her with his keen eyes.  “Go back to your master,” she spat out, then immediately regretted her harsh tone.

The laughter of children drew her attention, and she turned her head to see a farmer’s wife near the small creek washing clothes.  Two children were running around behind her, chasing each other, their smiles wide and bright.  The scene was so peaceful.  She watched them all with a longing she hadn’t known she possessed.  Children.  Assuredly a fine husband, too.  A family.

The falcon cried out again, this time in a shrill, excited voice, and took to the air.  Suddenly, the ground seemed to tremble beneath Solace’s feet.

Horses!  And they were coming in fast!  A tremor of trepidation raced up her spine as she turned to see two riders approaching her, charging over one of the rises.  Solace squinted, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, straining to see who they were.  They wore no heraldry, no colors.  It wasn’t until the two horses drew closer that she recognized one of the men as Logan’s bearded friend, Nolan Ryder.  Solace stepped up to greet the man as he reined in his horse.  The other man circled behind her.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone, m’lady,” Ryder said.

Solace scowled at him, remembering the same warning issued from Logan’s lips a long time ago.  A nervous chill swept through her.  She glanced back at the man behind her.  “Is something wrong?” she wondered.  She hadn’t acquainted herself with him and didn’t like the way his horse danced anxiously beneath him or the hungry look in his eyes as he gazed at her.  She looked back at Ryder.

“Wrong?” he asked in a strangely businesslike tone.  “No, nothing’s wrong.”

“Then what are you doing out here?” she asked, turning once again to look at the man behind her.  Her eyes dipped to his waist.  He wore a sheathed sword and had a large club in a pouch at his horse’s side.  She lifted her eyes to see an unsettling smile split his lips.

Her gaze turned back to Ryder.  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

She heard the horse move forward behind her and instinctively stepped away from it.  Suddenly, a blinding pain flared in her head.  There was a flash of white light before darkness came.  She fought the black abyss, even though her body wanted to leap into the peaceful darkness.  Her knees gave way and she dropped to the ground, falling hard onto her back.  She forced her groggy eyes open.  The bright blue sky swayed above her.  Too bright.  She squinted and rolled onto her side, pushing herself up onto her feet.  Her head was pounding and something thick wet the side of her face.

She turned in time to see the man had dismounted and was approaching her.  He tossed the club aside and drew a dagger from his belt.  Solace backed away, trying to focus on her attacker, stumbling slightly as she retreated.  She bumped into Ryder’s horse, and the animal whinnied and pranced away from her.

Solace turned and desperately clutched Ryder’s leg, looking up at him through pain-fogged eyes.  “Help me,” she managed to gasp.

Ryder’s black eyes narrowed.  “Finish her,” he commanded.

***

Laughter floated around Logan, but somehow he felt removed from it.  Goliath and Blade were practicing their sword skills in the Great Hall.  Logan could only feign interest.  After returning from the inn unfulfilled and feeling more torn than ever, he had spent a long and restless night.  His gaze continued to drift up the stairs.  Where was Solace?  Why wasn’t she down here watching her men practice their maneuvers?  Her men.  Even he was thinking of them as hers now.

“Distracted, old friend?” Alexander wondered, taking a seat beside him at the table.

“No,” Logan answered, tearing his gaze away from the stairs to look at Alexander.

Alexander chuckled softly, knowingly.  He suddenly found something very interesting in the bottom of his ale mug.

“Mind your own damn business,” Logan snapped.

Alexander threw his head back, taking a long drink of his ale, a smile twitching his lips.

Logan’s gaze wandered again to the stairs.

“She’s not there,” Alexander said.  “She left awhile ago.”

“Left?”

“I saw her leave Cavindale Manor.”

An irrational fear twisted Logan’s stomach.  “On foot?”

Alexander nodded.

“Grey!” Goliath called, resting his sword point on the floor and leaning toward him.  “Are you going to observe all day or do we get a taste of that famed weapon?”

Logan looked toward the main door leading outside.  His skin prickled, setting his nerves on edge.

Just then Crox came in, and as the door began to swing closed behind him, the falcon swooped in through the narrowing gap and circled the Great Hall, screeching.

“Logan!” Uncle Hugh screamed almost as loudly as the falcon.  “Get that thing out of here!”

Logan grunted.  “Like I have any control over it,” he muttered.

“Maybe we can shoot it down!” Blade called, raising a bow.

“Try!” Logan exclaimed.  The damn bird would easily evade Blade’s arrow, even though he was an accomplished marksman.  The falcon was too stubborn to die.

Suddenly, the bird dove, its claws outstretched for Blade’s head.

“Hey!” the fighter called, ducking, shielding his face with his bow.

Logan bolted upright, scowling.  He hadn’t seen the falcon act this way since he had captured the rabbit that very first day he had set eyes on the cursed thing.  Something was wrong.  The tension strung his body tight as a bowstring.  Something was very wrong.  Without realizing what he was doing, he suddenly found himself out of his chair, running across the hall.

Alexander chased after him.  “What is it?” his friend called.  “What’s wrong?”

Logan opened the door and the falcon swooped out.  Logan ran after it, ignoring his friend’s concerned questions.  He raced into the stables, disregarding the surprised groom as well, and swung himself up onto a horse, bareback.  The animal whinnied and circled toward the door as he tugged on its mane.

“Open the door!” Logan ordered the groom.

The frightened man shoved the door open, and Logan whipped past him in a blur of speed.

“Logan!” his uncle called, lumbering uselessly after him.

As Logan followed the falcon over the rises in the hills, a prickling sensation of impending disaster slithered across his spine.  He clenched his jaw, his hands knotted tight in the horse’s mane as he rode.

Logan saw the falcon moving away from him in the distance, a dark speck against the blue sky.  He was flying toward the outer reaches of Cavindale.  Logan spurred his horse over the last rise that bordered his uncle’s lands.  The sight that greeted him sent horror spearing through his body.

Solace stood, wavering before a man who stalked her.  The tip of the dagger he clutched winked evilly as the sun glinted off its metal surface.  Blood covered the side of Solace’s head.  Dark, wet blood.

Ryder was there, sitting atop his horse.  He locked gazes with Logan for a long moment before dismounting and running toward Solace’s attacker.

The man lurched toward Solace, the dagger outstretched.

Ryder’s not going to make it, Logan thought.  He’s still too far away.  Logan leaned forward over the horse, urging the animal faster.  Faster.

The man lashed out.

No, Logan thought.  No!

Solace stumbled back, out of the dagger’s range, but turned, and in doing so the dagger sliced her shoulder.

“Ahhhh!” Logan shouted in dread and anguish as she went down to her knees.

Ryder seized the man from behind and quickly drew a dagger across his neck.

Logan leapt from the horse, running to Solace’s side, dropping to his knees beside her.  She lay still on the ground.  Agony and fear swelled inside him.  He was afraid to touch her, afraid to move her, afraid she wouldn’t respond.

She groaned and tried to push up onto her hands, but fell weakly to the ground again.

Logan seized her in his arms, rolling her over into his lap so he could see her face.  The left side of her head was covered with blood, plastering her dark hair to her cheek.  Logan tried to move some of her limp, wet hair aside to see how bad the wound was, but his fingers trembled fiercely and he couldn’t stop their shaking.

“Logan,” she whispered, drawing his gaze to hers.  Her eyes were strangely bright and clear.

“I’m here,” he said, drawing her close against his chest.  It was impossible to steady his frantic pulse.

Pain flared in her face and her eyes closed.

“Solace,” Logan demanded, shaking her gently, afraid if she closed her eyes for too long she would never open them again.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Her eyes opened wide, the sparkle of tears filling them.  “I love you,” she murmured and her eyes closed again.

Logan felt her body go limp.  For a long moment, he couldn’t move.  He couldn’t breathe.  Then he leaned over and gently kissed her lips.  As he pulled back from her face, he felt her breath touch his mouth.  Relief flooded his body, dousing the fiery anguish burning in him.  He leaned his head over hers, rubbing his cheek across her forehead.  A tear escaped his closed eyes, trickling down his cheek to mingle with the blood on her forehead.  “What have I done to you?” he murmured.

***

Logan carried Solace back to Cavindale Manor, cradling her as tenderly as a child in his arms, refusing help from anyone, not letting anyone touch her.  As he walked through the fields, his friends joined him, a procession of silent followers.

He walked the steps to her room like the grim reaper, his face pale, his mouth set in a thin line.  His muscles should have ached with the effort of carrying her so far, but they did not; she had been as light as an angel’s wings in his arms.  He lay Solace on the bed, growling at William as he tried to peer over his shoulder at Solace’s wounds.

Logan gently wiped the drying blood from Solace’s face, her cheek, her neck with his tunic.  Still, she didn’t move.  Her eyes remained closed.

“Logan,” William said softly from behind him, “let Beatrice stitch her wound.”

Logan’s eyes moved to Solace’s shoulder.  Her clothing was saturated with darkening red liquid.  His heart clenched.  He didn’t want anyone else touching her.  He didn’t want to move away from her.  But he knew he had to.  Especially if he wanted her to live.

“You can’t do it all by yourself,” William added.

Logan rose stiffly and took a step back, his jaw clenched tight.  Beatrice moved in front of him.

As she began to cut the fabric from Solace’s shoulder, William grabbed Logan’s arm.  “We’d best wait outside,” he said softly.

Logan ripped his arm free of William’s hold.  “I’m not going anywhere,” he replied with stern determination.

“It’s not going to help her if you stay,” William said.

“Come on, boy,” Uncle Hugh encouraged.  “It’s best if you don’t see her wound.”

“You’ll make poor Beatrice nervous,” William added.

Logan’s shoulders straightened.  “I’m not going.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable quiet before the door opened and closed, his uncle and William departing in the silent wake of his stated resolve.  Logan’s gaze locked on Beatrice’s hands as she peeled back the cotton dress, revealing the wound in all its evil - ugly, gaping and dark.  It was still bleeding.

Logan realized then why his uncle said he shouldn’t see the wound.  His anguish was so fierce and so sudden he had to clench his fists and keep his arms tightly pinned to his sides, lest he lash out and destroy everything around him to vent his rage.  She wouldn’t die, he told himself again and again.  But the seriousness of her wounds made this a possibility.  And Logan knew it.  His stomach clenched as tightly as his hands and his jaw.  I won’t lose her, he whispered quietly to himself.  He stood guard over Solace like a stone gargoyle protecting its territory.

***

William descended the stairs beside his father, his expression glum.

Alexander sat in a chair in the Great Hall, running a rock across his sword to sharpen it.  Blade paced before the smoldering hearth.  Goliath held a stick and was sharpening the point with his dagger.  Ryder sat at the table, rummaging through the leftover dinner bones for scraps of meat.  At William and Hugh’s approach, all eyes lifted to them.

“How is the lass?” Goliath wondered, his deep voice resounding through the Great Hall like a trumpet.

Uncle Hugh shook his head and William lowered his gaze.

“And Grey?” Blade asked.

“Worse,” William said.  “Won’t leave her side.  It’s like the dagger sliced him as well.”

“Perhaps it has,” Blade said, knowingly.  “A deadlier dagger than that of steel.”

William joined Alexander at the table, leaning against its edge.  “He’s a stubborn man.”

“He doesn’t even know, does he?” Blade asked.  “The true hold she has on him?”

William shook his head.

“Perhaps now he has an inkling,” Alexander suggested.

“Perhaps now we all do,” Blade said.

“If he ever understands, his obsession for revenge will change to a different kind of obsession.  A saner kind.”

“If she lives,” Uncle Hugh added.

All eyes turned to Hugh.  William sighed.  “If she lives,” he agreed.

Silently, Ryder fingered the flowered handle of the gold-tipped dagger in his belt.

***

Logan splashed water onto his face from the basin on the table.  He moved to the window to stare at the night sky.  Dark clouds drifted by the moon like thick wisps of black cotton, obscuring the stars.

How could a killer have found Solace?  She was supposed to be safe at Cavindale.  Perhaps not so much as you would have liked to believe, a voice inside told him.  If Ryder had not reached the man first, she would have been dead.

A groan from behind him caused him to cast a glance back at the bed.  Solace was still, her soft skin as pale as a moonbeam.  He moved to her side and settled into a chair.

As he expected, there had been two wounds.  The dagger wound, which he had watched Beatrice stitch, and the head wound.  It was the head wound that caused him the most concern.  He had seen men die of head wounds less serious than what Solace had.

He bent over and touched her forehead, smoothing back her dark hair.  He wished he could see her eyes, wished she would open them so he could look into their emerald depths once again.  He ran a finger along her lips.  He wished she would smile again.  He wished he could take every single one of her wounds into himself so she wouldn’t have to endure them.

I love you.  Her words haunted his every thought.  She couldn’t love him.  Not after everything he had done to her.  She must have been delirious from the blow to her head.

Logan sank back into the chair.  God’s blood, he thought, closing his eyes tightly.  How could I be so blind?  I didn’t ride back to Westhaven to stop her from her foolish plan.  I rode back to see her again.  Damn my stubbornness.  My destiny was right before me all this time and I didn’t even see her.

He took her hand in his.  It looked so tiny and small in his large, callused palm.  I should have been there, he thought.  I should have been at her side.  None of this would have happened.  The words resounded in his head just as they had for thirteen years.  I should have been there.  It seems I can never do the right thing.  He ran a hand over his eyes.

“Logan?”

He sat upright quickly, leaning toward her voice as if it were the source of his lifeblood.  “Solace?”  He clutched her hand tightly, refusing to release his hold on her.  A shaft of fleeting moonlight shimmered in her open eyes.

“Logan, don’t leave,” she murmured in a thick voice.

He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, until his lips were almost brushing hers.  “I’m right here,” he said.  He was so close to her face he could feel her gentle breath fan across his lips.  He felt a familiar stirring, too familiar when he was around her.

Her smile was his reward.  It was the most glorious reward he had ever received.  Does she have to make all my wishes come true? he wondered bemusedly.

Suddenly the clouds thinned and the moonlight shone fully in, casting her face in a pale glow, giving her eyes a deep green luminescence.  He touched her cheek.  She was all any man could want.  He brushed his lips against hers.  “Are you hungry?  Thirsty?  Can I get you something?”

“Everything I want is right here,” she whispered.

Logan gazed into her eyes.  He had been a fool.  Why couldn’t he see how much?  God’s blood! he thought.  Let her live and I swear I’ll give up my quest for revenge.  Just let her live.

She lifted a hand to touch her bandaged forehead.  “My head is pounding.”

“He hit you pretty hard,” Logan said.

“Did you get him?” Solace asked.

Logan nodded.  “You’re all right now.  Everything’s fine.  You don’t have to worry.  Just rest.  I’ll tell you everything later.”

Solace nodded, struggling to keep her eyes open.

His attention was drawn to her mouth as her tongue slipped out to wet her full lips.  He found himself leaning forward to taste those lips, to see if they were as sweet as he remembered.  He shook himself.  She is wounded! he thought.  And still I find myself incapable of breaking the spell she casts over me.  Logan stood up unsteadily.  “Rest,” he said.  “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He stood and moved to the door.  He gripped the handle and opened it a fraction of an inch before pausing.  A tingling sensation shot through his body and he turned.  Solace was gazing at him with a wistful expression.  Her large luminescent eyes shone brighter than the sun, calling to him.

In the next instant, he was beside her.  She stared up at him, breathlessly.  She lifted her hand, reaching out to him.

Logan captured her fingers in his.  He bent, gently scooping her up in his arms and eased himself into the bed, delicately pulling her against him so her head was pillowed on his chest.  He rubbed his cheek against her head as she settled against him.

He felt the heated length of her along his body and knew there would be no sleep for him this night.

Within moments, Logan sensed the steady breathing of a deep sleep as Solace drifted off into a healing slumber.  Still, selfishly, he held her against his heart and waited until the sun began to peek over the horizon, waited until there was no time left and Beatrice would soon enter the room.  Only then did he slide slowly from beneath Solace, being careful not to wake her.

He stared down at her for a long moment.  She had curled into the warmth of the spot he had just vacated.  Her soft face was peaceful, worry free.  He rubbed his tired eyes.  He needed to get something to eat, but he was reluctant to leave her.

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door.  Logan opened the door to see Ryder standing in the dark corridor just outside the room.

“How is she?” Ryder inquired.

“Better,” Logan replied.  He stepped aside, allowing Ryder entrance into the room, and closed the door behind him.  “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for stopping that bastard.”

“You don’t have to,” Ryder answered, his stare settling on Solace.

Logan extended his arm.  “I do,” he told him sincerely.  “It means a lot to me.”

Ryder clasped Logan’s arm, gripping it tightly.  For a moment, their eyes met.  It triggered a memory in Logan’s mind.  A memory of Ryder sitting atop his horse in the field while the killer headed toward Solace.

Ryder dropped his arm and turned back to Solace.  “It’s been a long night,” he said.  “Go get something to eat.  I’ll stay and watch her.”

A prickling of anxiety snaked its way up Logan’s spine.  He dropped his gaze and something in Ryder’s belt caught his attention.  The flowered handle of a dagger.

Ryder put a hand on Logan’s shoulder, jarring Logan’s thoughts.  “It’s all right,” he soothed.  “I’ll stay with her.  Beatrice will be here in a moment to change her dressing anyway.  Go get something to eat and come back.”

Logan nodded.  He was being foolish.  Ryder was a friend.  He had saved her life, after all.  Solace would be safe with him for a few moments.  Again he nodded and headed for the door.  As his hand closed over the handle, he turned back to cast a glance at Solace.  She will be fine with Ryder, he told himself, and quietly closed the door behind him.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Logan stood for a long moment outside Solace’s door, his fingers curled around the handle, his head bent.  He didn’t like leaving Solace.  Not even with Ryder.

Ryder.  He remembered him sitting in the saddle atop his horse, while the other man went after Solace with a dagger.  Logan shook his head.  You’re being overly suspicious, he thought.  Not everyone is out to kill her, even if she is Farindale’s daughter.

Logan released the door handle and moved away from the room, forcing himself to descend the steps.  He was indeed very hungry and very weary.  A few bites of food would give him some strength back.  When he reached the Great Hall, he paused, his gaze scanning the room.  It was empty and Logan realized it was still very early.

Why had Ryder been up? Logan wondered.  He sat heavily on a wooden bench, every one of his bones aching.  Then his gaze drifted up the stairs toward Solace’s room.  But instead of Solace’s image, the picture of a flowered-handled dagger came to his mind.  The dagger had been tucked into Ryder’s belt.  Logan knew he had seen it somewhere before.  He looked down at the rushes on the floor.  But where?

Suddenly, he shot to his feet with such force he knocked over the wooden bench.  He bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time and practically knocked the door down in his hurry to enter Solace’s room.

One of Ryder’s hands was clamped around Solace’s neck.  The other held the gold-tipped dagger, its blade reflecting the warming red rays of the rising sun and spitting them back into the room in glaring slivers of blood red light.  An image flashed through Logan’s mind - the dagger glinting in the dirt of the courtyard near the mews of Castle Fulton.  The dagger Graham had attacked Solace with!  He hadn’t meant to rape her, but to kill her.

Ryder lifted his head at the sudden interruption, snapping it toward Logan’s violent entrance.  Solace’s small hands pulled at the thick fingers Ryder had around her neck, a choking gasp coming from her parted lips.

Logan launched himself at Ryder, driving his head and shoulder into Ryder’s stomach, the force throwing both men over the side of the bed.  The dagger clattered away across the room as they hit the floor hard.  Logan quickly rolled to his feet, crouching before the bed like a panther ready to spring.

“Don’t be a fool, Grey,” Ryder said, breathing heavily.  “She’s worth more dead than alive.”

“Who sent you?” Logan demanded.

“She’s your enemy,” Ryder added.

“No.  You are,” Logan snarled and swung his tightly balled fist, connecting solidly with Ryder’s jaw.  The force of the blow hurled Ryder backward, and his foot caught on the edge of a chest sitting at the foot of the bed.  He twisted his body, trying to get his balance, but his head smashed into the bedpost with a sickening crack.  He dropped like a stone to the floor.

Logan straddled Ryder’s body, grabbing his tunic roughly, pulling Ryder’s head up toward him.  He curled his fingers into a fist.  “Who sent you?” he demanded again.  He raised his fist high, ready to strike.  But then he lowered his hand.

He knew Ryder wasn’t going to tell him anything.  Not ever again.  The wide, glassy stare of his eyes was testament to that.  Disgusted, Logan shoved Ryder’s head back to the floor and quickly turned his attention to Solace.

She sat up in bed, touching the raw, red finger marks on her neck.

Logan moved to the bed, sitting down beside her.  He took Solace’s chin in his fingers and turned it to him.  “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, leaning into Logan.  He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into the protectiveness of his embrace.  Her arms wrapped around him with a surprising strength, and she clung to him.

The door swung open and William and Uncle Hugh rushed in, their eyes widening with alarm as they spotted Ryder’s dead body.

Logan met their disturbed gazes over Solace’s head.  Cavindale was no longer safe for the lady and the falconer.

***

Solace spent most of the next week resting in bed.  Every few hours, William came to see if she needed anything.  Beatrice fussed about her like a mother hen throughout the day.  Even Uncle Hugh came by to grunt his approval of her progress.  Logan was constantly with her, watching her with that unnerving and exciting dark gaze.  But it was always from a distance.  Logan stayed well away from her, usually gazing pensively out the window.

On the fourth day, he again took his customary stance at the window, his face as troubled as his spirit.

Solace sat up in her bed, anxiously devising ways to escape the cage her bed had become.

Logan turned to her and asked suddenly, “Why would those men want to kill you?”

Startled, Solace met his gaze.  “I don’t know,” she replied.

He removed a gold-tipped, flower-handled dagger from his belt and displayed it to Solace.

“That’s Beth’s!” she said immediately.  “Where did you find it?”

Logan replaced it in his belt.  “Ryder had it.”

Solace frowned.  “How?  Where did he get it?”

She studied Logan’s serious expression and the implication of his words sank in.  “You don’t think Beth...”  Solace shook her head doubtfully.  “She would know even less about hiring mercenaries than I do.”

“You’re probably right,” he admitted, but Solace saw the disagreement in his eyes.

He moved to the door.  “I’ll be right back.”

Solace nodded, but was lost in her own thoughts.  Could Beth have wanted her dead?  Would she actually hire a mercenary to kill her?  Then Logan’s tale came back to her.  Back at Castle Fulton, he had heard two people plotting to kill her.  Had one of them been Beth?  But why?  Why would she want her dead?

Miserable, Solace looked toward the door, searching for the comfort Logan always instilled in her.  At the sight of it closed, she realized suddenly that she was alone.  Alone for the first time since she had been hurt!  She flung the covers aside and stood.  Swarms of black dots swam before her eyes.  She steadied herself on the table beside the bed, waiting for the dizzy spell to fade.  She hadn’t been out of bed for four days.  She wanted to get up and run or ride a horse!  She settled for carefully walking the length of the room.  She enjoyed the movement, the stretching of her muscles.

A shaft of sunlight on the floor caught her attention.  Hungrily, her eyes followed it to the shutters.  Her face lit with joy as she practically ran to them and threw them open.  The sun streamed into the room, and Solace turned her face to its warm light, letting it bathe her cheeks.

“Must I always stand guard over you?”

Solace whirled to find Logan in the open doorway.

“Back into bed,” he commanded.

She cast a glance at the bed and scowled, then looked at Logan.  When his eyes locked with hers, a bolt rocked her body.

Swiftly he crossed the room to stand before her.  He lifted his hands toward her, and Solace couldn’t help but gasp in expectation.  Without a word, he reached around her to close the shutters.

Disappointment speared her body like an arrow.  He was close to her, closer than he had been in days.  So close that his arms brushed her shoulders.  With that simple touch, her senses flared to life, a tingling awareness filling her body.  When he shifted his eyes to her, his hot silver gaze melted her insides.

His look moved over her face, taking in every line, every curve.  He barely touched her body with his, but the heat radiating from him scorched her.

“How do you feel?” he asked in a husky voice.

“What?” she inquired through a groggy haze.

“Your head,” he said, reaching out to smooth some hair over the bandage.  “How is it?”

“Fine,” Solace answered, a twinge of sadness pulling at her heart.  She dropped her gaze to the floor.  He was only concerned with her wounds, when all she wanted him to do was kiss her.  Just one kiss, she thought miserably.  Just one.  But even as she thought it, she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

His fingers smoothed a rebellious curl near her cheek, but as soon as he released it, it sprang to life, entwining itself around his finger.

His hand was so close to her face, his fingers mere inches from her skin.  Desperate for the feel of his skin against hers, Solace rubbed her cheek against his fingers.  His hand froze and Solace pressed a kiss into his open palm.

She closed her eyes tightly, reveling in the brief feeling of his skin against hers, his warmth touching her.

Suddenly, his arms were around her, pulling her tight against the length of his steel-hard body.  His lips pressed on hers in a frenzy of reckless wanting.  The heat from his mouth claimed her body, and she felt a stirring in the bottom of her stomach.  She parted her lips as a groan escaped from them, and Logan’s tongue gently stroked the inner portion of her mouth, tasting her.

He pressed his lips against the wound on her forehead, trailing a line of kisses down her cheek to her jaw.

She wrapped her arms around his back, marveling at the strength hidden beneath the tunic he wore.  Her fingers traced the hard muscles of his shoulders as the kiss deepened.

His hand moved up her body to cup her breast, gently squeezing it.  His thumb circled her nipple, teasing it to hardness, until she groaned with need.

“Logan?”  The voice came from just outside the door.

Instantly, Solace pulled away from Logan.  He looked at her with a gentle grin on his lips.

Uncle Hugh entered the room, and Logan turned to him with none of the embarrassment Solace was feeling.  “Ah!” Uncle Hugh said when he saw Solace out of bed.  “You’re feeling better.  Then come and eat!  A good meal cures any ill!”

Logan glanced at Solace, and she could see there was promise in his eyes.  But promise of what? she wondered.

“I’ll send Beatrice up to help Solace dress,” Uncle Hugh said, seizing Logan’s shoulder.  “I’ll take this rascal with me.”

Logan cast a last look at Solace before Hugh pulled him out the door.  Solace raised a hand to her lips.  They were still wet from Logan’s kiss.

***

Solace stared at Logan’s hands as he moved them over the map of Castle Fulton.  They were strong and sure and...  What was she doing?  He was explaining the secret passages to her, yet all she could think about was the power in those hands, the gentle way he had touched her, his heated caresses.  They had eaten dinner with dozens of others, but Logan seemed to only have eyes for her.  And she for him.  She had felt like a young girl enamored of a famous knight.  He had even given her a stare that sent a flush of heat to her cheeks, a stare so hot she had been certain her face was going to burst into flames from the torrid look.  Just thinking of it now made her body all warm and tingly.

She turned her gaze up to his face.  His brow was set with concentration; his gaze darted from spot to spot on the map, giving Solace only a teasing glimpse at their steel-gray magnificence.  She barely noticed the black X on his cheek; it had become so much a part of him.  She watched his mouth moving as he spoke and thought of another movement it had made, the way he had stroked her own lips with his.  Gently, she ran a tongue over her lips, but could not re-create the feel of their heated kiss.  Only his lips could do that.

When he swung his gaze up to hers she realized he had asked her a question.  She looked away from him and found Alexander and Blade’s gazes were on her, too.  They had joined her and Logan after dinner to discuss possible plans for retaking Fulton.  Now that winter was upon them, they had time to make a detailed attack plan for the spring.  She bowed her head.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “I didn’t hear the question.”

“You must be tired,” Blade said sympathetically.

She nodded and lifted her eyes to find an amused smile on Logan’s lips.  She turned back to Blade.  “Yes,” she agreed.  “It has been an eventful day.”

Alexander folded up the map.  “We’ll finish this tomorrow.”

“Good night, Solace,” Blade called as she turned toward the stairs.

She bid him a good night and made her way up the steps.  She felt Logan’s eyes on her as she went, and finally had to turn and cast him a glance.

He stood near the table, a heated look on his face.  She couldn’t resist gazing at him.  His body was turned to her, his large chest bidding her to come and rest her head on it, his strong arms bidding her to come and be held, his hypnotizing lips bidding her to come and be devoured.  “Good night, Solace,” Logan called softly.  “Get some rest.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

She forced a smile to her lips, hiding her disappointment, then turned away and went to her room.

***

Solace paced in front of her window late into the night.  She had washed her face and body twice.  She had changed into her nightdress, laid in bed and counted sheep.  She had drunk a warm glass of goat’s milk.  Despite everything she had tried, with every move she made she sensed the ghostly presence of Logan’s mouth against hers, the caress of his hands on her skin, until her body shook with the wanting of him.  She would get no sleep tonight.  She wanted to feel his kiss again, wanted him to...

She opened the door to find the hall was quiet.  Slipping into the darkness, she moved through the Great Hall like a ghost.  What are you doing? a voice questioned her.  Where do you think you are going?  She ignored the questions and moved on.  She knew exactly what she was doing and exactly where she was going.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Solace opened the door to Cavindale Manor and an icy wind whirled past, seizing her in its grip, threatening to chill her to the bone.  But her need warmed her against the cold.  She raced across the yard and opened the barn door, stepping into the darkness of the building.

Her eyes searched frantically, desperately for Logan.  Suddenly, as if her thoughts had magically conjured him from a mysterious realm, he appeared before her, sword in hand, standing tall and silent, ready for attack.

The moonlight washed over his strong chest, his muscular arms, painting his tanned flesh with a golden gloss.  His dark hair fell just past his shoulders in a shimmering wave of black.  His face was hidden in shadows, as was the lower part of his body.  But his eyes were visible, a cloudy gray caught in a silver strand of moonlight.

She moved toward him and he dropped the sword, sweeping her into his arms, pressing his lips to hers with an urgent hunger.  Solace wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close.  His strong back was hot where she touched his naked skin, burning against her fingertips.  She trailed her hands along the length of his torso, up to his neck, cupping his face.  She wanted to touch every place on his body, feel his every muscular curve.

He shoved aside her nightdress, baring her breast, and knelt before her to take the tip in his mouth.  Solace gasped, threading her fingers through his hair, pressing his mouth against her.  Surges of desire filled her like the ebb and thrust of the tide.  She wanted more.  So much more.

He looked up from his knees and gazed adoringly at her, as if worshipping a goddess.  She framed his face with her hands before lowering her lips to his.  Their mouths joined together, becoming one, tasting each other’s essence.  She felt a hand on her ankle, and slowly it rose up her leg until he cupped her naked buttocks.  She gasped, thrusting against him.

With his other hand, he touched her where she needed him, and she groaned against his lips.  Then she sank to her knees before him.

“God, Solace,” he whispered, kissing her neck, cupping her breast with his palm, kneading it, sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing through her.

She reached around his waist and was surprised to find he had no clothing on, but was still bold enough to cup his buttocks as he had hers.  A groan tore loose from his lips as he thrust against her.  She could feel the stiff length of him against her stomach.

Logan leaned forward, pushing her back onto the hay with his weight until he lay on top of her.  With a soft growl, he claimed her lips again with a possessive desire that flamed her own passion into uncontrollable want.  His manhood throbbed and pulsed between her thighs, the thick, powerful muscle taunting her with soft strokes.  He pushed her legs wider, teasing her soft opening with his hard shaft.  At one point, it moved dangerously near, touching the small petal that hid beneath her silken folds.  She gasped aloud as her body instinctively arched toward him, trembling with anticipation.

He shifted slightly to the side as his hand caressed her hip in circles, drawing ever closer to the patch of soft, downy hair between her legs.

Just when she thought he would touch her, just when she moaned and raised her hips to meet his touch, just when his predatory fingers started stalking her through the dark tangle of her hair, he pulled away.  He did it again and again until she thought she would go mad with desire.  With a low growl of her own, she grabbed his hand and moved it to where her passion flared.  He cupped her with his hand, and his finger touched the silken folds of her womanhood, separating them to reveal the pink pearl lying in wait beneath.

The night seemed to glow brighter around them as his finger caressed her.  She could no longer feel the cold air, the hay beneath her; she could only feel him, Logan, touching her everywhere, caressing every part of her body.  And then he was above her again, parting her legs with his own.  She felt him ease his manhood forward, felt him force his way into her tightness.  He stopped, looking down at her with silvery, moon- painted eyes.

She groaned, arching, wanting more.  “Please,” was all she could whisper.

Then he thrust into her, his lust-gorged member spreading her wider, plunging deep.  She fought back the urge to cry out.  He caressed her hair, her cheek, her face, rained kisses over her jaw, her eyes, her nose.  Only after he kissed her lips again did he begin to move, slowly at first.

She matched his thrusts, their bodies joining, fusing together.  He unleashed something she did not even know had been hidden deep inside of her.  He had taught her the true dangerous power of making love, a power that had a life of its own, a power that she could only submit to.

Then, when Solace thought she could take no more of the pleasure rushing through her, he reached between them to touch her with his finger.  A whirlwind swept her up as the sky around her exploded with light.  She clung tightly to Logan breathing hotly in his ear as she was buffeted with ecstasy.  “Oh, Logan,” she gasped.  “Logan.”

Finally, after a long, unforgettable journey, her body trembled with release.

He watched her with warm eyes and pressed a kiss against her temple before he began to move again.  Within moments, he stiffened, thrusting into her.

Finally, he withdrew from her and lay beside her.  She propped herself on her elbow to look into his face.  He was so relaxed and calm.  Solace didn’t think she had ever seen him so content.

***

Logan saw Solace studying his face through sleepy eyes.  How did he suddenly become so lucky? he wondered.  His life had always been about anger and revenge.  How had he managed to get Solace to care for him?

Logan sat up, presenting her with his back.  “What can you see in me?” he mused out loud.

Solace brushed her fingers through the ends of his hair and trailed a path down his spine.  “Right now, I see your naked back,” she whispered playfully.  “And your bottom.”

Logan jumped as she pinched his buttocks.  He whirled, catching her wrists and flipped her on her back.  He captured her beneath him with his body and pinned her hands over her head.  “I want to know,” he said sincerely.  “After everything I’ve done to you.  Why me?”

The amusement faded from Solace’s eyes as she studied his face.  “I always imagined that one day I would find someone I could count on.  Someone who would always be there when I needed him.  I thought I could depend on my family.  But they were a grave disappointment.”  The words died on her lips, and a strange understanding lit her eyes.

Logan frowned slightly, not comprehending the glow on her face.  “That’s not me, Solace,” he answered, releasing her wrists.  “I hurt you.  I let Barclay into your home.”

“Yes, you did do that,” she agreed.  “But it wasn’t to hurt me.  It was under the notion that Barclay would turn Castle Fulton over to you.”

“I never intended to hurt you,” Logan admitted in an agonized voice.

“Logan.”  Solace sat up, pushing him from her.  “I know that.  It’s taken me a long time to understand and to realize that the person I’ve been looking for has been with me all this time.”

“Who?”

“You!”  Logan began to shake his head, but Solace took his hand into hers.  “You were there from the beginning.  You opened the castle gates for me when Alissa would have locked me out.”  Logan opened his mouth to object, but Solace placed her fingers against his lips.  “You’ve always been there when I needed someone to talk to.  You helped me escape from Barclay.  And you saved my life from Ryder.”  She caressed the X on his cheek.  “It’s been you all along, Logan.  I love you.”

Logan froze, unable to draw a breath, stunned by her confession.  Despite everything, she professed to love him.  He pulled her into his embrace, crushing her to his heart.  He wanted to tell her.  He wanted her to know how much she meant to him.  But the words refused to come.  The uncertainty of their future together kept them trapped inside him.  But he knew he would always love her.  No matter what.

***

Solace snuck from the barn early in the morning.  She heard a caw and looked up to see Logan’s falcon perched on a tree branch nearby.  It watched her with large, dark eyes.  She smiled at the bird.  She had begun to see the falcon as some sort of guardian angel.

She returned to her room and quickly dressed before heading toward the Great Hall.  She paused at the top of the stairs, scanning the room for Logan.

Servants scurried through the Great Hall.  William wiped his mouth and pushed his trencher away from him at one of the tables.  Suddenly Solace’s eyes were drawn by a dark shape standing silhouetted near the hearth, the fires raging behind what appeared to be a man.

Her heart quickened.  She stepped down a stair and almost stumbled, but caught herself on the stone wall.

He was speaking to Blade, but turned as soon as her eyes settled on him.  A grin curved his lips, and a sensual look entered his smoky eyes.  He moved away from Blade toward Solace as she descended the stairs.  Blade held out his hand, as if he were in the middle of saying something, but then dropped it and shrugged.

Logan met Solace at the bottom of the stairs.  Taking her hand to rest on his arm, he led her to the table.  They ate the morning meal together, side by side, and were inseparable for the rest of the day.

That night, as Solace headed for the loneliness of her room, she cast Logan a pleading glance.  She left her bedroom door unlocked, hoping he would come to her.  She sat near the window, staring at the barn, wishing he were by her side.  But the moon rose higher in the frosty night sky and he did not appear.  Solace lay her head on the window ledge, but exhausted from lack of sleep the night before, she fell into a deep slumber.

She awoke when Logan’s arms settled around her, lifting her from the seat near the open window and depositing her gently on the bed.  She refused to relinquish her hold on him, even as his hands began their slow, heavenly exploration of her body.  She opened her mouth and her soul to Logan, and he worked his magic over her senses, sending her to the stars and beyond.

Afterward, he pulled her against his body, cradling her lovingly to him, his hands stroking her hair slowly.

Solace curled into his warmth, letting the glow of his love wash over her and shield her.

He cupped her breast lightly, caressing it.  As the spark of desire flamed in her again, she felt him grow stiff against her.

“Lord, woman, I can’t get enough of you,” he growled, rolling her onto her back and lying on top of her.

Solace chuckled deeply as he entwined his fingers through hers.  “That’s not what you would have said a few days ago.”

“I was a fool,” he answered, pressing his lips to hers.

Logan made love to Solace languorously, and she thrilled to the new sensations he brought to her flesh, to her mind, to her heart.

***

Logan slipped out of her room early the next morning, pausing in the doorway to glance back at her.  She was sprawled, naked, on the bed, sleeping soundly.  He didn’t think a thousand men thundering down the road on horseback could wake her.  With a smile, he turned and continued down the stairs into the Great Hall.  As he descended the stairs, he saw Goliath and Blade seated near the hearth.

“Logan,” Blade greeted as he entered the Great Hall.

Logan responded with a nod of his head.  “What’s there to eat?” he wondered.  “My appetite is hearty.”

Blade and Goliath exchanged glances.

“Logan,” Blade said, stepping forward, “Alexander rode out early this morning.”

Logan eyed the men.  Nothing wrong with a little early morning ride.  “And?”

“Just over the ridge,” Goliath said, pointing west.  “Just beyond Cavindale’s borders.”

Anxiety tightened the muscles in Logan’s shoulders.  “What?” he demanded.

“An army has camped for the night.  I imagine they’ll be here sometime late today.”

“An army?” Logan said, tension spreading across his shoulders, anxiety swirling in the pit of his stomach.  “Is it Barclay’s?”

“No.  Farindale’s.”

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Lord Farindale lifted his arm so his squire could fasten the strap on his shoulder-plate armor.  He stared out over the lands of Cavindale.

Behind Farindale, his army waited, all mounted, all looking toward Cavindale Manor.

He stared again at the note crumpled in his hand.  A note he had reread hundreds of times since he had received it a month ago.

Farindale—

Meet me in battle at Cavindale.  I have Solace.

Logan Grey

Grey.  Farindale spit, the name tasting foul in his mouth.  He thought he had rid the lands of that pestilence thirteen years ago.  It seemed his work was not finished.

His squire rose, holding out a gauntlet.  Farindale slipped his hand inside.  The squire held out the other glove.  Farindale stared at the note in his hand, then tossed it to the ground and slid his hand into the other gauntlet.

I will kill this bastard who dares hold my Solace.  If she is harmed, not a building in Cavindale will be safe from my wrath.  Farindale clenched his jaw as he thought of his daughter.  If he has hurt her...

Farindale mounted his steed.  The warhorse danced anxiously beneath him.  He lowered his gaze to Malcolm Wayne, his first in command.  “You’re sure he said the western boundary of Cavindale?  Where the river widens?”

Malcolm nodded.  “The messenger said you’ll recognize it by the crossed trees.”

Farindale nodded, and his gaze lifted to the west.  “You will stay here until I return,” he ordered.

“But my lord...!” Malcolm began to protest.

Lord Farindale silenced him with a dark look.  Malcolm knew better than to argue any further.  Lord Farindale’s orders were law, to be obeyed without question.

“My sword,” lord Farindale called.

His squire raced to him, the weapon in his hand.  Farindale took his sword from the youth and stared at it for a long moment.  He studied his reflection in the bright silver surface of the blade.  Gray hair framed his face.  Shadowy lines were etched deep in his brow.  The flesh on his cheeks was sagging.  He was much older now than when he had faced Randol Grey.  Randol had died for his child, for Logan.  And now the boy had returned for vengeance.

Farindale sheathed his sword.  He hoped he was strong enough to defeat the son.  For Solace’s sake.

He spurred his horse over the rise in the hill.

***

Logan threw the saddle on his horse, checking the straps and the length of the stirrups.  He had thought Solace had slain his need for revenge with her forgiveness.  But it wasn’t that easy.  Like a horrible demon, it had raised its ugly head when he heard that Farindale was just outside Cavindale.  And now it was all he could think of.  For years he had sought revenge.  It was his life, his blood.  To think he could be rid of the need so easily had been a grave mistake.  Well, he aimed to be rid of it forever.  He had to face Farindale.  He had to do it for his family.  For his father.

He loved Solace with all his being, but this was something the monster that lived in his heart would not let him surrender.

Logan heard Solace race into the barn and skid to a halt.  She ran to him and embraced him from behind.

“Where have you been?” she wondered.  “I waited for you at the noon meal.”

Logan gently disengaged her arms from around him.  “I have to go somewhere,” he said evasively, smiling glumly at her.  He ran a finger along her jaw, hoping it was enough to pacify her, but knowing it wasn’t.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Logan said, picking his sword up from the ground.  He looked at the polished surface, wishing it were his father’s blade.  But Barclay had it now, confiscated when he was thrown into the dungeon.  It will have do, he thought, and slid the sword into its sheath.

“Nothing!” Solace gasped.  “Yet you have to take your sword?”

“Solace, trust me,” he said, swinging himself up into the saddle.  “I’ll be back later.”

“Logan!” she called, but he rode out of the barn.

A prickling raced along Solace’s spine.  She ran back into the barn.  By the time she had pulled a horse from the stall and gotten the groom to saddle it, Logan was nowhere in sight.  She mounted the horse and rode out of the barn, westward.

The cold wind whipped Solace’s hair around her face, its frigid teeth nipping at her flesh.  Her hands felt numb.  It seemed she had ridden for hours, yet she still couldn’t find Logan.  She spurred the horse on, over another hilltop.  Then, she heard it.

The clanging of swords.

She urged her horse toward the noise and rounded a bend to see Logan fighting a man in plate armor.  At first, she thought they were just practicing their moves with each other, dueling for sport.  But when the man in armor lunged hard at Logan and nearly skewered his thigh, she knew this was no mock battle.  Why would Logan come out this far to fight someone?  And who was he fighting?

The horse danced skittishly beneath her, the cold slapping its hide.  She craned her neck, trying to see the crest on the man’s tunic.  It was white.  Part of it looked very familiar.  Suddenly, the man fell to his knees before Logan, and Solace saw the symbol of a lion etched on a field of white with gold trim.  She gasped, frozen with terror as Logan raised the sword over her father’s head, the sharp tip of the blade pointed at her father’s heart.

“No!” Solace cried as Logan shoved the sword toward her father’s chest.  She whirled away in horror, tears blurring her vision, unable to watch any more.

Her heart tried to deny what her eyes had just seen.  She wanted to scream and trample Logan with the hooves of the horse.  No, her mind continued to repeat, but her anguish peaked to shatter the last shard of hope she had.  She spurred the horse on, away from Cavindale, away from Logan.  Every fiber of her being screamed in agony.

Her body shook; her throat closed, choking off her breath.  She thought they shared something special.  She thought he cared for her.  She thought... she loved him!  And that was the worst betrayal of all.  Because even with all of that, even with everything they had gone through, even after the last few days, he had completed his revenge.

Logan had killed her father.

***

Logan turned from the battle, breathing hard, his teeth clenched, and saw Solace fleeing.  He quickly mounted his horse and raced after her.  He wouldn’t let her escape.  Not this time.  Not now.  He quickly overrode her horse, grabbing the reins.  He pulled, bringing the animal to a stop, then reached out to seize her flailing hands and managed to grab her wrist, trying to still her movements.  He was furious with himself, with her.

“Let go, you bastard!” she shouted, urging her horse forward with her heels.

“Solace...” he began, but she turned to him with such hatred and such pain in her face that the words disappeared.

“You fool!” she howled.  “You fool!  It was me!  I convinced my father to take Fulton!  It was my fault!”

He dropped her hands as if the mere touch scalded his skin.  “You?”  His eyes narrowed as he drew back from her.  His vision swam before him, his mind incapable of digesting the horrible truth of her words.

“Your father was such a bastard, such a tyrant to his people.  A rapist and a killer.  I begged my father to stop him.  And he did!” Solace explained in clipped words, through clenched teeth.

Logan had heard rumors of his father’s dark methods of tax collecting, of his abuse of his power, but he never believed any of them.  No man, especially not his father, his flesh and blood, could be that cruel.  He had refused to believe it.  “You’re wrong,” he answered vehemently, but there was the slightest quiver in his voice.

“You killed the wrong person!” Solace proclaimed hotly.

Her enraged voice jarred him, cut him.  He raised his open palm, ready to smash her face, ready to knock the words from her mouth.  He stared into her anger, her desolation.  Slowly, he curled his fingers into a fist and lowered his hand.  Betrayed.  His heart exploded in his chest.  He drew his dagger with a howl of rage.  “Then it’s you I should kill!”  Her bitter accusations rang in his ear.  A tyrant.  A rapist.  A killer.  It doesn’t matter, he thought.  He was my father and his death deserves to be avenged.  He pressed the blade to her creamy throat.

Solace barely flinched.  “Yes, do it.  You’ve sacrificed everything else.”  She choked on her words.  “You can’t love.  Complete your revenge.  Kill me.  It won’t bring your parents back.”

A muscle worked in his jaw.  He blinked back the anger and the pain swirling in him.  Slowly, he dropped his hand, his eyes flashing at her like hot lightning bolts.  “Get away from me,” he snarled.  “Get the hell out of here.”

Solace reined her horse around and rode away from him without a word.

He stared after her retreating back, a broken man.

***

Solace rode and rode until the horse could go no further.  Then she dismounted and anguish engulfed her completely.  She had given herself to Logan!  She had loved him!  And he had destroyed the last of her family.  He had used her to get to her father.

She wept into her open palms.  He had done more than hurt her.  He had destroyed her.  Her heart lay broken and bleeding.  She sobbed until the sun set.

Then as the sun disappeared over the horizon and the sky turned blood red, a new resolve swept through her.  A dark resolve.  If Fulton was the only thing Logan could love, then she would see to it that he never got it.  I will destroy him as he has me, she vowed.  He will never get Fulton.  I will see to that.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Great Hall of Castle Fulton was awash in easy conversation.  A large table had been set aside for the visiting monks.  With the Yuletide approaching, the table had slowly begun to fill.  Now there were six monks seated there, all eating quietly.

At the main table, Beth sat beside Baron Barclay.  She wiped her mouth with the back of her velvet sleeve and cast a sly look at him.  He was eating a large mutton leg.  She ran a hand possessively over his arm.  He raised his eyes to her and smiled, holding the leg out to her.  She took a bite of it.  Edwin had seen to it she had everything she could possibly want.  She often wondered if he was keeping her in case her father returned, as a hostage of sorts.  But she knew she was far from that.  She reached down and caressed her stomach, swelling with his child.  Beth smiled contentedly.  She had finally found her place.

Her eyes scanned the Hall.  Barclay’s men filled the tables, eating to their hearts’ content.  They were a noisy lot, but she found comfort in their presence.  With so many men at the Baron’s disposal, she knew the castle was secure.

Beth’s gaze shifted to Edwin again, studying his handsome profile.  She often wondered why Barclay had not offered marriage.  Perhaps he was waiting for the Yuletide.  She could wait.  After all, was she not having his child?

She became aware of a growing silence in the Great Hall and turned her head to see two guards escorting a woman up to the front table.  Dread slithered up her spine as outrage made her teeth clench.

Barclay rose slowly from his chair.  He planted his hands on the table, leaning toward the woman as she stopped just before them.

Her hair was unkempt, her clothing old, the hem of her dress ragged.  Besides that, there was something different about her, Beth noticed.  The woman’s shoulders sagged, but it wasn’t from weariness.  When Solace looked up and locked gazes with her, Beth noticed the resolve and the sadness in her eyes.

Barclay’s lips turned up in a grin.  “Nice to have you back, m’lady.”

Beth cast him a sharp, annoyed glance.  He had never called her m’lady!  She turned burning eyes to her sister.

One of the guards who had escorted Solace stepped forward, and Barclay bent his head as the guard whispered in his ear.  His brows furrowed and his eyes turned to Solace in contemplation.

The Baron retook his seat, rubbing his lower lip in thought.  “Where’s Grey?” he said.

Beth watched Solace’s eyes cloud.  She couldn’t read her expression.  “We were in Cavindale.  But I doubt he is still there.”

Beth and Barclay exchanged a glance.  Barclay waved at one of the soldiers near the door, and the man immediately headed out of the Great Hall.

“Rest assured that if I knew where he was, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you,” Solace added.

Barclay raised an eyebrow.  “Trouble in paradise, dear?” he wondered, mockingly.

“He killed my father,” Solace said, casting a glance at Beth.

Beth narrowed her eyes.  The little harlot was up to something, she was sure.  She bent to whisper in Barclay’s ear, “Don’t believe her.”

Barclay surveyed Solace for a long, quiet moment.  His sharp, blue eyes assessed every dark line on her face, every clenched muscle.  “Then why have you returned to Fulton?”

Solace raised her chin.  “To marry you,” she said.

A murmur swept through the room.  Beth clenched her fists on the table and almost stood, but Barclay grabbed her arm, holding her down.  “Marry me?” He chuckled.  “You made it quite clear last time you were here that you would have nothing to do with me.”

“I would do anything to keep Fulton from Logan Grey,” she said.  “Even marry you.  With Father dead, I am the rightful heir to Fulton.  If you marry me, the lands are yours legally and without question.”

Barclay rose and began to move around the table.  “That’s a very big price to pay, isn’t it?  To keep the lands from Grey.  How do I know you’ll make a dutiful wife?”

“I’ve been trained to run Castle Fulton.  I know everyone’s positions.  I can tally the harvest, stock the pantries...”

Barclay stopped before Solace and smiled wolfishly.  “That’s not the duty I was speaking of.”

Outrage rocked through Beth.  He was considering it!  “Edwin,” she called beneath her breath.

Solace’s chin rose.  “I would make you a proper wife, in all ways.  You have my word.”

“Prove it,” Barclay whispered.

Solace shifted uncomfortably.  Beth watched her wrestle with the dilemma.  If that little whore touches my Edwin, Beth vowed, I will kill her with my own two hands.

Solace lifted up on her toes and pressed her lips to Barclay’s.

A hiss issued from Beth.  She was on her feet as Solace pulled back.

Barclay smiled.  “A rather chaste kiss from a potential bride.”  He reached into his belt, drawing forth a dagger, and rested the blade at her throat.  “Wouldn’t it be easier just to kill you and marry someone more devoted to me?  Like your lovely sister?”

Solace swallowed and pride soared in Beth’s chest.  Do it, she silently begged, leaning forward on the table.

There was no fear in Solace’s eyes, only resignation.  For a long moment, she said nothing.  “The peasants respect me,” she finally said softly.

Barclay glanced at one of his men.

A tremor of dread shot up Beth’s spine.  They were having a tremendous amount of trouble with the villagers.  They were slow moving, even under the threat of death.  Beth cringed.  The villagers held her in no regard.  And they liked Barclay even less.  But they loved Solace.  They would do anything for her.

Barclay resheathed his dagger.  “A good point,” he said, and returned to his seat.  “I will consider your proposal.”

“Edwin.”  Beth gasped in disbelief.

He patted her hand placatingly.  “You look weary, lady Solace,” Barclay said.  “Beth, go attend your sister.”

Beth inhaled sharply.  She wasn’t some servant!  She slammed her hand on the table.  Barclay caught her wrist.  “Easy, my dove,” Barclay whispered.  “She is the heir to Fulton, after all.  It would be wise to pacify her.  At least for the time being.”

Beth’s eyes narrowed.  She’d like to pacify her, all right.  Right over the castle wall!  Beth moved around the table, her back rigid, her fists clenched into tight little balls of fury, until she stood before Solace.  She stared into her green eyes, noticing they weren’t so bright any longer.  “Let’s go,” she snarled.

Beth whirled, leading her sister through the curious gazes and whispered murmurings spreading quickly through the Great Hall.

“Congratulations,” Solace said tonelessly, glancing at Beth’s stomach.

Beth grunted.  Like the little harlot even cared, she thought bitterly.  Suddenly, she stopped and turned to her sister.  Solace’s clothing was dirty, her hair ragged and unwashed.  There were even streaks of dirt on her face, marred with trails from tears.  Beth scowled.  Solace looked like a peasant, a weepy one at that.  “Why have you returned?  What do you want?” she demanded.

“I told you and Barclay what I want,” Solace answered softly.

Beth sucked in her breath.  “That’s just like you, isn’t it?  As soon as I’m interested in a man, you try to steal him away!”

“After we’re wed, you can have him all you want,” Solace retorted bitterly.  “I want nothing to do with Barclay, other than make him rightful lord of this castle.”

Beth’s chin rose.  “You can die and I can make him rightful heir.”

Solace just stared at her.  “I guess that’s up to Barclay now, isn’t it?”  She brushed past Beth and continued toward her old room.

***

“Just kill her,” Beth pleaded.

Barclay raised an eyebrow at her as he lounged in his sumptuous bed.  He wondered if it was jealousy making her talk so or hatred of her sister.

Suddenly, Beth dropped to her knees, taking his hand in hers and pressing kisses against his knuckles.  “Please, darling.  She’ll bring us nothing but trouble.  We don’t need her.”

Barclay eased his hand from her grip.  In truth, he was tiring of the sniveling whore before him.  Her enlarging stomach was repulsive to him.  He wanted fresh flesh.  And Solace fit his fantasy perfectly.  A slim, spirited girl he would ride hard and tame.  The thought of her struggling beneath him brought a grin to his lips and a bulge to his pants.

“You want her!” Beth exploded as she stood.

“She has her appeal,” Barclay muttered, thinking of her round breasts and her full lips that could suck him dry.

Beth placed her hands on her hips.  “What does she have that I don’t?” she demanded.

“Her stomach is flat and smooth.”  Barclay took joy in watching the hurt flash in Beth’s eyes.  “She doesn’t snivel and whine,” he added, watching Beth’s lips thin in anger.

Beth launched herself at him and Barclay caught her wrists, spinning to pin her beneath him.  He chuckled as she tried to lash out at him.  “Seems my little hellcat has a little spit left in her after all.”  He pinned her arms above her head with one hand, moving to undo his breeches with the other.

A crooked smile formed on Beth’s lips.

***

Solace stared out over her lands, resting her palms on the ledge of her window.  The cold wrapped its fingers around her, embracing her in an icy hug.

Logan, she thought again and again.  Pain wracked her body as she remembered his smile, the safety she’d felt in his arms.  It was all a ruse.  It must have been.  If he had truly cared for her, how could he have killed her father?

She bowed her head, her eyes narrowing.  He would never have Fulton.  It would be her final justice.  He could go on living his life of anger and bitterness, but he would never have her home again.  She tried to raise her chin, tried to tell herself what she was doing was right.  It was justice.

Solace bowed her head, weeping into her hands.  Then why did she feel so horrible?  Why did she feel as though she were ripping her heart from her chest?

***

Flames danced in the hearth, casting the Great Hall in a red glow.  Barclay sat in a chair before the fire, waiting for Solace.  The warmth of the hearth did not reach his heart, only his loins.  He heard the soft patter of footsteps and turned to see his betrothed entering the room.

He was gravely disappointed at what he saw.  Her head was bowed, her hands secured by a rope, her shoulders hunched.  A defeated woman.  When she reached him, she lifted eyes that mirrored infinite sadness.  Dark slashes underlined each eye.

Barclay scowled.  He wished he could have been there.  He wished he could have seen what had transpired to douse that indomitable spirit.  Still, he caught a flash in her large green eyes that made him wonder.

“Good eve, lady Solace,” Barclay said smoothly.

After a short moment, Solace thrust her bound hands toward him.  “These are not necessary.”

Barclay shrugged slightly.  “After your previous escape, I have little choice.”

She lowered her hands in acceptance.

“Come,” he ordered.  “Warm yourself by my side.”

She moved, as he commanded, to his side.  When he reached out to touch her waist, she was pleasantly pliable.  He grinned, wondering if he shouldn’t bed her now before the fight returned to her.  No.  He liked a woman who fought.  “I must tell you what an absolute treat it was to hear you had simply strolled into a village and found my men.  I had garrisons of them out patrolling every village from here to London.  And my little dove simply walks into my hands.”

Solace stared at the fire.  Shadows and light danced across her soft features.

“I must wonder if this is some sort of trap.”

Something crossed her face, a memory, perhaps.  “No trap,” she finally replied.  “I want you to become rightful lord of Fulton.  I want no one to question your claim to these lands.”

“And so they shall not,” Barclay agreed.  He took her hand into his own and pressed a hearty kiss to her knuckles.  “Shall we say in two weeks time?”

Solace nodded once.

“I would do it at once, but Father Davis insisted we make it a Yuletide wedding,” he encouraged.  “That way our union will be doubly blessed.”

***

“Solace, I can’t believe you truly want to wed this man.”  Father Davis stood before her, his hands clasped over his large belly, his deep brown eyes staring at her with concern.  His voice seemed to echo inside the cavernous chapel.  “At least I succeeded in postponing the wedding a few weeks.  To give you time to really think about this.”

Solace noticed the elaborate renovations to the chapel.  A golden altar had been added, a huge statue of the Virgin Mary.  It was those cold, unseeing eyes she met, instead of Father Davis’s.  Solace turned her back to him, wrapping her arms around herself.  Before her, a row of cream-colored cherub statues watched her from atop their intricately carved pedestals.  And even though the stone angels had empty slits for eyes, she felt disapproving stares emanating from them.  She suddenly felt a chill.  She had never lied to Father Davis before and she certainly couldn’t do it in the chapel.

“He is one of the most heartless men I have ever met,” Father Davis added.

Solace whirled to him, her back straightening.  “Did he hurt you?”

“Me?” Father Davis echoed in surprise.  “No.  Not me.  But I’m certainly one of the few he hasn’t.  Have you seen any of the villagers?”

She hadn’t been allowed out of her room for two days.  Barclay was afraid she would run.  Finally, she had been escorted to the chapel and allowed to see Father Davis.  Three guards were waiting outside to bring her back to her prison of a room when she was done.

“He starves them, Solace,” Father Davis said gently.  “He stole the crops when he entered Fulton, and now with the weather getting cold and no food...”  Father Davis’s voice trailed off as he bowed his head and shook it.  “We pray it will be a mild winter.”

Solace dropped her hands to her sides.  The villagers.  She was glad she had returned.  Perhaps somehow she could get them food.  At least the sick ones and the ones with children.  “That’s why I’m marrying him.  Perhaps I can soften his heart.”

“Child, no one can soften his heart.  He lusts for glory on earth and glory in heaven.”  Father Davis again shook his head.  “He gives gold to the church, but he is cold and merciless.  Look what he did to your stepmother.”  Father Davis raised Solace’s chin with his finger.  “He will show you no kindness.”

A chill of doom slithered up Solace’s spine.  “And I ask for none.”

Father Davis shook his head, rubbing his tired eyes.  “Do you love him?”

Solace sought desperately for the right answer.  “My sister is fond of him.”

Father Davis snorted.  “Lady Beth has as much sense as a jackass.”

Solace couldn’t resist a smile.

“It’s good to see you smile, Solace,” Father Davis commented quietly.  “Fulton has become a castle of gloom since you left.  Tell me of your journeys.”  Father Davis moved over to a bench and sat down, patting the stone beside him.

Solace moved to him, sitting next to him.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

“To Cavindale,” she replied, glancing down at her slippered feet.

“Cavindale?  That’s so far from here!  You traveled alone?”

“No.”

She sensed Father Davis studying her face, but kept her eyes averted, running a finger across a gash in the stone bench.

“Who did you travel with?”

A permanent sorrow seemed to sweep her into a cocoon of emptiness.  “Logan Grey.”

Father Davis drew in a sharp breath.  “Logan?  Could it be?”  He clasped his hands gently before him.  “Peter’s brother?”

Solace nodded, a strand of dark hair falling over her shoulder.  “He was the falconer.”

“The falconer,” Father Davis echoed absently.  “All that time, and I didn’t even recognize him.”  He turned his attention back to Solace.  “My prayers have been answered.”  He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper.  “He’s coming to take Fulton, isn’t he?”

“He might be, Father,” Solace said.  “But by the time he arrives, it will be too late.”

“Too late?” Father Davis exclaimed.  “But surely you can hold Barclay off!”

“I don’t want to,” Solace whispered.  “I don’t want Logan to have Fulton.”

“But, child, he’s our only hope.”

“He killed my father,” Solace said defensively, turning her head to look at him hotly.

As they locked eyes, Father Davis groaned softly.  He suddenly looked decades older.

Solace knelt before Father Davis, taking his hand in her own.  “You have to marry us, Father.  I want you to.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking me,” he whispered.  “I don’t want to see another one of my beloved children hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve lived at Fulton for a long time.  I’m an old man, Solace.  I watched Peter and Logan grow up.  I loved them as I do you.  And when your father came, I watched their family destroyed.  They were my children.  The same as you are.  I cannot stand by and watch you do this.  I can not marry you.”

Desperately, Solace buried her forehead against his hands.  “Please, Father.”

“Go, child,” he said in a steely voice.  “If you still wish to marry Barclay after you see what he’s done, then I will marry you.”  He patted her head, gently.  “Go visit Peter and care for him again.”

“Peter?” Solace gasped.  “He’s here?  Where?  Where is he?”

Father Davis’s brown eyes darkened.  “In the dungeon.”

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The following day Barclay guided Solace down the narrow stairs leading into the darkness of the dungeon.  His large form obscured her vision of the interior of the prison, but she could hear the moans rising out of the blackness.  Before her feet hit the dirt floor of the dungeon, the groans and calls for mercy were already ringing loudly in her ears.  She froze, her hands instinctively reaching out to the walls for support.  The smells of charred flesh and urine assaulted her, and she had to fight down the strong urge to race back up the stairs.

Barclay turned to her.  In the flickering torchlight, Solace saw the smile on his lips, a smile more horrible than the cries of the tortured, more horrible than the darkness that awaited her.  He was enjoying this.  At the thought, terror gripped her.  She now understood why he had voiced no objection to her seeing Peter.  He was actually enjoying watching the torment play across her features.  She froze, unable to move.  She didn’t want to see the transformation that the dark power of the dungeon had made in its captives.  She didn’t want to see her people, her men, chained and hobbled like animals.

The Baron’s grin grew, his blue eyes sparkling with dark satisfaction.  He wanted her afraid; he wanted to see her terror.

With this understanding came her resolve not to give in.  Solace hid her fear behind a wall of resolution and a stone face.  Barclay’s grin slipped a notch and he moved on, escorting her deeper into the bowels of hell.  The already-grotesque smell worsened as they moved into the heart of the dungeon.  In the guard’s area, Barclay stopped to speak to the man stationed there.

Solace looked around the small room in horror.  The torchlight washed over a woman manacled and chained to the floor.  Her clothing was ripped, a breast exposed in the flickering light.  Her dark eyes stared at Solace without seeing.  Her hair was scraggly, her face dirty and smeared with dried blood.

But what was most appalling to Solace was that she remembered the woman from the village.  She was the young, bright-eyed daughter of the miller.  Her father had died in Solace’s arms from an arrow wound.

Solace stepped forward, instinctively moving to the girl’s side.  She reached out to take the woman’s hand in her own, but Barclay’s fingers closed over her arm, pulling her to her feet.  “She has all the attention she needs,” he said harshly.

“You barbarian!” Solace accused, ripping her arm from his hold.  “How can you treat a woman like that?  Chaining her to the floor like some animal.”

“Oh, it’s worse than you think,” Barclay said, so softly that Solace had to strain to hear him above the moans.  “She is used by my guards to make this position more... appealing.”

Solace gasped in sheer outrage and whirled to the young woman.  Barclay moved up behind her, his oily voice dripping in her ears.  “Take heed, my beloved.  You could just as easily replace her.”  When his hand touched the small of her back, she jumped, but Barclay simply guided her down the darkening hallway.

“It’s a pity the dungeon is so small,” he said.  “I’ve had to execute quite a number of people for lack of room.  But I’ve had no trouble coming up with ways to dispatch them.”

Solace lurched forward, away from his grip, but she could not escape the darkness and the stench of death.

“Here we are,” Barclay said good-naturedly, halting before a door.

It was the same cell Logan had been chained in.  Dread prickled the nape of Solace’s neck as Barclay unlocked the door and swung it open.  He ducked his head, thrusting the torch before him as he entered the cell.

Two forms lurched away from the light as the torch’s glare swept over them.  Like animals, she thought.  Solace grimaced, preparing herself for the atrocities she was certain had been inflicted on Peter.  But no matter how hard she tried, she could not have prepared herself for the sight that greeted her.

She stepped into the cell, peering around Barclay’s shoulder at the huddled form he pointed to.  The man cowered in the grime of the dungeon floor, covered in muck.  Dark, knotted hair fell to his neck.  Solace could barely make out the tattered remains of a white tunic with her father’s crest on it.  The man’s skin was as pale as moonlight.

Solace stepped toward him, calling softly, “Peter?”

The man started.  “Go away,” he commanded.

Barclay lashed out with his foot, striking him with his boot.  “Don’t speak to my betrothed like that.”

“Don’t!” Solace hollered at Barclay.

“No,” the man groaned, but Solace realized it was not the blow causing him agony.

She knelt beside him, tentatively.  “Peter, it’s me,” she whispered.  “Solace.”

The man turned his head so he was looking at her over his shoulder.  She could see only one of his teary brown eyes.  “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he said hoarsely.

“Peter,” Solace said sympathetically, reaching out to cup his cheek.  She felt his tears, his agony as if it were her own.  “It’s all right,” she whispered.  “I’m here.”

Her words drew him forth from the darkness, from the blackness that had eaten away at his soul for months.  He dropped his shoulder, moving into the light of the torch.

Solace’s heart wrenched and she blinked her eyes against a sudden onslaught of tears.  Peter’s face was covered with bruises and cuts, some healing, some festering with pus.  But what made her cry out in anguish, what made tears stream from her eyes, was his other eye.  They had burned it out!  Where his eye should have been, there was an empty socket, blackened by charring heat, swollen and bruised.  She covered her mouth, gasping, “Oh, Peter!”

He looked down in an attempt to hide his disfigurement.  Solace gently cupped his chin, forcing him to look up at her.  “It’s all right,” she soothed.

Peter reached up to brush a finger against her cheek, wiping away some of her tears.

“Be careful how you touch my betrothed,” Barclay warned from behind her.

His voice jarred Solace and she stood, whirling to face him.  “How could you?” she demanded.

“Easily, my darling.”  His voice was mocking.  “I was searching for you.”

“How could Peter have known where I was?”

“He is a Grey,” Barclay said simply.  “He might have known where his brother would take you.”

Solace stepped closer to Barclay, her teeth clenched, her loathing evident.  “Peter did not even know Logan was alive.  You knew that.  You knew he would have no idea where Logan had gone.  You did it because you like to hurt people.”

Barclay held up a hand.  “On the contrary, my dove.  I only hurt my enemies.”  His smile grew and the wavering torchlight distorted it, making it look more like a grimace.  His hand shot out, capturing her arm in a tight hold.  “Be thankful you are not my enemy.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to ignore the biting pain coming from his grip.

“Solace,” Peter groaned and shifted, but he was too weak to rise, too weak to come to her defense.

Barclay shoved Solace toward Peter.  “Care for him.  Then Father Davis will marry us.”

***

Solace stared across the Great Hall at the table of monks.  Their numbers seemed to have doubled, perhaps even tripled in size from when she had first arrived a week ago; almost twenty monks now occupied the table.  Every Yule, Castle Fulton was host to these pious travelers, offering them shelter and food before they continued on with their pilgrimage.  Most ate quietly, exchanging few words.  They dined with their hoods up, solemnly, eating whatever they were given.  Solace wished she could join them.

“Aren’t you hungry, darling?” Barclay asked from beside her.  “You haven’t touched your food.”

Solace glanced down at the venison.  It was not the pungent aroma of the food that soured her appetite.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “I have no appetite.”  She stood to return to her chamber, but Barclay seized her arm.

“I hope you’re more zealous in bed than you are for food,” he murmured.

Solace gently freed her arm.  “You needn’t worry about my duties as a wife.  I will remain faithful.”

She turned and moved toward the hallway, very aware that every one of Barclay’s men watched her.  Barclay had freed her hands of their bindings, but it was obvious he had instructed his men to watch her every movement.

She was still very much a prisoner.

She stepped into the hall and moved toward her room.  Suddenly, an overwhelming urge to flee took hold of her.  She leaned against the wall and placed her hands to her cheeks.  Why?  Why was she doing this?  It was madness!  Marrying Barclay.  I have to, she told herself firmly.  I have to do it.  I can’t let Logan have Fulton.  I have to marry Barclay so the lands are rightfully his.

“My child, are you all right?”

Solace looked up to find Father Davis standing before her.

She wanted to launch herself into his arms and tell him what a fool she’d been.  But she couldn’t.  “Yes,” she said, straightening.  “I’m fine.”

Father Davis nodded once.  His brown eyes peered at her, and she had to avert her eyes before he saw the truth.

“The wedding is in a week’s time,” Solace said.  “On the Yule.”

“Don’t do this, Solace,” Father Davis pleaded.  “He will hurt you.”

Solace looked at the cold stones beneath her feet.  “I did what you said, Father.  I’ve tended Peter daily.”

“You’ve seen what he did to Peter,” Father Davis said sternly.  “You can’t marry him.”

Solace raised her eyes, determination shining brightly in them.  “I want to.”

Disbelief and hurt flashed across Father Davis’s face.  “But Solace –”

“You gave your word,” Solace argued.  “I want to marry him.  I have to.”

Father Davis sighed.  “I will not go back on my word.  If it’s what you wish.”

Solace nodded, grasping his hands.  “Thank you.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said and eased his hands from her grip.  “I wish you would change your mind.  Think about it.”  He gently touched her cheek and disappeared down the hallway.

Solace watched him for a moment.  She had thought about it.  Long and hard.  It was the only way to stop Logan.  And she would do anything.

Then why did she feel so horrible?  Was what she was doing wrong?  She rubbed her eyes.  Logan’s image came unbidden.  His warm smile, his soft touch, his silver eyes filled her mind.

Why?  Why had he killed her father?

She pushed herself from the wall, doubts plaguing her mind.  Her decision was made.  She glanced up and saw a monk standing in the shadows of the great doors, watching her.

She turned and headed to her room.

***

Solace stared at the snow as it fell from the sky, falling over the lands like frozen tears.  Then she remembered Logan’s face as he’d thrust the blade into her father’s heart.  How could she have been so wrong about Logan?  She had loved him with all her heart, all her being.  It was as if he had killed her instead of her father.

She heard the door to her room open and close, but did not look up to see who it was.

A cup was thrust before her.

Solace looked down at it and then raised her gaze to meet Beth’s glacial blue eyes.  It seemed everything around her was cold.  “What’s this?” she wondered.

“It will cure all your problems,” Beth answered softly.

Solace’s eyes narrowed before shifting back to the drink.  She took the offered cup.

“It’s quick and you won’t be in any pain,” Beth assured her.

Solace stared at the beckoning liquid.  She should have been surprised and repulsed, but she was neither.  She accepted Beth’s offering, nonplused.  In the torchlight, the dark liquid looked like blood.

“Drink it,” Beth cooed.  “I’ll marry Barclay, have his child and he will still be rightful heir of Fulton.  Everyone will be happy.”

Solace licked her lips.  It was tempting, so tempting.  But she couldn’t do it.  She couldn’t leave her people to Beth’s care.  She lowered the cup to her lap.  “I can’t,” she said.

“Why not?” Beth demanded.  “It’s the only solution there is.”

“I don’t believe killing myself is a solution,” Solace whispered.

“Then perhaps some one else will do it.”

Startled, Solace raised her eyes to her sister, but Beth had already turned her back and was headed toward the door.

***

That night, Solace slept fitfully, if at all.  Logan’s mercury eyes haunted her dreams; his gentle touch and rumbling laughter plagued her senses.  She awoke again and again, only to fall into a restless sleep.

She moved through the next day like a sleepwalker.  A strange mist had settled about her, a mist of confusion, of depression.  Then she found herself in the chapel, kneeling before a statue of the Virgin Mary, praying for guidance.

She swallowed down a lump of despair.  When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she raised teary eyes to find Father Davis standing beside her.

“Solace,” he whispered, hurt by the pain in her eyes.  “What is it?”

“Father, I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered.

The priest’s eyes went wide with shock, then a frown crossed his wrinkled brow.  “You have to marry Barclay,” he said quickly.

“What?” she gasped.

“It’s the best thing for you.  I’ve been too harsh on the Baron.”

“But –”

“I’m sure he’ll make a wonderful husband.”  Father Davis stood, wiping a tear from her cheek.  “You’re doing the right thing.”  He patted her hand reassuringly, then turned and moved down the aisle toward the back of the chapel.

Solace couldn’t keep her mouth from dropping open.  Had Barclay gotten to him?  Threatened him somehow?  She turned back to her prayers, hoping the few other monks kneeling in the pews in prayer could not read her impious thoughts.

The monks were everywhere.  There was nowhere Solace could go to be alone, so the day before her wedding she went to the battlements, seeking calm in her churning emotions.  The biting wind tore at her cloak, whipping her hair out behind her.  She faced the wind, letting it sting her cheeks and water her eyes.

The land was frozen, the fields barren.  Tomorrow it would all be over.  Solace wondered what Barclay would do when he found out she wasn’t a virgin.  She wondered if he would kill her.  She wondered if he would care.

She wondered where Logan was.  Was he continuing to plan the attack against Castle Fulton?  Was he thinking about her?

Tears rose in her eyes as she thought of the time they had spent together.  She had been filled with joy whenever they had been together.  She had reveled in the secretive looks they had shared.  And now all that filled her soul was emptiness.

She would be Barclay’s wife.  And she would loathe him.

“Thinking of jumping off the battlements?”

Barclay’s voice sent a chill through her, and she blinked back her tears.  “No, m’lord,” she whispered.

“Good,” he murmured, moving up behind her.  “I don’t want you dead just yet.”  He trailed a hand along the length of her arm.

She stiffened at his touch, feeling strangely violated.

His fingers moved to caress her cheek, her neck.

Solace pulled away from him.  “I prefer to wait until our wedding night.”

“I insist,” he smiled, lowering his head to hers.

Solace backed into the wall.  “And I insist we wait.”

Barclay’s gaze devoured her, from her toes to the tips of her long hair.  A deep growl came from his throat, and Solace hid her shudder beneath a feigned chill.

“It’s so cold,” she said, moving forward to step around him.

He didn’t budge and Solace shrank away from him.  His blue eyes burned as he suddenly seized her hand, pressing it against the bulge in his pants.  “I plan to take you in ways that are not natural.  And you will not protest.”

Solace tried to pull her hand free, but he pressed it harder against himself.

“I have plans for you that would make a whore blush.”

Solace wanted to run, screaming, from him.  But she forced calm into her voice as she met his gaze, stilling her struggles.  “I’m sure you do, m’lord.”

“You will do everything I say on our wedding night and for every day after.”  He bent his head toward her lips, releasing her hand.

Solace ducked under his arm.  “But until then I’ll do as I please,” she called, fleeing the battlements.

Barclay started to follow, a twisted smile on his lips, a smoldering heat in his eyes.

Suddenly, a hooded monk stepped into his path, accidentally bumping his shoulder, halting his movement.

When Barclay turned enraged eyes on the monk, the hooded man humbly bowed before him.  Staring down at the top of the monk’s brown hood, Barclay bit back his condemning remark; he ground his teeth and lifted his gaze to see his prize had escaped.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Solace stood at the back of the chapel, staring impassively up the aisle at the golden altar where Father Davis stood.  His back was to her, his head bowed.  He was clothed in a brown cloak, the hood drawn up over his face, giving him the appearance of one of the visiting monks.  She clutched at her hands so they wouldn’t shake, only to find they were as cold and frigid as icicles.

Monks lined the pews and the walls of the chapel.  Barclay’s men were everywhere as well.  It looked as if every visitor and every invader had come to see the wedding.

Fitting, Solace thought.  She knew Barclay had placed his men in the room just to be sure she didn’t change her mind.  She shook her head.  It was too late to change her mind.  She would not turn back.

When did I become so bitter? she wondered as she started up the aisle.  When did I turn into Logan?  Her footing was sure and steady, even though a piece of her heart broke with each step that brought her closer to Barclay.  The white dress she wore was plain, a white houppelande, belted high just beneath her breasts.  The white was a mockery of her lost virginity, but she couldn’t wear black, even though it would be as dark and hopeless as she felt.  Not until after she had wed Barclay.  Not until the lands were his.  She had to complete that one task as vengeance for her father.

The baron waited for her at the front of the aisle, dressed in a bright red cape lined with fur that made him look like one of Satan’s minions.  He wore a black tunic and hose beneath the cape, and his sword was belted around his waist.  But it was his eyes that snared her attention as she neared; they were bright with victory.

She reached the front of the chapel and Barclay extended his hand.  Solace ignored it, a final defiance, and turned toward Father Davis.

She heard Barclay’s chuckle, but paid him no heed.  Instead, she concentrated on the way Father Davis was clutching the altar.  His knuckles were white and the veins on the back of his hand bulged against the surface skin, as if he were struggling to crush the sculptured metal of the altar in his fingers.  Then he stood, rising to his full height, and slowly turned to them, the cowl hiding his face in a shadowy pool of blackness.  He slowly came down the two steps before the altar.

The room was silent.  Solace waited, desperately trying to still the quickening pace of her madly beating heart.  In mere moments she would be lady Barclay, and there was nothing she could do now to stop it.  This was sheer madness!  What was I thinking?  She wanted to scream as the true horror of her predicament slammed into her.  She wanted to shout at the top of her lungs and drive a blade through Barclay’s black heart.  She wanted to yell a curse on Logan’s twisted soul.  But all she could do was lower her head and close her eyes for a moment, fighting the dizzying swirl of emotions whipping through her like an uncontrollable tornado and praying it would be over quickly.

When she opened her eyes Father Davis was standing before them.  Her gaze was drawn to his clasped hands.  They were strong and firm.  But his hands should have been wrinkled with age, puckered by his decades of service to God.

Solace looked up, her eyes wide, trying to see past the darkness of the shadows.

Suddenly, a strong hand shot forward and seized her arm, dragging her away from Barclay!

Barclay raised confused eyes, just in time to see the shape of the man disguised as Father Davis throw back the cowl to reveal the face of Logan Grey!

Logan drew the sword that had been hidden behind his cloak and pressed the tip to Barclay’s throat.

Solace couldn’t move.  Logan.  His name pulsed through her mind with each beat of her heart.  Logan!

“We meet again, old friend,” Logan ground out between clenched teeth.

“You traitorous bitch!” Barclay howled, his eyes locking on Solace.  “You trapped me!”

She opened her mouth to deny his accusations, but nothing came out.  Instead, she let an overwhelming relief course through her.

“You’re a damn fool!” Barclay spat out, his gaze shifting to Logan.  “You’ll never get out of here alive.”

“That’s where I think you’re wrong,” Logan replied.  “Tell your men to lay down their arms and surrender.”

A smile split Barclay’s lips, and laughter churned from his throat.  “One man against dozens?  I think not.”

The corner of Logan’s lips curled into a grin, and he nodded his head at one of the pews.  The chapel erupted in a frenzy of motion as the monks in the pews and in the aisles threw aside their cloaks to reveal Logan’s friends!  Solace recognized Blade’s blond head and Goliath’s tall form in the front row.

Barclay’s guards drew their swords and the thunderous clang of a hundred swords clashing rang out in the chapel.  The sound was deafening.

They had come to take the castle!  For a moment, disbelief rocked through Solace.  Without trebuchets, without battering rams, they had infiltrated the castle.  The plan was impulsive, ingenious and admirably brave.

Solace turned her gaze to Logan, a powerful pride welling up inside her... until the image of Logan shoving his sword into her father’s chest speared her mind.  Hurt and betrayal and anger replaced her joy.  She clenched her teeth and shoved the traitor hard, fleeing toward the door at the side of the altar.

She glanced quickly over her shoulder to see Logan recovering from her shove, saw him cast a frustrated glance at the fleeing Barclay before turning a dark look on her.  She continued to run, hiking the layers of her skirts over her knees to achieve full speed.

She reached for the handle of the door, pushing the wooden barricade open, and ran into the small, stone alcove.  Spiral stairs rose up to the next floor.  Behind her, the door exploded open and Logan shot through it, grabbing her wrist and whirling her around.  Shocked, she couldn’t move for a long moment.  He was before her, staring at her with smoldering gray eyes.

Solace began to struggle, fighting to free her wrist.  He glared at her, stilling her useless battle by pressing his body against hers.  Fire ignited throughout her as his breath mingled with her own.  “Get away from me!” she commanded.

He pressed her back against the wall, shoving his body closer to hers.  “I should slit your traitorous neck,” he growled, but bent to press a kiss to her tender throat.  “If it didn’t mean so damn much to me.”

Stunned, Solace couldn’t move.  His head rose until he stared her in the eyes.  She found it hard to breathe with him so close.  She had forgotten how beguiling those silver eyes were, how warm his body was.  Part of her fight left her under the hypnotic effect of his presence.  His laughter rumbled through her, prickling her nerves.  And she missed him.  Part of her was dying, for she knew she would yield to him, even though he had killed her father.

“My stubborn little Solace,” he whispered.  “Your plan would have worked if I wasn’t so determined to claim what was rightfully mine.”

Fulton.  The old argument, the old vengeance that had killed her father, sparked her anger into a disconsolate inferno and Solace renewed her attempts at escape, pounding his massive chest, trying to step on his toes with her foot.  Pain flared through her heel as it slammed against his hard boot.  Tears burned in her eyes.  “All you care about is this castle!  Your revenge!  Well, it’s complete now!  My father’s dead!”

“Dead?”

“Your vengeance is complete!  You should feel proud!”

“Solace, it ended in Cavindale.”

She stilled her fight and stared up into his steel eyes.  Pain flooded through her.  She nodded.  “When you killed my father.  I saw you kill him.”  She fought back her tears.  “I saw you.”

Logan stepped back, releasing her.  She knew she should run, but the weight of her convictions pressed down on her like stone.  She couldn’t move as he studied her face, taking in every detail.  His face softened suddenly, relaxing as understanding spread across his features.  “He’s not dead, Solace,” Logan whispered.

“What?” she gasped.

“I didn’t kill him,” Logan admitted.  “I couldn’t do it.”

“But I saw you.”

Logan shook his head.  “I wanted to kill him.  Lord, how I wanted him dead.  To avenge my father.  To avenge my mother.  But the only thing I could think of was what it would do to you.  The hurt I would see in your eyes.”  He shook his head.  “I couldn’t do it.  Not in the face of that.”

“My father’s alive?” Solace gasped.

Logan nodded.  “He’s alive.”

“But I saw you stab him with your sword…”

“I only stabbed dirt and grass.”

“But you could have had your revenge.”

“I don’t want it anymore,” Logan threw back his head and laughed.  “I don’t even want Fulton anymore.”  He lowered his head to gaze into her eyes.  “All I want is you.”

Solace stared at him, her heart beating wildly, her hopes soaring.

Logan raised a hand to trace his fingers tenderly over her cheek.  “You’ve put more faith in me than I have in myself.  You loved me when I couldn’t even love myself.  It took me a long time to realize it, a long time to put aside my anger.  You are everything I have ever wanted.”

Solace opened her mouth, but nothing came out.  She was so happy that tears rose in her eyes.

“I love you, Solace,” Logan whispered.

Suddenly, the wall beside Solace moved and Barclay appeared beside her, grabbing her arm, entwining his hand in her hair, yanking her against him like a shield!  “Is this man bothering you, dearest?” he whispered harshly.

Solace cringed as Barclay pulled her hair tighter.  Logan lunged forward, but Barclay placed the blade of his sword to her neck.

“Ah-ah,” he warned.  “I’d hate to slip and hurt such a treasure.”

Logan straightened.

Pain flared in Solace’s head as Barclay tugged harshly on her hair, dragging her back into the darkness of the passageway.

“Don’t follow me, old friend,” Barclay said.  “Or I’ll kill her.”

Logan watched with growing fury as Barclay disappeared into a secret passage behind the alcove wall.  He crushed his fingers into tight fists, squeezing them tighter and tighter until the muscles in his arms ached with his anger, until his entire body shook with outrage.  He whirled away from the wall and raced back into the chapel, speeding through the chaotic swirl of fighting men filling the large room.  One of Barclay’s men stepped in front of him, brandishing a blood-soaked blade, defying him to continue.  Logan plunged straight into the man, growling like a savage animal, baring his teeth in a feral snarl, swinging his sword with a ferocity that no man could match.  The guard went down.

Logan sped on, racing out of the chapel and into a long hallway.  He shoved aside an ornate tapestry hanging on the wall and disappeared into the secret passageway hidden behind it.  His heart pounded in his chest.  He had never been more scared in his life.  The possibility of losing Solace forever terrified him more than anything had ever terrified him in his life, more than his first fight with Goliath when he nearly lost his own life, more than seeing Farindale’s army approaching his father’s castle those many years ago.

He ran through the darkness, slipping several times on the mossy floor in his frantic drive to reach Solace.

The narrow corridor reeked of mold and decay.  And death.  He ran faster, his breath exploding from his lungs, his blood hammering in his ears.  He knew where the passageway emerged; the exit was up on the northern tower of the castle.  He could reach Barclay through the battlements.  He emerged from the passageway just outside the spiraling steps of the tower.  He charged up the stairs and out onto the battlements.

As Logan sped across the battlements toward the north wall, the wind whipped his hair around his face.  Above him, dark clouds churned in an ominous black sky.  He rounded a corner in the walkway to see Barclay and Solace already emerging from the passage.  Solace attempted to break free, lurching forward, but Barclay caught hold of her dress and dragged her back.

“Barclay!” Logan shouted, his angry voice rising above the shrillness of the wind.

Barclay turned to face him, keeping his sword at Solace’s throat.

Logan’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the blade in Barclay’s hands.  It was his father’s, the blade he had entrusted to Logan, the blade he had given his son in recognition of his emerging manhood.  Again, Logan’s body shook with rage, a tremor rippling through him.  “Let her go,” he ordered, surprised at the calmness of his voice.

Thunder rumbled in the sky above.

Logan approached slowly, the strong wind blowing the hair away from his eyes, slapping at his clothes, trying to push him back from Solace.  But no force of nature could keep him from her.

Barclay held the sword to Solace’s throat, the lashing wind blowing her hair around her face, into Barclay’s eyes.

“Let her go!” Logan repeated, deadly intent in the rumble from his throat.  “It’s me you want.”

Lightning flashed behind Logan as thick black clouds continued to roll across the sky.

“I have no interest in you and I never did,” Barclay called back.  “Now back away or she is dead.”

Logan stiffened.  If he backed away now, Barclay would escape.  If he didn’t, Barclay would gladly slit Solace’s throat.  Logan took a step back.

Suddenly, his falcon swooped down from the ominous sky, its claws outstretched, its screeching cry drowning out even the loud blasts of thunder coming from the black clouds above!  The falcon clawed at Barclay’s head, scratching at his eyes with its sharp talons.  Barclay shrieked in shock and fear.  He shoved Solace away from him, arcing his sword at the bird.  The falcon fluttered away, easily avoiding Barclay’s attack.

Solace screamed as the force of Barclay’s push sent her hurtling toward the castle wall.  A brilliant flare of lightning burned into the sky, forever searing the image of Solace toppling over the battlements into Logan’s mind.

He lunged for Solace as she fell over the edge, dropping his sword as he moved.  His fingers somehow managed to find and encircle her slim wrist, but the sudden weight in his grasp pulled Logan down sharply and his stomach slammed into the stone wall, knocking his breath from his lungs.  He felt her flesh slide along his fingers.

“Logan!” Solace cried up at him, her face tight with pain.  Below her, far below her, the ground was littered with sharp-edged stones.  No one could survive a fall from the battlements.

“Hold on!” he shouted down at her.  The wind whipped around them, buffeting Solace’s body with strong gusts, knocking her into the stone wall again and again.  His fingers ached with the strain of holding her.  “Hold on!” he shouted again.  Logan clenched his teeth and began pulling her up toward him, his muscles bulging and rippling with power as he tugged.  He managed to pull her up high enough so she could grab onto the edge of the castle wall.

That was when he heard footsteps rushing up behind him.

Logan turned instinctively, releasing Solace, moving away just in time to sidestep Barclay’s swing.  The blade smashed into the castle wall, chunks of stone spitting up mere inches from where Solace clung for her life.  Solace screamed as tiny bits of rock showered her, and Logan saw her grip slip as her body dropped a foot back down the outer wall.

Quickly, he put his foot to the Baron’s chest and shoved him backward.  Barclay stumbled away from him, then fell, the blade tumbling from his grasp.

Logan scooped up his father’s sword, his sword, and stood before Barclay.  He gripped the blade tightly in his fingers, the weapon now an extension of his being.  He moved toward Barclay.

“Just back away,” he told the Baron.

But Barclay grabbed Logan’s dropped sword and stood tall before him, meeting his stormy gaze with a dark stare of his own.

Logan glanced to his left to see Solace struggling to keep her grip on the castle wall.  “Logan,” she called to him, her eyes beseeching him for help.  She was between the Baron and himself.  If he made a move to help her, Barclay would cut him down.  He had to get him away from Solace.

“Now, we finish this,” Logan snarled as he attacked, slamming his sword down onto Barclay’s, driving the Baron back, away from Solace.  He fought desperately, knowing that each second that passed brought Solace closer to her death.

The wind churned around the two fighters, pulling at their clothing.  Thunder rumbled in the gray sky above them.  Logan drove Barclay back and moved toward Solace, but Barclay swung after him, forcing Logan to engage him again.  They crossed swords, Logan’s face a grimace of agony as Solace called out to him again.

“What’s wrong, old friend?” Barclay wondered through gritted teeth.  A flash of lightning revealed a grotesque, distorted grin splitting Barclay’s face.  “Distracted?  You’d better hurry.  It looks like she’s slipping.”

Logan shoved off, swinging with all his might.  Barclay blocked the blow, but the force of the strike dropped him to his knees.  Logan lashed out with his boot, kicking his foe solidly in the face.  Barclay tumbled back to the ground as blood spurted from his nostrils.  He howled with outrage, holding his fingers to his bleeding nose.

Logan turned away from his fallen enemy and raced back for Solace.  He grabbed her under her arms and pulled her over the wall, up onto the battlement.  “Are you all right?” he asked gently, holding her up as her trembling legs buckled beneath her.

Solace nodded, clutching at him.  She looked up into his eyes --

-- and screamed!  Logan spun away from her, lifting his blade in time to block Barclay’s strike.  Again, the two crossed swords, their faces inches apart.

Lightning flashed in the sky, followed by a tremendous crack of thunder.

“Maybe you can buy your way out of hell,” Logan growled.

“You’ve already sold your soul to the devil,” Barclay spat back.  “Bedding your enemy’s daughter.”

Logan pushed off, taking a few steps back from Barclay.

Barclay attacked immediately, swinging for Logan’s head.  Logan ducked and whirled, spinning rapidly in a tight circle, bringing his blade toward the Baron’s knees.  Barclay angled his weapon down, blocking Logan’s strike.

Logan rose to his full height and glared heatedly at Barclay.  A grim determination etched itself into his features.  “You have betrayed me,” he said evenly to the Baron.  He swung his blade at Barclay and sparks flashed into the air as the hard metals collided.

“You’re an idealistic fool,” Barclay retorted.

“You have tortured and maimed my brother.”  The power behind Logan’s strikes intensified.  He pushed Barclay back a step under the strength of his blows.

“He’s a stubborn idiot with the brain of a gnat,” Barclay snarled.

“You have threatened and risked the life of my lady,” Logan said through gritted teeth.

“She’s nothing but a whore,” Barclay spat out.

Logan attacked Barclay mercilessly, swinging again and again, forcing the Baron to retreat under his savage onslaught.  Then Logan feinted with an over handed blow and Barclay moved to block it.  Logan thrust, driving his sword into Barclay’s stomach.

Time froze for a moment, Barclay clutching his sword above his head, Logan holding onto the pommel of his weapon, the blade lodged deep in Barclay’s stomach.

Barclay lowered his head slowly, his eyes filled with disbelief, to stare at the sword buried deep inside him.  He lifted his fading gaze to Logan.

Logan grimaced as he pushed the blade deeper into Barclay’s gut.

Barclay pulled his sword down at Logan in one final attempt to kill him.  Logan easily sidestepped the swing, and the weapon clattered to the stones of the tower.  The impetus sent Barclay forward onto his hands and knees, and Logan stepped to the side to let him fall.

When Solace ran to Logan, he wrapped her in a warm embrace, their gazes locked on Barclay.  Barclay managed to push himself over onto his back, gasping for a breath as he moved.  His fingers convulsively gripped the handle of the Grey sword buried inside him.  Blood soaked through his black tunic and spilled through his fingers.  He lifted his eyes to Logan.  His lips curled up in a grin, and he opened his mouth to speak.  But the only thing that came out was a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.  His blue eyes rolled into his head and his body slackened.

For a long moment, everything was still.  In the sky above, the falcon circled Logan and Solace.  It cawed once and then flew off.

Logan hugged Solace tightly.  “It’s over,” he groaned, burying his face in the strands of her silken hair.

The first drops of rain fell from the sky, splashing over Barclay.  The cool rain splattered against Logan’s shoulders, and he pulled Solace into the protective shelter of his arms.  Suddenly, the sky opened and a heavy downpour drenched the tower, the castle, the lands.

***

Solace stepped into the chapel beside Logan to find many of his men lounging around the pews.  Blade straightened upon seeing them, and a bright grin lit his face.  “Grey,” he exclaimed happily.

The remaining men stood, rushing forward, enveloping them in a tide of warmth.

“They’ve fled, Logan,” Blade said.  “Goliath took some men to make sure they were gone, but most of Barclay’s men were mercenaries.  Looks like they didn’t think he was worth dying for.”

Logan slapped Blade on the shoulder.  “Good work,” he said, moving through the rush of men.

“Ah!  Thank the Lord!”

Solace knew that voice.  A feeling of anticipation filled her, and she pushed through the crowd.  “Father!” she cried out.

The crowd parted like a curtain before lord Farindale as he rushed toward her.  He barely gave her time to acknowledge he was alive, he was real, before he embraced her in a powerful hug.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, holding her tightly.

“No,” she gasped, trembling all over.  “I can’t believe it.  I thought you were dead.”  She held onto him as though at any moment he might disintegrate and disappear from her embrace.

“No, Solace,” he murmured into her hair.

“Father!”

Solace turned to see Beth hobbling into the chapel, working her way past Logan’s friends to where Solace and the others stood.  “Oh, Father!” she exclaimed, throwing herself at him.  “I thought you would never come!”

Lord Farindale caught Beth in his arms, but did not greet her with the warmth he had greeted Solace.  There was a reserve to him that startled Solace.  Finally, he set Beth away from him.  He looked at her rounded stomach and then back at her face.

“It was horrible,” Beth muttered, burying her face in her father’s tunic.

Lord Farindale exchanged glances with Logan.

Solace looked up at Logan to find his eyes cold and hard.

“You never tried to contact me,” lord Farindale said calmly.

Beth pulled back to look into his eyes.  “I -- I couldn’t.  Edwin allowed me no visitors.  He locked me in my room.  I had –”

“I’ve been in the castle amongst the monks for two days now, Beth,” Farindale interrupted.  “I saw how you fawned all over him.  I saw how you willingly shared your bed with him.”

“It was an act!” Beth shouted.  “I had to protect myself!”

Lord Farindale reached into his tunic to pull out a dagger.  It was the dagger Logan had found when Graham attacked Solace.  It was the dagger Ryder had assaulted Solace with.  “I gave this to you before I left,” Farindale said.

“Yes!  I recognize it,” Beth agreed.  “Where did you get it?”

Farindale’s eyes narrowed.  “The man who attacked Solace had it.”

“It was stolen!” Beth shouted.  “I swear.  It’s been missing for months!”

“Your lies will never again touch my heart,” Farindale said stoically.  “Power and greed have always run through your veins.  Unlike Solace, you are selfish and unkind.  I will take you to a nunnery where you will spend the rest of your days in prayer for your sins.”

“Father!  I beg you!  I am with child!  You can not do this!” Beth pleaded.

Farindale turned his back to her, signaling one of his men to take her away.  Her screams echoed in the chapel, slowly fading into silence.

“The sisters will see to her child,” lord Farindale explained in response to Solace’s worried look.  “Do not worry.”

Farindale turned a severe gaze on Logan before setting a hand on his shoulder.  Solace saw unease spreading over Logan’s face until her father spoke.  “I owe you much, son,” Farindale said.  “My daughter.  My castle.  How can I repay you?”

Logan would ask for Castle Fulton, Solace knew.  It was what he wanted most of all.  And he should have it.  He deserved it.  A strange, melancholy feeling settled over her.

Logan’s gaze swept his men, who smiled at him in triumph.  Finally, his stare settled on Solace.

“Lord Farindale,” Logan said.  “There is only one thing I want.”

Solace bowed her head in acceptance.

Logan continued, “I wish to have your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Solace’s eyes widened in surprise and her head snapped up, her gaze locking with Logan’s.  A cry of joy bubbled from her lips.

“I should have guessed as much,” Farindale said.  “You have my best wishes.”

Solace ran forward, throwing herself into Logan’s arms.  He easily caught her, spinning her around, laughing.  When her feet hit the ground, she reached up to press a kiss to his lips.

The men chortled, and murmurs of approval echoed through the chapel.

“Of course,” Farindale added, stilling the joyous moment, “with my daughter’s hand come many responsibilities.”

Logan and Solace turned to him.  Solace noticed the sternness in her father’s eyes, and wariness gripped her.

“I’m away at war much of the time.  I need someone to protect my daughter, someone to look after her.  But I also need someone to see to my lands, my castle.  It bequeaths me to have it be my heir.”

“Oh, Logan,” Solace gasped.  She turned her gaze up into his joyful face with more passion and relief and gratitude -- and love -- than she had ever felt before.

THE LADY AND THE FALCONER

EPILOGUE

The wind blew Logan’s dark hair about his face as he stood before Fulton’s main gate.  He watched with growing sadness as his brother climbed onto his horse.  The falcon on Logan’s shoulder fluffed its black feathers and anxiously shifted its stance.

Peter adjusted the patch over his eye before reaching down from his mount and grasping his brother’s arm.  “I wish you all the best, brother,” he said.

“I wish you would change your mind,” Logan told him.  “You’re more than welcome at Castle Fulton.”  Logan paused.  “Now that I found you, I don’t want to lose you again.”

Peter studied his brother for a moment.  “I think it’s time I see the world,” he finally said, turning his gaze down the road before him.  He glanced back once to look at Solace who was leaning against the castle gate, waiting for Logan.  He quickly looked away from her.  “I can’t stay.”

Logan’s lips set in a thin line.  He nodded once.  “Good luck,” he said.

“And to you.”  Peter then spurred his horse.  The animal moved off, trotting down the road that led to the village.  And to the wide world beyond.

Logan watched his brother for a long moment.  He wondered if Peter had felt this way all those years ago when watching him ride out of the castle to see Farindale’s army.  Did he think he would never see me again? Logan wondered.

Solace joined him, and Logan turned pained eyes to her.  She already said her good-byes to Peter, and he saw the ache in her gaze mirrored the emotions he felt.  She reached up and caressed his cheek.

Suddenly, the falcon on Logan’s shoulder took flight.  It soared high into the air, its magnificent wings spread wide to catch the air currents swirling above the castle walls.  The bird circled Logan and Solace once.  Then a gust of wind seemed to catch it and propel it toward Peter.  Logan watched in awe as the falcon circled his brother, before diving to hang in the air just above his head.

Peter swatted at it once.  The falcon easily moved out of Peter’s reach, then returned to hover over him again.

Logan looked at Solace, and they exchanged an amazed glance.

“Looks like your guardian angel’s found another troubled soul to look after,” Solace said.

Logan cast a wistful gaze after the falcon.

“You’re going to miss that bird,” Solace said.

“No, I’m not,” Logan objected.

A knowing smile spread across Solace’s face.  “Yes, you are.”

“No.  I’m not,” Logan insisted.

“Yes, you are.”  Solace laughed.

Logan stalked her and captured her wrist, pulling her to him.  He stared down into her beautiful green eyes.  “I am not.”

Solace smiled.

Logan pressed his lips to hers, stealing her grin.  “I’m not,” he whispered.

Solace stood on the tips of her toes and kissed the corners of his lips, his chin, his nose and eyes.  “Yes, you are,” Solace whispered huskily, kissing him fully on the lips.

“All right,” he agreed, holding her to his heart.  “I am.  A little bit.”  He would grant her anything just to see her smile.

Solace hugged Logan tightly, and he gazed down at her with adoration.  He was the happiest man in all the land.  He had everything he ever wanted.  And something he never dreamed of... his Solace.

The End

ABOUT LAUREL O'DONNELL

Laurel O’Donnell lives in Illinois with her husband, four children and five cats. She has always enjoyed escaping into the medieval era, including spending a summer interning at the renaissance faire in Wisconsin where she learned to sword fight and recite Shakespeare. Now, she spends her time reading a good book, watching Sam and Dean battle evil in Supernatural, or working on her next novel…

Laurel is the author of numerous medieval romance novels, a medieval romance novella, a vampire romance novel and an urban fantasy series. You can find the full list of her available titles here.

ARUCARD

BARBARA DEVLIN

TITLES BY

BARBARA DEVLIN

BRETHREN OF THE COAST SERIES

Enter the Brethren (Brethren of the Coast 1)

My Lady, the Spy (Brethren of the Coast 2)

The Most Unlikely Lady (Brethren of the Coast 3)

One-Knight Stand (Brethren of the Coast 4)

Captain of Her Heart (Brethren of the Coast 5)

The Lucky One (Brethren of the Coast 6)

Love with an Improper Stranger (Brethren of the Coast 7)

Loving Lieutenant Douglas: A Brethren of the Coast Novella

BRETHREN ORIGINS

Arucard

Demetrius

KATHRYN LE VEQUE’S KINDLE WORLD OF DE WOLFE PACK

Lone Wolfe

ARUCARD

PROLOGUE

La Rochelle, France

Friday the Thirteenth, October

The Year of Our Lord, 1307

Hunkered behind a stack of barrels, Templar Knight Arucard de Villiers hugged his sword and prepared to lunge, as King Philip’s guards searched the undercroft.  When the pile of casks shifted, he crouched lower and uttered a silent entreaty, as he gazed at his tormentors through a crevice in the mountain of containers.  At the age of seven and twenty, he had fought hard for his patron Pope Clement V, and never in his life had he cowered from peril.  But desperate circumstances necessitated drastic measures, if he hoped to survive the Crown’s connivance against the warriors of the Crusades.

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

In the dim light of the braziers, he peered at the warrant, which commanded Arucard, along with his brother knights, to surrender for interrogation, regarding unfounded accusations of heresy, sorcery, and unspeakable acts of sexual perversion, the whole of which were false.  But he knew too well the true motives upon which the malicious conspiracy had been launched, and it had naught to do with the heinous claims.  Rather, King Philip needed money, and he craved ownership of the vast Templar treasure.

“It is as I told thee, good sir.”  Arucard’s marshalsea on land and second in command on sea, Pellier bowed.  “My lord departed on Thursday last, and he never returned.”

“Merde.”  The soldier gritted his teeth.  “Then I suggest thou vacate the premises, at once, as His Majesty hereby confiscates these properties, forthwith.”

“Of course.”  Again, Pellier made his obedience.  “If we might have enough time to gather our personal effects, given a handful of servants remain in residence, we shall leave the keep to thy good service.”

“Thou mayest have until the morrow.”  The guard dipped his chin, gave the vaulted cellar a final cursory glance, and then directed his men.  “Let us ride for Moncel Abbey.”

From the safe haven of his hiding place, Arucard smiled, because Morgan, the lord of Moncel, along with Geoffrey and Aristide, had retreated to his ship at dawn and already should have cast off for the prearranged meeting point, northwest of the Golfe de Gascogne.  Soon, Arucard would withdraw to join his hunted brothers, as they sailed the Channel and sought asylum in England, whither Edward II had outlawed torture.

The estimable empire may reject the once esteemed Order of great men, but it could offer sanctuary.  And if his brothers could find a new supporter, their legacy, along with their necks, would persist.  It was with that thought in mind that he sheltered, despite a deep-seated desire to fight—to defend the honor of his brethren, present and past.

“My lord, they art gone.”  Grunting and groaning, Pellier removed three empty barrels, so Arucard could emerge from the haphazard refuge.  “And we should make haste to the docks, given the royal patrol executes Philip’s decree, as thou were warned.  Wherefore didst thou not flee when thee first learned of the scheme?”

“Because we needed to give our brothers a chance to elude the Crown.  Didst thou deposit the gold for our citizens who have chosen to stay in France?”  In the kitchen, Arucard assessed the remaining stores.  “If they art careful, they can subsist for years, to come, on the profits from their trade, as I will no longer be able to protect them.”

“Indeed, sir.”  With a sigh, Pellier frowned.  “My father vows to oversee the funds, in order to preserve the village, in thy absence.”

“Art thou sure thou dost wish to journey with me, my friend?”  How Arucard loathed separating his men from their families, which is wherefore he asked only the unmarried seamen to join him, as they risked everything to avoid persecution by association.  “As thou could always grow a beard and take up farming or the smithy.”

“Beg thy pardon, my lord.”  Pellier opened his mouth, closed it, and then grinned.  “Thou dost joke, sir.”

“I do.”  However inappropriate, given the gravity of the circumstances, he could use a little levity, at the moment.  “Now let us away, as we have no time to spare.”

The back hall led to the scullery, which egressed to the yard and the gardens, whither Arucard often engaged in weapons practice.  In the cool evening air, as dew kissed the lawn, he strode the path and climbed the rise, which opened to the grove, whither his destrier, Pellier’s rouncey, and the sumpter horse loaded with Arucard’s few intimate belongings had been tied to the trees.

Gaining his mount, he steered for the muddy road, which had deteriorated after the previous day’s heavy rains, to the port.  On normal occasions, normal being the dearth of troops out for his head, Arucard would have carried a torch to illuminate the route, as the sun set on the horizon, but he could ill afford such luxury, so he maintained a slow but steady pace.  When they reached the hilltop, he reined in to take one last look at his home, which he suspected he would never enjoy again.

“Lights in the meadow, sir.”  As his horse shifted, Pellier pointed to the east and cursed.  “Mon Dieu.  It is the patrol.”

“By the saints.  They must have doubted thy account, else fortune frowns on our endeavor.”  In a flash, Arucard heeled hard the flanks of his stallion.  “We must hurry, if we art to escape.”

To avoid wagon ruts, he kept to the grassy verge, with Pellier in his wake.  His heart pounded, beating in rhythm as he pushed his destrier harder and faster.  They veered left, then right, and then left again, snaking amid the sludge with the King’s guard in their tracks.  At last, the dense foliage yielded to sparse outbuildings, heralding they neared the quaint seaside town, whither the lanes improved, and Arucard picked up speed.

Racing through the marketplace, which was closed for the day and thus sparsely populated, he glanced over his shoulder and discovered the King’s guard had gained valuable ground, and he swore under his breath.  “Ride for the ship, Pellier.  Do not stop until thou hast boarded the Olifant.  And tell the men to throw off the ropes and weigh anchor, as we must sail, immediately.”

“Aye, sir.”  At the docks, Pellier abided Arucard’s orders, signaling with a mock salute.

“To arms!  To arms!”  In turn, Arucard pounded the boards, to sound the alarm and alert his brothers.  “Onward, Demetrius.  Randulf, abandon the wine, as thou must go—now.  Philip’s patrol nears.”

At his proclamation, sailors scrambled in all directions, toppling bags of flour and rice, as they ran for their respective transports.  The original plan had been to trail the merchant vessels, which ventured on the morrow tide, to avoid rousing even a mere soupçon of consternation, but they could not wait for dawn, so he altered his tack.

Charging the gangplank, he brought his stallion to a halt and slid from the saddle, as his single-masted cog slipped from its berth.  When the wind caught the canvas, he took the helm and set a course for the open seas.  But he could not rejoice, as Demetrius remained dangerously close to the docks, within striking distance, and young Randulf, reluctant to relinquish the cask, had just pulled his lines, when the archers took aim.

Then, to his unutterable horror, soldiers rolled in three carro-ballistas and launched a hailstorm, in rapid succession, of flaming bolts into the air.  Cries of terror formed a morbid cacophony, echoing on the gentle breeze.  Helpless to aid his brothers, Arucard clenched his fists and gnashed his teeth, as first Demetrius and then Randulf’s ship caught fire.

“What can we do, sir?”  With a grimace, Pellier rubbed his neck.  “How can we save them?”

“It appears Demetrius has extinguished the small blaze that threatened the Tigus, but I fear thither is naught we can do to assist the Spearintine, as the hold is engulfed, and the gadling founders.”  Even as he voiced the obvious, he prayed he was wrong.  With his thumb and forefinger, Arucard stared into the twilight and touched his forehead, chest, and left and then right shoulder, as the King had just claimed a victim—the first of many, no doubt.  “May the Almighty Father have mercy on Randulf’s soul.”

In what seemed as several painful hours, but was in reality a few minutes, the knarr sank beneath the water’s surface, disappearing bit by bit until not even the masthead remained visible.  On the outside, he maintained his composure, as his crew relied on him for guidance, but inside he wept for his friend, a regrettable cost—a human sacrifice exacted by Philip’s cursed lust for wealth and power.

As the Olifant rode the waves, gliding in a graceful dance as the craft passed the golfe’s foreland, a familiar sight that had always soothed his often frazzled nerves, he fixed his attention on the bow, on the road that lay ahead, and vowed never again to surrender one of his brothers in the name of greed.  And so it was with that train of thought he gave his attention to the charts.

“Sir, dost thou ever believe we will go home, again?”  Leaning against the rail, Pellier stared a-stern.  “Or dost thou think Edward will kill us, on sight?”

“We have no home, Pellier.”  Listing with the motion of the ocean, Arucard swallowed hard, as a crude reality set in with a vengeance just then.  Yet all was not lost, and he coveted hope to be won in a foreign land.  “But if we art to endure, mighty England is our future, and if she will have us, we shall serve her with honor until we breathe our last.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER ONE

England

The Year of Our Lord, 1312

Locked in the tiny stone cell in the tower keep for an untold period, which he estimated at well nigh five years as marked by the canonical hours, Arucard gazed at the azure morning sky, gave thanks for another day above ground, and wondered how his brothers fared in captivity.  Were they alive and well, or had Edward executed them for the blasphemous but fallacious allegations that threatened the once great Order of Knights Templar?

The rasp of the metal lock and the screech of the hinges had him bracing for the final sentence, as he broke his fast at dawn with a customary light sop, and the bells had yet to signal sext, so he had not anticipated the noon meal.  Had the Crown’s men, at last, come for him?  “Thither who goes?”

“It is Brewer, Sir Arucard.”  The steward, who had been very kind throughout Arucard’s imprisonment, entered along with a small army of servants bearing a large ancere, a stack of linen cloths, and buckets of water, in the company of a familiar, much-welcomed face.  “Thou art to prepare for an audience with His Majesty.  I bring thee a square of barilla soap, a sharp blade for shaving, and a change of clothes, which the King requests thee wear for the singular occasion.”

“Am I to be tried for Philip’s spurious claims?”  On edge, he charged the poor soul but drew up short, as Brewer was not to blame for Arucard’s predicament.  “Am I to dress for my death?”

“His Royal Highness does not see fit to apprise me of his intentions, Sir Arucard.  As I am but a fleak, I do His bidding, naught more.”  Brewer directed the attendants and then loomed in the entry.  “Thou hast an hour to tend thy needs, and then the royal escort will convey thee to St. John’s Chapel.  That is all I know, sir.”

Once Brewer departed, Arucard and Pellier locked forearms in companionship.  “My friend, it is good to see thee.”

“And thou, sir.”  Misty-eyed, and a bit worse for wear, Pellier smiled.  “The crew has been tormented by thoughts of thy demise, as we have had no word of thee.”

“Thou art housed together?”  Releasing his comrade, he stumbled back and gave thanks in silence.  “The men prevail?”

“Aye.”  Drawing a shaky breath, Pellier dipped his chin.  “By the benevolence of God, we art all well and accounted for, sir.  Even when young Thomas caught the ague, the King sent a physician to treat the boy.  And I am summoned to assist thee in grooming for an important event.”

The revelations did much to soothe Arucard’s nerves, as it made no sense for Edward to maintain the crew’s health and Arucard’s appearance, if the Crown intended to kill them, in the end.  Glancing at the steaming tub, he doffed his linen underclothes and woolen stockings.

As he sank into the water, he savored the experience, as baths were a rarity in confinement.  For a Templar Knight, cleanliness was a priority, second only to his daily devotional, and the denial of what most deemed a simple pleasure had actually served only to intensify the wretched conditions of his cell.  After a thorough scrubbing of his body and washing his hair, he emerged as a new man, stepped into clean braies, and sat with the patience of a saint, as Pellier shaved the long beard and cut the tangled locks.

“Thither, sir.”  With hands on hips, Pellier admired his work.  “Thou dost look as thee did the night we departed France, if a tad older.”

“So thy humor remains in fine form.”  With a chuckle and a much-improved spirit, Arucard donned the chausses, the linen shirt, the calf-boots, the navy wool cotehardie, over which he pulled on the matching doublet bedecked in gold braids.  The fur-lined cloak of equal splendor left him perplexed, as did the ailette, fashioned of leather and bearing a unique wind-star design foreign to him, which was typically laced to the shoulder, over armor, and bore the bearer’s coat of arms.  “Well, what dost thou think?  Am I fit to receive the King?”

“I cannot say, sir.”  Pellier shrugged and then flinched, as the steward returned.  Retreating to the small table, whither Arucard partook his meals, the marshalsea frowned.  “But I pray fortune smiles upon thee, and we meet tomorrow to celebrate glad tidings.”

“If thou wilt follow me, Sir Arucard.”  Brewer inched aside.  “His Majesty awaits thy presence.”

Without a word, Arucard strolled into the dark corridor, and an escort armed with shields and pointed halberds surrounded him.  Stiffening his spine, he promised to withstand, with grace and honor, whatever Edward had in store, as he would not embarrass his ancestors.  The stone passage, aglow in the soft amber light from cresset lamps spaced in equal distances on the wall, led to a narrow winding staircase, which he ascended.  At the landing, the guards turned left, and a vast expanse spread before him.

Huge glazed windows filtered the sun’s bright rays, and vibrant tapestries decorated the great hall.  Servants and elegantly garbed nobles scurried in various directions, sparing nary a glance at him.  At a double-door entrance, a sentry set wide the heavy panels, revealing a vaulted chapel—not a block for beheading.

Four massive columns connected by plain arches, and decorated with naught more than pedestrian carvings of scallop and leaf designs, flanked either side of the wide aisle, and an identical combination of similarly ornamented thick round piers, on a smaller scale, formed the apse.  But it was the group of men identically uniformed and gathered before the altar that gave him pause.

“Brothers.”  With splayed arms, he greeted his fellow Templar Knights, and they exchanged fraternal salutations and hearty backslaps.  “Demetrius, Aristide, Morgan, and Geoffrey, dost my eyes deceive me?  Am I dreaming?”

“Hither we art, but I am concerned for thy mental state, if thou dost resort to fantasies of me to pass the time.”  Ever the wit, Demetrius elbowed Arucard in the ribs.  “As it stands, I summoned visions of tables overflowing with roasted pork and smoked herring.  And what I would give for a tankard of beer, as we have been restricted to wine and Adam’s ale, which I wilt argue is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Well I like that.”  Aristide shuffled his feet.  “On the verge of our demise, thou dost think only of thy belly.”

“And that surprises thee?”  Geoffrey snickered.  “I wager Demetrius expected food fit for a king, not a disgraced and exiled knight.”

“But thou art no longer disgraced or exiled.”  At the railing of the second floor gallery, His Majesty inclined his head.  “While Philip burned at the stake some fifty-four knights, in May of thirteen-ten, the Vatican Chinon Parchment, issued by Pope Clement V, absolved the Knights Templar and Grand Master de Molay, though he remains a prisoner of France, and we anticipate will suffer the same fate.”

“And what of us?”  Peering at his brethren, Arucard compressed his lips, as King Edward strolled to the rear and then descended the stairs.  “Art we to be treated thus?”

“Although our French adversary refuses to recognize the Papal Bull Vox in Excelsis, which suspended thy order, or the Ad Providam, which redistributed thy assets to the Hospitalliers, save the fortune thee brought to my shores and so generously donated to my treasury, we would offer a proposal to serve our combined purpose.”  His Majesty’s voice echoed on the stone walls of the chapel, as he navigated the aisle.  “As thou dost seek to live, and we require warriors of unmatched prowess upon whom we can rely, let us collaborate in noble endeavors.  In recompense, we shall reward thee with thy own distinguished order, the benefits of royal favor, and our unadulterated protection.”

The bargain sounded too good to be true, and Arucard raised his defenses and gazed at his brothers.  “Given our devout beliefs, if I may beg thy indulgence, what would thee ask of us, Sire?”

“As we recall, Sir Arucard, thou dost shepherd thy men.”  The King narrowed his stare.  “Thine is a courageous occupation, and we do not envy thee, but at present our needs art simple.  We require an oath of loyalty, obedience in all matters of state, and unimpeachable allegiance, but we art not ignorant of thy faith, so we shall bear that in mind when issuing decrees.  That is our agreement, else thou mayest retire to thy quarters and spend the remainder of thy days, however many or few that may be, in reflection and solitude.”

Thither was no mistaking the veiled threat, and for a few minutes, Arucard searched his mind for a response.  Were his choice limited to his future, alone, he would answer without delay, as he would rather die with his soul intact than risk eternal damnation for a prolonged existence of comfort and prestige he neither demanded nor desired.  But he could not ignore his crew and the consequences his response might mete upon them, so he would gladly sacrifice himself to keep them safe from harm.  With his course determined, he studied his friends for any sign of reluctance, and each conveyed their acceptance in a nod of affirmation.

“Well, then.”  With a fist pressed to his chest, Arucard knelt, his kindred followed suit, and so it was done.  “On our honor, we art at thy command, Majesty.”

“Given thy reputation, which precedes thee, absent Philip’s attack on thy character, we take thy word as thy oath.”  In that second, the King unsheathed an impressive sword, which he tapped to each man’s shoulders.  “Then arise most virtuous knights of the Order of the Brethren of the Coast.”

“The Brethren of the Coast?”  With a grimace, Geoffrey quirked his brows.  “Never have I heard of them.”

“That is because we created the appointment to accommodate our new men-at-arms.”  Edward waved to his minion, who carried a tray draped in blue velvet, which the King drew back with a flick of his wrist.  “The official seal of thy occupation, for our Nautionnier Knights.  Thine ships remain whither thee docked them, and we have seen to their care, as we engender immediate departure, following a ceremony of some importance to solidify our ties.”

“Gramercy.”  Arucard studied the heavy gold object and frowned, as it struck him as garish for a humble servant.  “Thou art most kind, Sire.”

“See to their comfort in chambers befitting their station,” His Majesty stated to the attendant.  “As we have a private matter to discuss with Sir Arucard.”

Now that caught his attention, and he gulped.  Was it not enough that he would surrender his life for the Crown?  When the King ushered Arucard to a side room, he halted before a small table, upon which sat a crystal decanter and goblets.  After pouring two portions of wine, Edward turned.  “May we offer thee a refreshment?  As we believe thou wilt need it.”

“Gramercy, Majesty.”  With quivering fingers, he grasped the stem, as his thoughts ran amok.  What more could the King want?  “To what shall we toast?”

“Thy wedding.”

#

It was a brisk fall morning in London, and the wind whispered and thrummed in the trees, casting a shower of leaves on the path, as Isolde de Tyreswelle shivered beneath her threadbare wool cloak and filled two buckets with water from the well.  Balancing the shoulder yoke, she huffed and puffed, as she carried the load into the undercroft of her family’s town dwelling and struggled with the weight as she shuffled into the scullery.

“Lady Isolde, thou art not a maid.”  After wiping her hands on her apron, Margery, who worked as a steward, of sorts, folded her arms and frowned.  “Thy mother, God rest her, would be furious with thy father, as he has not done right by thee.”

“And thou wilt tell him that?” she inquired, with a grimace at the prospect.

“To see thee suffer the consequences of my forthrightness?”  Margery scoffed.  “Not on thy life.  Yet I would not permit thee to toil as a commoner, when thou art of noble blood.”

“But he ordered a bath, and I dare not tarry, else he will not hesitate to spill my noble blood.”  With a grunt, she hoisted the pail to a pot for boiling.  “Thou dost know well his temper.”

“Let Anne do it.”  Margery wrinkled her nose.  “Oh, whither is that daggle-tailed girl?  Anne?”

“Didst thou call me, ma’am?”  With a wide-eyed expression, the timid servant, wearing more cinder soot than clothing, curtseyed, and Isolde bit back a rebuke.  “Lady Isolde, that is my responsibility.”

“Sorry, Anne.”  Pondering her father’s strange mood, Isolde yielded the chore with reluctance, as she had no reason not to return to her chamber, and she rued a chance encounter with her sire.  “Then I should leave thee to it.”

Mustering a smile, she nodded and walked into the kitchen, whither the cook plucked a whole chicken.  Whistling a frisky little ditty, Isolde strolled through the central hall, ensured the table had been cleared and cleaned, adjusted a couple of chairs with precision, and then continued to her private apartment, which functioned as her sanctuary.

So many times, she had considered running away, but whither could she go?  Despite her impressive connections, no one would have sheltered a fleeing female, given the law had defined her as the earl of Rochester’s property.  And her lone attempt to escape, which she had ventured a few years ago, had resulted in the abrupt dismissal of a beloved nanny and a sound beating Isolde would never forget.

Breathing a sigh of relief, as she had nary a glimpse or signal of her father, she hurried to her room.  After closing the door, she turned—and shrieked.

“What is wrong with thee, chitty-face?”  The lord of the manor scowled, and she raised her guard.

“Father, my apologies.”  With a bow of her head, she averted her stare, as he did not like her to look at him.  And on the rare occasion she forgot his peculiar edict, he reminded her in his favorite manner.  “I supervised the preparations for thy bath, and—”

“Not my bath, thou stupid girl.”  As he neared, she could not stop shaking.  When he grabbed her chin and brought her gaze to his, she swallowed hard as he scrutinized her.  “Wash, and make thyself respectable, as I may finally have found some use for thee.  Thither art new clothes, which thou art to wear tomorrow, for a very special occasion, which His Majesty has seen fit to bestow upon thy unworthy hide.  And if thou dost embarrass this house and disappoint the King, thou wilt not live past the sunset.  Dost thou understand?”

“Aye, Father.”  Trembling uncontrollably, she digested his proclamation.  In that instant, she noticed a sapphire blue gown draped over the footboard.  Made of sumptuous velvet, with gold embroidery and piping on the sleeves, bodice, and skirt, pearls dotted the neckline of the elegant frock.  It was the finest, loveliest garment she had been given.  “How should I—”

“Thou art not to ask questions, as I owe thee no answers.”  The force of his blow to her cheek rendered her unsteady, and in agony she fell to the stone floor.  “Do as I tell thee and naught more, else I wilt cut out thy tongue, and thy future husband wilt, no doubt, thank me.”

“My future husband?”  Dazed and confused, she spoke before she realized she had opened her mouth, which she clamped shut, and the bitterness of blood pooled in her throat and almost gagged her, as she crawled to the four-poster and dragged herself to sit atop the mattress.

“Indeed, thou art to marry.”  Perched in her reading chair, the man who gave her life, and then resented the very deed that resulted in his wife’s death, stared at her with unveiled contempt, and she shuddered in fear.  Didst he not know she would gladly trade places with her mother?  “Edward wishes to garrison troops on the lands that border ours, and he seeks an alliance through thy union with one of his knights, to solidify the Sovereign’s authority.  I know naught of the man, and neither do I care, as thou shalt be his burden, and I wilt at last be rid of thee.  My only concern is the power and prestige my heir shall enjoy from the connection, as William is to be made an earl, in his own right.  What say thee?”

“What pleases thou pleases me, Father.”  Was it possible?  Could someone want her?  Tracing the pattern on the damask coverlet, she dared not object, but what a revelation.  Indeed, fortune smiled upon her, and it could not have happened soon enough, because Isolde believed he would eventually kill her in a drunken rage, which occurred with far greater frequency as the years passed.  “And I am most happy for my brother.”

“Art thou?”  With a countenance of sadness, which surprised her, he toyed with his signet ring.  “Often I have wondered how our lives would have been different, had thy mother survived thy birth.”

“Really?”  Shocked by his unusual candor, as he never spoke of her mother, and starved for a kind word from him, Isolde dropped her defenses.  “So have I.  What was she like?”

“Custancia was the most beautiful woman in all of Rochester.”  Father stared at the floor and sighed.  “As thou can imagine, she was quite sought after, too.  For some reason I could never fathom she chose me as her husband, and our parents negotiated our betrothal.  When she bore my heir, I was never prouder of her.  Indeed, she was the heart of our family, and hers was a great loss.”

“Everyone says she was a very fine lady.”  And so many of those same persons declared Isolde the exact personification of her mother, which provided a shred of comfort in solitude.  Lost in the moment, she gazed at her father and smiled.  “How I wish I could have known her.”

From the earliest years she could recollect as a young girl, she had conjured visions of her mother, always extending support and solace during the harsh reality of Isolde’s precarious existence.  With only her father and brother as kin, she had tried and failed to form spiritual bonds with those who should champion and protect her.  Instead, her sibling had become her worst tormentor, second only to her sire.  But perchance they had finally forged a connection, however late, and she should rejoice.

“I see her in thee.”  For a scarce second, he studied her with a softness she had never glimpsed in him.  Then his posture stiffened, his expression sobered, and she quivered, as she knew well what would happen next.  “Thou art the reason she is gone.”  When he stood and unhooked his belt, Isolde’s spirits plummeted.  “Now take off thy tunic, kneel on the floor, and let me give thee a wedding gift, that thou might remember me after thou hast departed this house and art no longer subject to my control.”

#

So much had changed in so little time, and in some ways his tiny stone cell had offered a measure of security he now lacked.  In one minute, Arucard was locked in White Tower and a prisoner of the King, and thither was no uncertainty in the four stone walls that defined his world, as well as his limitations.  In the next instant, he wore the insignia of a knight of the realm, he enjoyed the Crown’s favor, and he was betrothed, and thither was naught certain about any of the accompanying responsibilities, as freedom could be a double-edged sword.  It was the last aspect of his newfound status that gave him the most concern and left him wondering if it might have been easier to burn at the stake, because he bore a specific stigma as a cross, and he knew not how to resolve the flaw in his character prior to his wedding.

Telling himself thither was naught wrong with a thirty-two-year-old-virgin, Arucard decided he had no worries—unless, of course, he was the virgin in question.  As a Templar Knight, he had no interest in or use for women.  In fact, he had taken a vow of celibacy on the same day he joined the order, because only the most chaste knights could ascend to the glorious hereafter.  But the Templars were no more, and his tenuous position in England necessitated a marriage to protect those for whom he was accountable and to prove his loyalty to King Edward.

And as he suspected, it had been five years since he fled the Continent with his fellow warriors of the Crusades.  Five years since the Templars had been hunted, tortured, and killed during Philip the Fair’s Inquisition.  Of an estimated two thousand knights, only five persisted, as far as he knew.  Five Templar mariners—all remained wanted men by the king of France.

The mantle in his grasp bore the familiar red cross centered on a field of white and matched the modest, unadorned cloak that was the standard attire of his once great knighthood.  How he had worn the uniform with pride, how he had cared for the pristine fabric as though it were a second skin.  In a sense, it had been a part of him, a part of his identity, every bit as much as his own flesh.  Yet it could define him no longer.  With a flick of his wrist, he sent the garb to join the other clothing that burned brightly in the fire.

After a healthy gulp of ale, which he needed, he studied the badge of the Brethren of the Coast, the fledgling order formed by his new master, a price paid to accommodate the fighting men without a home.  The seal, fashioned of gold, featured a wind-star design, a large blue diamond at the center, and the Latin phrase Nulli Secundus, Second to None, as was their motto.

The bejeweled piece was similar to his current uniform in its splendor.  His fur-lined cloak and rich blue mantle festooned, haphazardly, with gold braids violated the tenets by which he had long existed.  As a Templar, he had been taught that unnecessary excess led to immorality.  While he understood that his survival in a foreign land, his allegiance to a foreign king, and his union to a creature, who for all intents and purposes was foreign to him outside the maternal realm, required equally foreign customs, he kept his hair cut short and his face clean-shaven, true to his Templar ascendants.  And despite the King’s generosity, Arucard much preferred the simple, understated clothes.

“I found it,” Demetrius stated proudly, as he pulled up a crude wooden stool and sat before the fire, whither the men gathered to toast—or rather roast Arucard’s impending nuptials.  “My grandsire wrote an oath when first he entered the military, and I am certain it is contained within these pages.”

“What is so important about an old oath, brother?” Geoffrey shifted his weight, as he peered at the antiquated log.

“History,” Morgan responded as he neared.  “We art the last of our generation and the first of our kind.  Never again will the Knights Templar sail as Templars, but neither will we sail quietly into the night, shrouded in deceit and disgrace.  We shall live on as the Brethren of the Coast.”

“Precisely.”  With a snicker, Aristide clutched a pitcher and refilled the goblets.  “And we must never forget from whence we came.”

“Especially as we face the future.”  Given fate posed a far more dangerous prospect than his past, Arucard lifted his chin and sighed.  “And all of its uncertainties.”

“When dost thou wed?”  Morgan made a pitiful attempt at concealing a smile, and Arucard had the sudden urge to punch him in the nose, as his brothers found sport in his predicament.

“Tomorrow,” Arucard replied, as a chill settled in his chest, and he fought nausea.  “In the morrow.”

“So soon?”  Geoffrey rolled his eyes and whistled in monotone.  “Hast thou seen her?”

How had he known to expect that particular query?  Arucard shook his head.  “I have not.”

“Thine is a precarious situation, brother.”  After flicking through the pages, Demetrius abandoned his search momentarily and raised his goblet.  “Better thee than I.”

With a grin, Aristide ventured to ask, “Dost thou, perchance, know her name?”

“Isolde,” Arucard replied with a shuffle of his feet.  “She is the daughter of a nobleman, or some such.”

“Oh, no.  Not a pampered princess.”  Unaware that he had just voiced Arucard’s chief concerns, Morgan frowned.  “As it is safe to assume she has not seen thee, let us hope she has a sense of humor.”

“Let us hope she can cook,” Geoffrey said, as he tore a piece of bread from a loaf.  “As we art at thy command, and Demetrius hath quite the appetite.”

“Let us hope she is fair,” Arucard corrected.  “Else all shall be for naught, for I will sail to the end of the Earth to escape her.”

His response garnered a chorus of laughter, and, for a scarce second, Arucard’s spirits lightened.  Yet the fact remained he was trapped in an arranged marriage he neither wanted nor welcomed.

“How many babes dost thou intend to get on her?”  Oblivious to the discord he had just wrought, Demetrius flipped through the torn pages of the mangled tome.  “Five or six?”

“Babes?”  And so Arucard returned to the plight foremost on his mind, as he swallowed hard.  Before he could beget children, he had to learn how to copulate.  While he was not ignorant of the physical requirements involved in the primitive act, he had no clue how to please a woman, and London was filled with dissatisfied ladies, as evidence by the unwanted attention he garnered during dinner at court.  “I-I have given it no thought.”

“Well, thou hast better think about it.”  With an arched brow, Demetrius cocked his head.  “And what wilt thou do should the damsel fall in love with thee?”

Flames crackled, and Arucard gazed into the blaze.

Love?

A violent shudder rocked his frame, as he considered the daunting prospect.  Although he was quite familiar with the brotherly love upon which his knighthood was founded, he was entirely unfamiliar with the emotion as defined by the relationship between a husband and a wife.  Naught on the battlefield could have prepared him for such a predicament.  He was a Templar Knight, a creature of habit, and a no-nonsense man who preferred an equally staid existence.  In the end, he knew only one way to live.

Pray.

Eat.

Weapons practice.

Repeat.

Then retire.

And thither was no vacancy for a woman.

“Brothers, I fear we have secured our freedom on very hard terms.”  With a terrible grimace, Morgan scratched his cheek.  “Very hard terms.”

“I fear we shall all be expected to wed,” Geoffrey added.

“Not on thy soul,” Demetrius said with an air of cold determination.

“Never.”  Aristide pressed a clenched fist to his chest.  “I should sooner end my own life than take a wife.  Regardless of what the English believe, no one shall convince me, not even the King, that a matrimonial commitment is worth eternal damnation.”

Perchance now was not an appropriate time to tell his brother knights that, indeed, the King had commanded just that, Arucard pondered in silence.  The shock of his imminent nuptials had yet to wear thin, and the road ahead would be paved with similar hardship and resignation, he suspected.  His marriage to Isolde was just the beginning.

“Found it!”  Demetrius stood, clutching the tattered captain’s log.  “Gather round, brothers.”

In desperate need of distraction, Arucard extended a hand, palm down, and his fellow Nautionnier Knights followed suit, one atop the other, forming a tight bond forged of blood, flesh, and bone.  “Brothers, we have fought the good fight, but we have lost the first skirmish.  Yet, despite those who would wish otherwise, we survive.  Mighty England is now our home, and her King is now our commander, but our destinies belong to us, and we shall not sink into the annals of history, remembered only by our dishonor.  From this day forward, let it be known that the Templars remain, though mayhap by another name.  We art the Brethren of the Coast.  As our Heavenly Father is my witness, in times of war and chaos, we will be revered and feared.”

A roar of concurrence erupted, and from the surrounding woods the strident cry of some nocturnal beast echoed in agreement.  Amid a crescent of oaks, beneath the stars, by the light of a fire, the Knights of the Brethren proclaimed their own oath.  It was a promise written by men long dead but not forgotten.

Love, honor, and devotion were the beginning of our Order.  Bonds of kinship and friendship, all-important.  We uphold these principles embrace for embrace, desire for desire, for one, for all.  For King and Country we stand, for love and comradeship we live.

ARUCARD

CHAPTER TWO

Stifled beneath the heavy gown of blue, the traditional color of purity, with the complimenting wimple and bejeweled veil secured by an identical pair of quatrefoil pins, Isolde gasped for breath as the family carriage came to a halt before the east entrance of Westminster Abbey.  Seated in the squabs across from her, and ignoring her as he had over breakfast, her father gazed out the window and frowned.  When the footman opened the door, the earl descended and then turned to help her down.

A canopy of gray clouds blocked the sun’s rays, so the afternoon was dreary and cold, which matched her mood.  The previous day’s beating, unusually brutal and lengthy, had left her back covered in raw welts and open cuts, and she fought uncharacteristic weakness, because it had been years since the discipline incapacitated her.  Given the weight of the plush velvet garment, in combination with the scarf that obscured her vision, she tripped.

“Watch thy step, clumsy girl.”  Father squeezed hard on her arm, and she winced.  “If thou dost shame me, I will—”

“Aye, Father.”  As she gained her footing, she clenched her teeth against the searing sting from her fresh wounds.  “Thou hast made thy position quite clear, and I bear thy reminder, so thou mayest rest assured I will not fail thee.”  As he steered her to the cloister walk, which they strolled until they reached a double-door entry topped by a Portland stone tympanum, she inhaled and attempted to relax her shoulders.

Lingering to the left, a group of impressive knights, all mountainous men with clean-shaven faces and short hair, wearing identical attire, the shade of which matched her garb, gathered before the Chapter House.  When Archbishop Winchelsea loomed as a specter of ill tidings, preparing to dispatch her to her doom, Isolde’s knees buckled.  Everything happened so fast, and while she tried to be brave, the pitiable truth was she shivered with terror, as she had no time to adjust to the change in her situation.

Despite societal customs, no marriage notice had been posted for the requisite forty days, and her father boasted the King—not her family, provided her dowry.  So her personal items had been packed into a small trunk, which had been tied to the coach, and never again would she return to her home or her familiar and comforting friends.

As she scanned the witnesses, she wondered when her groom would arrive.  Hoping for an aged, dull, and feeble noble in search of an heir, a chatelaine, and naught more, and possessed of a deep-seated abhorrence for belts, she assessed the spectators, but none met her low but reasonable expectations.  Perchance her intended had no penchant for punctuality.

“Now then, as both parties art present, let us begin the ceremony.”  Archbishop Winchelsea held up a leather bound tome and cleared his throat.  “Prithee, join hands.”

When the tallest, most colossal giant stepped to the fore, a harsh realization dawned, and Isolde emitted a whimper.  Uttering a silent entreaty for mercy, as she would never survive one of his lashings, she retreated in panic, but Father shoved her forward, into the enormous arms of her future husband.

“My lady Isolde, art thou unwell?”  With tenderness of which she had not thought him capable, her soon-to-be-spouse held her upright.  “Dost thou require a moment of rest, as thither is a small bench around the corner, whither thou might take thy ease?”

“What my daughter needs is strict authority to reinforce obedience.”  Sneering, Father adjusted his cloak.  “Heed my advice, Sir Arucard.  Spare not the strap, as she is a willful sort.”

With that she teetered, but the knight extended unshakeable support.

“How very kind of thee to offer sage counsel, Lord Rochester.  But whither I come from, we shield our women.”  So her new master was called Arucard, and she favored his judgment and his name, as well as his rich baritone.  “We do not batter them.”

“That may be, but thou art in England, now.”  A telltale red hue spread across Father’s face, as he stuttered and stammered, and she was grateful she no longer shared his house, but she worried about the servants who often bore the brunt of his ire in Isolde’s stead.  “And thou must honor our traditions.”

“Allow me to assure thee, I am aware of my locale, Lord Rochester.”  Twining his fingers in hers, Sir Arucard peered at her and smiled.  “But I would argue thither is little honor in such barbarity.”

“Thank thee for thy concern, my lord Arucard.”  In that instant, she decided, were she given a choice between the two, she rather preferred her knight, despite his immensity, as his proclamation did much to soothe her frazzled nerves.  And in light of her father’s reliable temper, she opted to hope for a new and better future.  “We may commence the service.”

Without further ado, the archbishop flipped through the parchment, until he found his mark.  “Dearly beloved friends…”

And in the next hour, Isolde became a wife to a creature she knew not.

In true English tradition, the actual nuptials took place outside the Chapter House.  Listening with determination, she made her vows, repeating the archbishop’s pronouncements with care and nary a misstep.  With the King in attendance, her husband lifted her veil.  For a few minutes, he simply scrutinized her.  Then he bent and pressed his lips to hers.

Theirs was not the most romantic kiss, as they were, for all intents and purposes, utter strangers.  But she viewed the simple formality as the beginning, of sorts, to a long journey; the destination of which she pledged would end in friendship.  Again, she kept her presumptions modest, as never would he love her, and she was not so naïve to set such lofty aspirations that would only result in desolation and disappointment.  If they could form an abiding connubial bond based on mutual respect, she would be content.

After the marriage mass ended, Arucard escorted her to his carriage.  “Well, it is done.”

“Indeed.”  As she grasped for something to say, or a bit of courtesy to impart, her mind wandered, and she started when he rested his hands at her waist to lift her to the seat.  “My lord, I am quite capable of negotiating the step, and I would not burden thee.”

“Thou art displeased with me?”  He chuckled, as he perched beside her, and the entire bench shifted, which sent her lurching into him.  “Easy, my lady.”

“Nay, my lord.  I am not displeased, as a dutiful wife would never object to her husband’s inclinations.”  Brushing the wrinkles from her skirt, she scooted to the right.  “But I would not encumber thee, when it is unnecessary, as I am no fragile waif.”

“I find it rather intriguing that thou dost profess an unimpeachable allegiance with my proclivities, even as thou dost express opposition to my noble actions, which were motivated by naught more than a sincere desire to attend to thy welfare, Lady Isolde.”  Stunned by his reproach and her unforgivable breach in decorum, she almost swallowed her tongue, until Arucard glanced at her and winked.  “I tease thee, my lady.  But it is nice to see some sign of life.”

“Often my mouth has provoked trouble and brought shame to my door.”  She bowed her head, as she had been married for all of five minutes and already erred.  “I apologize, my lord.”

“No apologies necessary, and may I call thee Isolde?”  With a finger, he tipped her chin and brought her gaze to his.  “Thou art charming when thou dost blush, and I prefer thee look at me, when we speak.”

“Thou mayest address me however thou dost wish, as thou art my master.”  Goodness, how had she neglected to note the clarity and compassion invested in his blue eyes?  “And I wonder if thither is a pet name thou would rather I employ?”

“A pet name?”  With unmasked confusion, he arched a brow, and she laughed.  “I must confess I have none.”

“Then I shall have to compose one, just for thee, as a sign of endearment.”  When he grimaced, her confidence flagged, and she remembered her proper place.  “That is—if thou dost not protest.”

“Wherefore would I protest, unless thou dost plan to mock me?”  With his elbow, he gave her a gentle nudge and narrowed his stare.  “Wilt thou make me thy fool?”

“Oh, no.”  As they neared Westminster Palace, the site of the wedding feast, she bit her lip.  “Never would I—thou dost bait me, sir.”

“Aye.”  In his booming chortle, she found refuge and solace.  “And I should compose a special term of address, just for thee, but I would ask thee to confine use of such informalities to our private conversations, otherwise my men would taunt me without mercy.”

“That seems a very wise request, and I shall defer to thy judgment.”  When he handed her to the walk, she demurred.  “So we dine with His Majesty?”

“I am afraid we have little choice in the matter, as he insisted.”  As before, he settled her palm in the crook of his elbow.  “And now that we art wed, may I inquire after thy age, Isolde?”

“Of course.”  Yet, as she acquiesced, she wondered if he would regret taking her to wife, given her advanced years.  “I am eight and ten.  And thou?”

“Two and thirty.”  Having anticipated an exclamation of shock, given her declaration, his unimpaired composure rendered her giddy.  “I hope the difference in our years does not trouble thee.”

“Not at all.”  She lied, as his youth and handsome features inspired myriad fantasies and possibilities she dared not covet.  “Must confess I supposed I might disappoint thee, as most brides celebrate their nuptials at four and ten.  Dost thou feel slighted?”

“By thee?”  When she nodded once, he frowned.  “Never.”  Then he did something that surprised her.  Cupping her chin, he trailed his thumb along her jawline.  “Thy skin is like alabaster, and thy lips lush and ripe as a pomegranate.  Thou art quite lovely, and I count myself fortunate to be thy husband.”

For as long as she could recall, Isolde had considered herself something of a wit.  Forever garnering rebukes from her father, she could always be relied upon to formulate clever repartee, without notice.  But in that instant, her dependable faculties abandoned her, as no one had ever proclaimed her attractive.

“Ah, hither is the happy couple.”  Standing large in Westminster Hall, the King took her hands in his.  “And Lord Rochester never told us his daughter was so beautiful.  Wherefore have we not seen the Lady Isolde at court?”

Because he never permitted such luxuries, she longed to reply, but she would not admit the truth and embarrass herself and her father.  “I prefer the country life, Majesty.  But hadst thou commanded otherwise, I would have obeyed.”

Elegantly dressed lords and ladies filled the chasmal hall, which boasted opulent tapestries, resplendent paintings of kings past, marble-topped tables decorated with bird and lion figurines molded from jelly or pastry, and a massive dais at one end, beneath an intricate hammerbeam roof.  The tempting aroma of roasted beef hung in the air, but a splendid fountain that produced wine and spiced pimento manifested an extravagant masterpiece unlike any she had ever seen.

Seated beside her husband, at a place of honor, Isolde devoured generous portions of miniature pastries filled with cod liver, brewets, broth with bacon, meat tiles, capon crisps, frumenty, lampreys with hot sauce, and venison.  And Arucard consumed his fair share, which brought a query to mind, as she sought to win his approval and affinity via his stomach.

“The feast is delicious, is it not?”  She scooted a bite of beef across her plate.

“It is outstanding.”  As she discovered was his habit, he paused and gave his full attention, which she found a bit discomfiting.  “And I see thou hast a robust appetite.”

“Art thou vexed?”  Mayhap she should forgo the final course of sweets.

“Not at all, Isolde.”  When he pronounced her name in his velvety deep tone, he carried out the ‘o’ and gave her delightful shivers.  “I prefer a woman with a healthy palate.”

“Lucky for me.”  She forced a laugh.  “My lord, if I may, thither is any particular dish thou dost favor?”

“Thither is.”  Leaning to the side, he whispered, “My mother made a most excellent blancmange, and I have never sampled its equal.”

“What a fortuitous coincidence.”  At that minute, Isolde could have jumped for joy.  “As that is my specialty, and more than once it hath been declared the best in England.”

“Then thou shalt cook it for me.”  In close proximity, she admired his chiseled cheekbones and the thick lashes she could study for the better part of an hour, if given the chance.  “And I will be the judge.”

How she wanted to believe in him.  “Arucard, thou art—”

“We would ask the ladies to perform a carol for us, to commemorate the wedding of our esteemed knight.”  His Majesty stood and raised high his goblet.  “And we bid the Lady Isolde adieu, as she must prepare to fulfill her duties.  Guards, escort the new bride to her chambers.”

#

The hour was late when Arucard, surrounded by royal sentries, returned to his private apartments in the palace.  After several hearty backslaps and bellowing guffaws from his fellow Nautionnier Knights, and an unequivocal order from the King, Arucard surrendered his tankard of beer and mulled the monumental task, which neared with each successive second he counted as a death knell.

Although he posited himself no expert in such affairs, he considered the day a triumph of cooperation, and his wife bespoke a naïve charm he found unutterably arresting.  To her credit, she struck him as possessed of uncommon good sense, so he approached her with a single objective, fostering and maintaining honesty, which had driven his conversation, at times, to his embarrassment, because he thought her the most striking creature of his acquaintance.  Of course, he had no one with whom to compare, given Isolde ranked as the first and the last woman he would ever know beyond mere polite exchanges.  Thus the prospect of marital familiarity had led him to seek advice from an unusual source—His Majesty.

According to the Sovereign, the female sex lacked the physical strength to pose any real threat, and they were singularly deficient in their ability to reason.  Incapable of surviving alone, ladies relied upon men to persevere in a harsh world, and as such had been relegated to chattel, for their own protection.  The lone weapon in their arsenal, and it posed a perilous hazard unlike any other, which could drive a sane man mad as a March hare, given it could consume the most ruthless warrior, rested between their legs.

It was with that thought swirling in his brain he entered the solar of his rooms.  A fire in the hearth warmed the space, and the double doors to the bedchamber stood open.  Then he spied Isolde, wearing a simple linen night rail, with her long hair, black as a raven’s feather, cascading over her shoulders.

“Hello.”  Wringing her fingers, she shuffled her bare feet and then curled her toes.  “I turned down the bed.  Shall I help thee disrobe?”

“Uh—no.”  In a flash, below his belt any signs of life vanished from the most necessary part of his anatomy for consummating his vows, and he sought an escape or, at the very least, a delay.  “Wilt thou take a drink with me?”

“If that is thy wish.”  When he stepped aside, she strolled into the solar, and he tried but failed to ignore the cleft of her bottom, just visible through the gossamer fabric.  With an enviable air of calm, she picked up a pitcher and poured two goblets of wine.  Facing him, she smiled, and the blaze from the fireplace reflected in her green eyes, transforming them into something altogether ethereal.  “Shall we toast to our future?”

Whatever he had planned to impart suddenly eluded him.  In search of distraction, he downed the contents of his glass in a single gulp.  “So art thou originally from London?”

“Nay.”  Sitting at the large table, Isolde shifted and tucked her legs beneath her.  “I was born in Rochester, the site of my family’s ancestral pile.  And from whither dost thou hail, as thy accent suggests thou art not English?”

“Thou art very perceptive.”  Entranced by her beauty and the aureoles of her rose-tipped breasts, Arucard averted his stare.  “And I am from Nivernais, which is north of Bourbon.  Dost thou know it?”

“I cannot say so, as I have never traveled beyond our shores.”  She cleared her throat.  “But I should like, very much, to know how thou didst come to be in service to the Crown, if thou art amenable to sharing the details of thy history.”

“Thither is much I would share with thee, Isolde.”  But could he trust her with his most intimate secrets and his dubious affiliation as a Templar?  “Yet the night grows old, and we depart for Chichester with the dawn.”  With that, he stood and unbuckled his belt.

A cry of alarm signaled his wife’s distress, though he knew not what caused her anxiety, and she toppled her goblet.  In the next second, she flew from her seat, glanced left and then right, seized upon his halberd, which perched in the corner, and she assumed a provocative stance.  “What have I done?  Did I insult thee, however unintended?  Wherefore would thou treat me thus, when I yielded without compunction?”  With wild and jerky movements, she thrust the pointed end in his direction.  “And thou didst seem so nice.”

“Calm thyself, Isolde.”  Palms splayed, he lowered his chin.  “Thou dost misunderstand my actions, as I plan to sleep in the solar.”

“What?”  Inclining her head, she narrowed her stare.  “Wherefore should I believe thee, when the King commands we consummate our vows?”

“But His Majesty is not hither, and what he doth not know will not hurt him.”  What spirit she displayed, and how he admired her courage.  Recalling her father’s harsh words, he realized his mistake.  Moving slow and steady, he set the belt on the table and retreated.  “Put down the weapon, before thou dost injure thyself, as I only seek to make myself comfortable enough to retire.  Please, Isolde.  I would never harm thee.”

“So thou dost not want me.”  Squared off as two opponents, he drew upon the patience of a saint, as she compressed her lips.  At last, she sighed and returned the long-handled, combined spear and battle-axe to its previous innocuous position.  “And I suppose now I have given thee reason to spank me.”

At her sullen admission, he laughed.  “Methinks not.”

“Is this pity?”  With an adorable pout, she sniffed.  “Dost thou grant mercy?”

“Never have I known anyone less in need of mercy.”  One after the other, Arucard tugged off his boots, under her wary gaze.  “And as I have never shared a bed with a woman, I thought it best to allow for a period of adjustment, for both our sakes.  When the time is right, we will secure our vows in obeisance of the Crown’s dictates—but not tonight.”

“Wait.”  With an expression of confusion, she blinked.  “Art thou telling me that thou art a virgin?”

“Aye.”  He knew not what he expected in her reaction to his revelation, but she neither snickered nor laughed.  “My faith is such that I will join my body with whom I have taken the sacrament and no one else.  To do otherwise is an abomination.”

“Dost thou speak in truth—not in jest?”  She opened her mouth and then closed it.  “Dost thou mock me?”

“My dear Isolde, I know naught but the truth, and never would I treat thee with such condescension.”  Arucard walked into the inner chamber and retrieved a blanket and a pillow.  Then he opened his trunk and located a particular item of importance.  In the solar, he handed his bride the canvas bundle.  “A wedding gift for thee.”

“Thou hast brought me a present?”  She tugged on the twine.  “But I have naught for thee.”

“At the risk of again ending up on the wrong end of the halberd, I must confess the King proclaimed thee my gift.”  When she unwrapped the illustrated book of Psalms, he situated a rudimentary pallet on the floor.  “I hope thou art pleased, as it belonged to my mother.”

“It is a psalter.”  With reverence in concert with a mix of hushed gasps, she fingered the parchment.  “The pictures art so colorful, and never have I owned anything so grand.”  When she glanced at him, she started.  “Prithee, thou art not going to sleep thither.”

“Indeed, I am, and I will be fine.”  To his chagrin, she hugged the family heirloom to her chest and marched straight toward him.  “Isolde, I have endured far worse conditions.”

“Not in my presence, and thither is no need for thee to do so now, because the accommodations art generous.”  A hint of a feminine smile graced her lips, as she bent, snatched the cushion, and returned it to the large four-poster.  “Let us divide the mattress, as thou mayest take one side, and I will recline on the other, unless thou art incapable of controlling thyself.”

“I beg thy pardon.”  Wounded by her insult, he leaped to his feet and dragged the blanket behind him, determined to prove her wrong as he stomped to the bed.  “I am no godless heathen to molest thee.”  Then he noted her impish grin, as she slipped beneath the covers.  “Now thou dost bait me.”

“Yea.”  She peered over her shoulder.  “Art thou vexed?”

“I am verily so.”  In play, he wrinkled his nose and scowled.  “Mayhap I should spank thee, after all.”  The abrupt change in her demeanor, the sheer horror in her once appealing gaze had him cursing as he eased beside her.  “I am sorry, Isolde.  I quipped in haste, but I can see from thy countenance I failed.  Please know that I would sooner cut off my arm than strike thee.”

“Would that all men were so chivalrous.”  Inhaling a shaky breath, she flinched when he cupped her cheek.  “And I have known little kindness in this world, so I pray thou wilt forgive me.”

“Thither is naught to forgive, as I should not have frightened thee.”  Whereas he had prepared to experience ardor, passion, or even base lust on his wedding night, he had not anticipated the altogether different sensations waging war within him, at that moment.  The urge to protect her, to comfort her, to hold her in his arms, and to defend her to his death burned as an unquenchable flame in his chest, and he longed to reassure her.  “Sleep, sweet Isolde.  And I shall guard thy slumber with my life.”

#

A sharp pounding on the door brought Isolde abruptly awake and alert.  Warm and cozy, she yawned, cuddled closer to the unfamiliar heat source, and relaxed—until she realized she rested against her husband.  With his chiseled features softened in repose, at some point during the night he had draped an arm about her waist, and she had curled to his side.  Curiosity beckoned, and she availed herself of the opportunity to admire his magnificent profile.  Another loud rap brought a frown to his full lips, and Arucard opened his eyes.

“Good morrow, Isolde.”  With a finger, he tapped the tip of her chin.  “It appears we have an unwelcomed intruder.  If thou wilt remove thyself from my person, I will answer the summons.”

“Of course.”  Embarrassment burned in her cheeks, and she scooted to the opposite end of the bed.  “I should apologize for impinging on thy territory, in breach of our arrangement.”

“Thither wilt come a time when thou wilt not apologize for everything thou dost perceive hast irritated me?”  Still fully clothed save his boots, her husband stood, raked his hair, walked to the washstand, splashed water on his face, dried himself with a towel, and then strolled into the solar.  He took two steps, paused, and then closed the doors.

Alone, she flew from the four-poster.  After tugging on her hose and garters, she exchanged the nightgown for a chemise and then pulled a cotehardie over her head, just as Arucard returned.  “Who was it?”

“The King’s guard.”  His harsh expression gave her cause for concern.  “His Majesty demands proof I have claimed thy maidenhead.  God’s bones, what art we to do?”

To Isolde, the answer seemed simple, yet she trembled at the prospect.  “Then thou must do the deed.”

“My dear, I shall abide the Crown’s request, soon enough.”  With a heavy sigh, he peered toward the floor, or so she thought.  “But as of this instant, it is a physical impossibility, and the additional pressure does not help matters.”

“Oh.”  Despite her virginal state, she understood his meaning, given the ribald behavior of her brother William, who seduced every pretty maid in their home in Rochester, producing more than one by-blow, which was wherefore Father hired either older or younger servants, thereafter.  Then a brilliant idea shot to the fore.  “We need blood presumably on the bedclothes?”

“So it seems.”  Arucard nodded in agreement.

“All right.”  Quickly, she yanked the sheet from the mattress.  “If thou wilt stoke the blaze in the hearth, please.”

“As thou dost wish.”  Arching a brow, he scratched his temple and then stomped to the fireplace.

Before she lost her nerve, she rolled up her sleeve and then retrieved and unsheathed his sword.  The heavy weapon presented quite a conundrum, as she could not wield it, so she ran her forearm along the blade.  As crimson oozed from the small wound, she staunched the flow with the linen, achieving the necessary stain.  “Thither, it is perfect.”

“What is thy—what hast thou done?”  Her knight yanked hard on her wrist.  “Thou hast injured thyself.”

“How else can we fulfill our duty, if not by the usual activity?”  When he tore a scrap of cloth and bandaged what she considered a mere scratch, she laughed but treasured his show of disquietude.  “Now drape the sheet over the chair near the fire, so it will dry, and then we should ready ourselves to depart.”

“But I would have taken care of it, hadst thou told me what thee planned.”  While she buttoned the front of her cotehardie, he pulled on his boots.  “And it is my responsibility, as thy husband, to preserve thy welfare and to sacrifice when such action is needed.”

“Thou art most chivalrous, sir.”  And she remained unaccustomed to such concern, as her father cared not for her well-being.  “My lord, if the Sovereign wants my blood, then he will have it.”

“Whilst I commend thy courage and resourcefulness, I would argue the King would not know mine from thine, and I will not permit thee to harm thyself for my sake.”  To her surprise, he brought her knuckles to his lips and pressed on her a chaste kiss, which gave her a strange sensation, neither flirtatious nor serious, but nonetheless potent, in the pit of her belly.  For several seconds, Arucard did naught but gaze into her eyes, and he managed to touch her without touching her.  Then he cupped her cheek, bent his head, and set his mouth to hers.  Just as fast, he retreated.  “I am sorry, Isolde.  But thou art quite honestly the most beauteous creature I have ever beheld, and thou art mine, thus thou dost present temptation as I have never known, yet I will try to restrain myself until we art better acquainted as I would not frighten thee.”

“Husband, I hope thou art not displeased, and I mean no offense, but methinks thou art the last man I would ever fear, after thy solicitous behavior on our wedding night.  And I would ask thee to cease thy apologies, in the same spirit, as we art married.”  And she would never forget his kindness, when Margery had imparted horrid tales of all manner of dreadful possibilities, given their unfamiliarity prior to their nuptials, so she had anticipated the worst.  “Know that when thou dost choose to demand thy matrimonial rights, I will bear it without complaint.”

“How romantic thou dost make it sound.”  Again, to her amazement, he drew her into his arms, and she fought rising panic, as Margery ranked as the lone person to ever hug Isolde.  To her delight, she found her husband strong and comforting, in spite of his size.  Although his hands were twice the breadth of hers, he was gentle with his caresses, and she sank into his tender embrace.  “I prefer we enjoy the consummation of our vows, and that is wherefore I delay the inevitable, as I would celebrate the portentous occasion—not simply tolerate it.”

“A very noble gesture, my lord.”  Without thought, she clutched him at the waist and pressed even closer, until he ran his palms over her back, which irritated her injuries, yet she reveled in the solace he offered.  When he flinched, she withdrew.  “Did I hurt thee?”

“Er—no.”  Yet a telltale hue spread from his neck to his face, and she suspected otherwise.  “Now we should garb ourselves for an audience with His Majesty, as our presence is requested in the great hall, along with the proof of bedding, which should be sufficiently dry.”

“Pray, a moment, as I must braid my hair.”  In haste, she completed her morning ritual, as Arucard shaved.  “Dost thou groom thyself every day?”

“Aye, as it is a sign of discipline.”  He brushed his short hair.

“Hast thou never pondered growing a beard?”  She tugged on her leather slippers and smoothed her skirts.  “As it is the fashion, and thou would wear it well, my lord.”

“I am not partial to such frivolous embellishments.”  In that instant, she decided she rather preferred his austerity.  When he stripped to trade his lawn shirt for a fresh garment, she could not stop herself from ogling his muscled back and broad shoulders.

“Perchance a mustache?” she inquired, with a grin, as he seemed so virtuous she could not resist teasing him.

“Nay.”  He wrenched on a blue tunic, which bore an unusual insignia with a wind-star design at center.  “Art thou trying to tell me thou dost not like the way I look?”

“On the contrary.”  After repacking her meager belongings, she waited in the solar for her husband.  Anon, she checked the sheet, and the stain had dried, so she folded the linen.  When the escort arrived, Arucard joined her.

“I wish I could spare thee the spectacle, Isolde.  And I do not approve of such vulgar practices.”  In the passage, he took her by the elbow.  “Remain at my side, and say naught unless thou art addressed.  If the King questions thee, give short and direct answers, and if thou art unsure how to respond, defer to me.”

“Yea, my lord.”  Something in his demeanor changed, and palpable tension invested her nerves, given his cryptic warning was the first sign of unrest since their wedding.

In the great hall, they neared the dais.  As customary, she curtseyed, and her husband bowed.

“Sir Arucard, we trust thou passed a pleasant night?”  A guard carried the sheet to the Sovereign.  “And thou hast fulfilled our edict, though I suspect thou should thank us, as the Lady Isolde blushes.”

“Thou hast my eternal gratitude, Majesty.”  In a bold display of affection, Arucard kissed her hand.  “And never have I slept so little.”

A chorus of laughter filled the cavernous chamber, and various nobles gathered at the table, shared whispers, and traded hearty guffaws at her expense, but she cared not.

“And is Lady Isolde happy with our choice?” the Crown asked, with a snicker.

Gazing at the plush red carpet, she dipped her chin.  “I am exceedingly happy, Sire.”

“We art delighted to hear it,” the King replied.  “And now thou art to depart for Chichester, as we have signed a bill of attainder, and we bestow upon Sir Arucard the earldom of Sussex, whereupon thou shalt establish the garrison we require.”

“Gramercy, Majesty.”  Arucard squeezed her arm, and she followed his lead.  “By thy leave.”

“Wait.”  To her chagrin and trepidation, her father rounded the buffet.  “I would bid my daughter farewell.”

Reluctant to relinquish her husband’s protection, she held tight to him, until her father drew her into an awkward embrace.  “Take care, Father.”

“Read this missive when thou art alone, and do as I instruct.”  He slipped her a sealed envelope, which she promptly tucked in the fitchet of her cotehardie.  With that, he patted her back, as if to remind her of the consequences should she defy him, and she emitted a bare whimper.  “Never forget I will be watching thee.”

“I will miss thee, too, Father.”  She gritted her teeth against the pain, as he knew well the damage from his last beating had yet to heal.

“Come, Isolde.”  Then Arucard did not speak until they entered the palace yard.  “Wilt thou long for thy family and London?”

Pondering the contents of the mysterious message, which portended nefarious enterprises if she knew well her father, she could not put the city behind her soon enough.  “Nay.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER THREE

With his hands at her waist, Arucard lifted Isolde into the four-wheeled wagon, which had been outfitted with substantial comforts.  And for the second time that day, he struggled with unfamiliar and discomposing activity below his belt.  As a virgin unaccustomed to physical enthusiasms, he knew not how to control the strange, but not altogether unpleasant, sensations emanating from his unusually active crotch region.

“Art thou settled, my lady?”  Just a glimpse of her shapely hose-covered calves elicited an uncanny tension in his muscles, and he bit back a groan.  “As I prefer thee enjoy our journey.”

“Brother, the Lady Isolde has a visitor.”  Averting his stare, Demetrius shuffled his feet and frowned, as his fellow Brethren of the Coast had yet to adjust to a woman in their midst.

“Margery?”  With a gasp, Isolde descended from her perch.  “And Anne?  What art thou doing hither?”

Lingering in his wife’s wake, Arucard peered at Demetrius.  “Is everyone prepared to depart?”

“Aye, sirrah.”  Demetrius rubbed the back of his neck.  “Well, did the mountain stag stir her waters?”

“I knew thee would ask.”  As his bride conversed with her acquaintances, he admired her swanlike neck, imagined running his tongue along the gentle curve, and a vicious erection roared to life in his braies.  How would he manage a long ride on horseback with a loaded trebuchet?  “Art the soldiers assembled?”

“Thou dost avoid the question.”  And knowing Demetrius, the interrogation would not end until he was satisfied.  “So how was it?”

“Have I not told thee that thou dost talk too much?”  In that instant, Isolde glanced over her shoulder, and he spied distress in her expression.  “Something is wrong.”

“Thou dost seek an escape.”  Demetrius chuckled, as Arucard approached the three women.

“Shall I beg an introduction?”  Then he noted the tears.  “Wherefore dost thou weep, my lady?”

“Oh, Arucard, I have such dire news.”  Her chin quivered as she clutched his hand.  “My father terminated the employment of two of the most faithful servants from his household, and I cannot abandon them.  If thou wilt not—”

“Then let us take them with us to Chichester.”  It seemed the obvious solution, and they could use the additional attendants.  “In fact, thou mayest consider them another wedding gift.”

“Wilt thou do that for me?” she inquired in a small voice, as if he had just handed her the world.  In that moment, he realized she had not exaggerated when she stated she had known little if any kindness in her life, and he vowed to correct the injustice.  “When I have given thee naught in return for thy generosity?”

“Would it make thee happy?”  Without thought, Arucard traced the edge of her jaw in a shocking demonstration of familiarity.  “Because I do so wish to make thee happy.”

“Thou hast, my lord.”  For the glow in her countenance, he would purchase a thousand such luxuries, if only to see her shimmering smile.  “Mayest Margery and Anne ride in my wagon?”

“They art thine to do with as thou wilt.”  The knowledge that his pleasure inextricably intertwined with hers perplexed him, even though it was right, given they had taken the sacrament.  And their nuptials forever fixed her as his property, which both repelled and fascinated him, and he had yet to reconcile the two.  “I charge thee with their supervision, my lady wife.”

“By thy command, my lord.  Margery, Anne, wilt thou stow thy belongings, as Sir Arucard requires we set out, with undue haste.”  As she spoke, Isolde never broke their contact.  To him, she said, “And might I impose upon thy assistance, again?”

“Thou art no imposition.”  In a repeat of his earlier moves, he made to heft her to the bench, but she stayed him when she wrapped her arms about his neck.

“Given I have no money or property, as my dowry is thine, I have but a single meager offering to bestow upon my valorous knight.”  And then she did something he never would have predicted.  She kissed him.

The taste of her lips, sweeter than any confection, posed an alluring enticement doubled by the knowledge that she initiated the diverting interlude, and his man’s yard grew hard as stone, while the ground seemed to pitch and roll beneath his feet.  But when she parted her sumptuous flesh, mingled her tongue with his, and moaned, he well nigh spilt his seed in his braies.  A hunger like no other charged his nerves, and uncharted heat simmered in his muscles.  Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, a jolting understanding occurred to him then—he desired his wife.

On the heels of the thought, he lifted his head.  “It appears we have reversed positions, and I am now in thy debt, as thither was naught meager in that incomparable reward.”

“What a lovely thing to say.”  With an adorable giggle, she rubbed her nose to his, and instinctively he pressed his hips to hers.  As she gave vent to a gasp, she peered between them and favored him with an expression of wonder.  Had she noted his aroused state?  Had he shocked her?  “My lord, fear not, as I will not wait too long to come to thee.”

And how he suddenly looked forward to the exceptional event, which represented a drastic shift in his perspective in a short span of time.

At first when they slipped between the sheets the previous night, whilst they cuddled abed, his lower territories had remained stubbornly dormant and impervious to her influence.  But at some point throughout the wee hours, when she cuddled close, and her warm soft body caressed his frame, he decided the marital condition posited unforeseen benefits, chief among them his bride’s beauty, which he savored in the dim light from a single taper.  Thither, beneath the clear blue sky, the sun’s bright rays, and amid a throng of servants, soldiers, and knights, Arucard could have taken his wife in the wagon, with all present as witnesses to the deflowering.  However, he had no intention of baring his backside to a mixed audience.

“As I said, I will not pressure thee.”  With care, he planted her safely on the bench and winked, as he squeezed her ankle.  “But at this moment, I am infinitely grateful to the King.”

“Oh, so am I.”  A rosy hue about her face bespoke the truth of her much-cherished declaration, and she brushed the back of her knuckles to his cheek.  “May I confess, when we took our vows, I knew not what to expect, but I am not so afraid, anymore, and I have thee to thank for that?”

“Then let us away, as our new home awaits.”  And the future seemed bright, indeed.  Humming a flirty little ditty, Arucard turned—and halted.

Standing in a half-circle, with rigid postures, arms folded, and impressive scowls, his brethren formed a formidable line of resistance and disapproval, and he guessed at their objection.  Their long-held beliefs proscribed overt displays of affection, yet their credence had not accounted for a papal betrayal, a hasty exile, an impromptu commission under a new monarch, and an unplanned union.  Not to mention, he had yet to divulge the fact that the Nautionnier Knights had been commanded to take brides chosen by His Majesty, on a date to be named.  But he would fight that battle at the appropriate time.

“Not a word, brothers.”  In a few steps, he climbed into the saddle of his destrier and grasped the reins.  “Now gain thy mounts, as we have much to achieve, and the day grows old.”

#

The evening sun danced on the horizon, and a cool wind lashed the cover of her wagon, as the procession pulled into an open field for the night.  A copse of trees formed an informal border, of sorts, and from her bench seat, Isolde peered at her knight and smiled, which he returned in equal measure.  For the better part of the journey, thus far, she had passed the time in idle reflection, admiring her husband’s glorious physique and patrician profile.  Instead of riding at the front of the line, in a position of prominence, Arucard remained near; casting haphazard glances, always accompanied by a grin, which she found infectious, in her direction, as though he guarded a most precious cargo.

“My lady, thou hast not said much, but I would ascertain thy condition that I might serve thee.”  With her head bowed, Margery averted her gaze.  “I have soothing bath oils and an acopon for the pain, should thou need to recover from thy consummation.”

“Thither is no need for such potions and balms, old friend.”  Mulling her restful night, Isolde chuckled.  “My husband is a thoughtful and considerate man, and he granted a deferment until we art better acquainted.”

“What?”  Panic invested her tone, as Margery wrenched Isolde’s arm.  “Dost thou mean ye hast not sealed thy vows?”

“Wherefore dost thou worry?”  Given her husband’s patience and noble nature, Isolde covered the housekeeper’s hand, as thither was no cause for alarm.  “Really, thou must calm thyself, else thou wilt give thyself a terrible megrim.  And Arucard is the kindest and gentlest spouse.  What have I to fear?”

“Dost thou not see the danger of thy position, child?”  With a half-sob, Margery bit her bottom lip.  “My lady, what the archbishop hath done, thy father can have undone, on a whim.  Until thou dost surrender thy maidenhead to Sir Arucard, he owns thee not.  And though I hesitate to speak of it, as the earl employed me, I suspect Lord Rochester doth conspire against the Crown.”

“Nonsense.”  Then Isolde recalled the letter, which she had yet to read, that her father had passed during their awkward farewell, and she pulled the envelope from her fitchet.  “I am positive thou dost misunderstand the situation, as Father is a complicated man.”

“My lady, I beg thy indulgence.”  Inhaling a shaky breath, Margery stared at Anne.  “Wherefore dost thou not set up a fire, so we may prepare dinner?”

“But thou art about to discuss something of interest.”  Pouting and grumbling her protest, Anne shuffled to the bench and jumped from the wagon.  “I always have to do the dirty work.”

“Because that is thy occupation.”  Margery wagged a finger.  “Now mind thy manners, cease thy complaints, and tarry not, else thou mayest walk back to London.”

“Do not be so hard on her, as she hath had her life upended.”  Then again, Isolde had confronted similar chaos in her circumstances, yet fate smiled upon her, as Arucard seemed more a blessing than a curse, and she counted herself fortunate.  “And as for my stalwart spouse, he is not what he appears.  Regardless of his formidable stature and somewhat abrupt demeanor, Sir Arucard is a soul of compassion.”

“My dear, at the end of the day, he is the King’s servant, His Majesty ordered the marriage, and all men desire political advances.  Dost thou not fathom the reality of thy situation?”  With desperation in her visage, the housekeeper grabbed Isolde’s wrist.  “As long as thou dost remain a virgin, thy nuptials can be annulled.  Whilst thy faith in Sir Arucard is commendable, thou dost hardly know him.  He can, at this very instant, sue for dissolution of the marriage on the grounds that thou hast failed to perform thy wifely duty, and no one will argue otherwise.  Given Lord Rochester’s disposition, and his propensity for violence whither thou art concerned, dost thou believe thou wilt survive his wrath should thee shame the family?”

The confidence Isolde coveted had just vanished.

“If what thou dost say is true, and I suspect thou art correct, as thy instincts have always been infallible, then I should make myself available to him—tonight.”  At the prospect, she gulped but then ticked off an imaginary list.  “Margery, pluck two chickens, and locate the stores of rice and honey, while I mash the almonds.  And have Anne set up the small table from Sir Arucard’s wagon.”

“What art thou going to do?”  The steward furrowed her brow.

“Just as thou dost suggest, but I would soften him with my blancmange.”  Again, Isolde remembered the correspondence in her fitchet, and she withdrew the missive.  “Go, worrisome friend, and do as I ask, as I would not serve my husband a maw-wallop on our special night.”

Alone, Isolde fingered the wax seal and then cracked it.  As she unfolded the parchment, a chill of dread, which augured doom, shivered down her spine, and she clenched her teeth.  The opening salutation foretold disaster, and she knew not what to make of the details the note contained, but she did not, for a brief second, trust her father.

My darling Isolde,

By now thou art wedded and bedded to a foul animal with immoderate inclinations, and thy only hope for survival is to remain loyal to thy family.  Please know I had no choice in the matter of thy betrothal, as I serve the King.  As thy father, I claim thy allegiance that I might save thy soul and enact thy eventual rescue.  Whilst the consummation of thy vows could not be avoided, and we shall seek absolution from the archbishop once thou art free from the monster thou hast married, know that my heart weeps for thee.  Watch Sir Arucard closely, and report to me any revelations, however thou mayest deem insignificant, as thou art incapable of discerning important facts from trivial details.  If possible, try to learn of his background and connection to the Crown.  And what is the origin and location of Sir Arucard’s fortune?  I expect a response from thee, posthaste.

Thy loving father, Lord Rochester

Her loving father?  Had he been drunk when he composed the letter, because never had he made such a declaration?  At once, everything inside her railed against her father’s claims, and a wave of nausea rocked her belly, as Isolde believed the worst of him.  And despite her brief association with Arucard, she doubted him not.  Yet Father presented a threat she could neither ignore nor suppress.

Searching the area, as her first instinct was to inform her husband of the dubious request, she frowned when she could not locate her knight.  Soldiers and servants scattered in all directions, setting up tents and lighting fires to service the encampment.  Then she spotted her spouse standing amid his friends, and she steered for him, determined to disclose the entire contents of the malevolent message and seek counsel.

“My lady, I found the ingredients thou dost require, and the chickens art almost ready.”  Stepping into Isolde’s path, Margery wiped her hands on a cloth.  “For the best flavor, thou should pound the breasts whilst they art fresh.  After all, thou dost not want to give thy husband any reason to regret wedding thee.”

When the significance of Margery’s hapless warning struck Isolde, she halted and reconsidered her course of action.  Father’s correspondence marked her as a collaborator of the worst sort, and thither was no guarantee Arucard would believe her an innocent, given their brief association, despite sincere protestations of blamelessness.  A wise woman would soften her husband’s mood before relaying bad news.

“Help me, Margery.”  Isolde thrust the offensive dispatch into her fitchet, grabbed an apron, laced it behind her, and snatched a heavy dowel, which she used to mash the meat.  “Tonight, it is imperative I serve the best blancmange Sir Arucard hath ever tasted.  And send one of the manservants to station a barrel of ale, as my husband prefers it to wine.”

“Yes, my lady.”  The housekeeper half-curtseyed as Isolde poured milk into a pan.  “Shall I set the special table for the two of thee, mayhap, in thy tent?”

“What a wonderful idea—wait.”  Then Isolde snapped her fingers.  “Disregard that order, as I would do something else, entirely.  I want a position of distinction, but not for us, and not in private.  Rather, I would have thee situate enough seating for Sir Arucard and his knights, in a place of honor and prominence, as I would have him know I esteem him and his men.  And I will dine with thee and Anne.”

“But thy place is at Sir Arucard’s side.”  In the makeshift outdoor kitchen, Margery untied a bag, which she handed to Isolde.  “Careful not to burn the milk, my lady.”

“I will take care of this, and thou should secure additional assistance, as we must feed everyone in our traveling party.”  She added rice to the pan and stirred the contents with a wooden spoon.  “And can thou find Anne and have her search out the bread?”

“Now whither did I pack the trenchers?”  With arms folded, Margery furrowed her brow and inspected the various trunks filled with cooking implements.  “Oh, never mind.  Let me see to the dining area, and then I will return to forage for the utensils.”

The despicable petition weighed heavy on her heart and mind, as Isolde tarried, and while her thoughts raced, she could seize upon no clear solution to her quandary.  No matter how she sliced it, the ignoble entreaty put her at odds with her new spouse, when she sought accord.  Wherefore could Father not leave her in peace?

Closing her eyes, she slipped beyond the present and traveled back to her last day at home.  Amid lash after brutal lash, Father made no secret of his utter contempt for her.  Bereft of breath from the exertion necessary to deliver the blows, he sputtered and laughed at her sharp inhalations, which kept rhythm with his beating as she braced for the strike and accompanying pain.  At one point, he professed a deep-seated hatred of Isolde, and she bore his ire to spite him, which seemed to further incite his fury and abuse.

Yea, she could have relented, could have collapsed in a heap of tears and begged him to stop, but she refused to grant him the satisfaction of victory.  Instead, she persevered as she always had, and he thrashed her until he buckled, presumably from exhaustion, and could deliver no more punishment.  And should Sir Arucard develop the same penchant for her flesh and blood, she would respond in similar fashion, even if it killed her, because she knew no other way.

After the small army of servants set up camp, Isolde’s pudding firmed, and Anne assisted in making enough food for everyone else, Margery summoned the group to supper.  As was tradition, the women in the party distributed ample portions to the men and then served themselves.  It was only when Isolde perched on a bench that she chanced a glance at her husband.

Chuckling with his knights, he scooped a bite with his fingers and brought the fare to his mouth.  To her amusement, he paused, sniffed the morsel, and sampled the dish.  When he snapped to attention, peered left and then right, spied her, and waved, she gulped.  Just as quick, he elbowed Demetrius, who scooted to one end, and then Arucard again motioned for her to join him.

Nervous, her hands shook as she collected her meal and goblet of wine.  With cautious strides, she navigated the sea of travelers until she loomed before her mate and curtseyed.  “My lord.”

“My lady.”  He stood, rounded the table, took her trencher, grasped her wrist, and led her to a spot at his side.  “Wherefore dost thou hide with the maids?”

“I did no such thing.”  Too late, she reminded herself not to argue with him, as the husband was always right.  And she had yet to share Father’s diabolical letter.  “I merely show deference, as a good and dutiful wife.”

The knight called Aristide snorted, and Demetrius snickered, but the remaining warriors all but ignored her.

“As a good and dutiful wife, thou should know thy place is with me.”  For a scarce second, Arucard appeared vexed, and then he smiled, which put her at ease, as he settled himself.  “This blancmange is outstanding.  And I must beg my mother’s forbearance, as never have I tasted its equal.  Is that not right, brothers?”

“The pudding is sufficient—ouch.”  Aristide flinched and grimaced.  “I mean, yea.  By God’s bones, the food is delicious.”

“The lady Isolde is a fine cook.”  Shifting his weight, Demetrius shot a wicked scowl at Arucard.  “So thou mayest spare my shins, brother.”

“I know not of what thou speak.”  Pounding his fist atop the table, which gave her a start, Arucard narrowed his stare.  “And is that the sum of adulation and gratitude my bride earned for her labors?”

In unison, Geoffrey and Morgan muttered almost incomprehensible compliments.

“Praise, indeed.”  Bowing her head, she bit her tongue to stave off laughter.  To Arucard, she whispered, “Dost thou verily like it?”

To wit he leaned close, winked, and replied, “I would have married thee for thy blancmange, alone.”

#

It was late when Arucard shuffled into the tent he would share with Isolde.  When he drew back the interior panel, he discovered Pellier sitting on a stool near the huge ancere, a wedding present from the King, created to accommodate Arucard’s large frame.

“Whither is Lady Isolde?”  Glancing about the sizable temporary abode, Arucard suspected she remained with the servants, because it had not taken long to discern his wife possessed an admirable work ethic.  “Has she returned from the night’s feast?”

“I would not know, sir.”  The marshalsea carried a towel from the washstand.  “Shall I help thee disrobe and bathe?”

“Do not take insult, old friend.”  After unfastening his belt and stripping off his tunic, Arucard sat on the hastily erected bed and doffed his boots, as he selected his words with care, because he would not incite discord between his bride and his manservant.  “Methinks, mayhap, now I am married, thou should no longer tend my personal needs.  At least, not until I negotiate such details with Lady Isolde.  In future, we shall confine thy services to battle preparation and maintenance of my armor and weapons, unless I command otherwise.”

“A very shrewd decision, my lord.  And I would not ruffle that haughty maid Margery, given her quick temper.”  With a grin, Pellier bowed.  “By thy leave, I wish thee a pleasant rest.”

“And I bid thee the same.”  Heaving a sigh, Arucard stood, walked to the back corner, and opened his trunk.  In pursuit of fresh braies and a clean linen shirt, he flipped through his belongings, secured the necessary items, and then removed his remaining clothing.  Naked, he eased into the ancere, reclined, sank beneath the surface of the hot water, and closed his lids.

In a flash, visions of a green-eyed angel with lush black hair danced in his thoughts.  He had known her for two days, yet she was his woman, and that singular realization inspired all manner of naughty notions and foreign sensations.  Then again, as she was his bride, was it not natural to desire her?

Minutes later, a frolicsome hum snared his attention, and he peeked through his lashes just as Isolde entered the tent.  In the faint light of a single brazier, she had not noticed him, and he sat mesmerized as she stepped from her shoes, lifted her skirts, removed her garters and hosiery, and unbuttoned her cotehardie.  Without warning, his unusually exuberant nether dragon breathed fire.  When she turned, she gazed straight at him and shrieked.

“My lord Arucard, I did not see thee when first I entered our tent.”  In an instant, she averted her stare, and he would wager she blushed, which amused him for some odd reason.  “Let me restore my clothing, and I will wait outside whilst thou dost wash.”

“Do not be foolish.”  In a show of modesty, he shielded his crotch with a small cloth.  “Thou need not—”

“Actually, it is my duty to assist thee.”  Contrary to her outward behavior, which bespoke internal discomfit, the quick alteration in her manner caught him unaware, but when she dropped her outer garment, leaving naught more than her sheer chemise to cover her enthralling female curves, he came alert.  “As thy wife, I should scrub thy back and whatever else thou dost require.  And if it is no inconvenience, I would use the ancere once thou art finished.”

Whatever he had expected her to say, that was not it, and he sloshed water as he sat upright.  It occurred to him then that he had no real concept of the matrimonial state, and they had yet to determine the rules of engagement.  “Isolde, cleanliness is part of my discipline, it is ingrained in my character, and I do not demand such habits of thee.  But if thou dost wish to share my daily ritual, I would have thee bathe first.”

“Art thou always so gallant?”  She knelt beside the ancere, took the soap from his grasp, lathered his chest, and splayed her sudsy palms across his flesh, which again woke his one-eyed dragon.  “How didst thou get this scar?”

“In battle.”  Painfully aroused, he hunkered forward in an attempt to conceal his affliction and vowed to master the volatile protuberance, which had grown evermore unpredictable since Isolde entered his life.  “But the wound has long since healed.”

“Wherefore were thou fighting, and who were thee defending?”  The answers to her seemingly harmless questions revealed more than he dared share, until they consummated their union.  She leaned near to scrub his hair.  “And who won the engagement?”

“We safeguarded our beliefs and stood for those who could not protect themselves.”  At that instant, he noticed the front of her slip had dampened, and the wet fabric hid naught from his scrutiny.  Never had he found female breasts so beguiling, as he had no experience with them, but never had he contemplated the singular womanly feature in such close proximity.  The twin crimson-tipped peaks lured him as a bee to honey, and he ached to caress her.  “And we prevailed, my brothers and I.”  Anticipating additional queries, he ceased ogling her body only to find her studying him.

“Wilt thou not touch me?”  Slowly, she clutched his wrist and brought his hand to her mound of firm flesh.  “Art thou not pleased with me?  Dost thou not want me?”

“Isolde, thou dost please me more than thou dost know, and I long to take thee.”  As he cupped, stroked, and explored her oh-so-mesmerizing endowments, her nipple hardened, and she inhaled a rush of breath.  “Did I injure thee?”

“No.”  She licked her lips.  “It is just that never have I been thus affected, and if thou would claim that which is thine by law and the sacrament, I will not oppose thee.”

“A generous offer from a benevolent lady—my lady.”  Through the fine linen undergarment, he teased her taut pebble with the pad of his thumb.  Yea, his anatomy could satisfy her, yet his body had not allied with his mind, and he wanted to know more about her prior to negotiating intimacy.  “But I am unprepared for what thou dost ask of me.”

“Wilt thou not send me away?”  The fear in her countenance altered his stance, as it was clear she required validation, of a sort.  “Wilt thou return me to my father for failure to comply with thy wishes?”

“Ah, thou dost not trust me, when I refuse to take thee as a poxy-cheeked strumpet.  And I would allay thy doubts in regard to the constancy of my devotion in advance of our consummation.”  So what could Arucard do, without violating his promise and her maidenhead, as some barbarian boothaler?  Then he recalled her gift in exchange for the servant wenches.  “Come hither, Isolde.”

Cupping her chin, he tilted her head and set his lips to hers.

As before, molten heat poured through his veins, and she flicked her tongue at his.  When she speared her fingers through his hair and moaned; he teetered on the precipice of some odd strength of sentiment he had not experienced since his youth.  His gut tensed, and he clenched his teeth.  Well nigh dizzy from the force of her enthusiasm, he massaged her pliant breast one more time and then retreated.

“Thither now.”  Resting her forehead to his, she rubbed her nose to his and smiled.  “I am appeased, sir.  And I should complete my chore, as the water grows cold, and I do wish to clean myself without catching a chill.”

Just then, she peered into the tub and snatched the cloth.  To his everlasting shame, his healthy and erect man’s yard caught her attention.  For a minute, she held his stare, then glanced at his mouth, and again met his gaze.

“Dost thou understand what that means?”  Anticipating shock and reproach, he choked when she closed her hand about his length.  “Isolde, thou should not tempt me thus.”

“Yea, I understand, as my brother doth lack discretion in his conquests.”  Then she tugged gently and said, “Thou dost want me.”

A violent shudder seized him, and his seed shot forth as though launched from an imposing carro-ballista.  Groaning as wave upon wave of release wracked his frame, Arucard rested his head on the edge of the ancere and closed his eyes.  A repetitive spasm drew out the blissful release, and he shifted his hips and savored what he had not enjoyed since joining the Templars and mastering his base desires, as the Lord’s men revered austerity in all things.

Anon, he recovered enough to muster a chuckle and discern his wife’s distress.  “What is wrong?  Have I frightened thee?”

“Perchance, as I know not what happened.”  With an expression of horror, she blinked.  “Did I wound something of importance?”

“Nay, my sweet Isolde.”  Given that gem of logic, he surrendered to a full belly laugh.  When she frowned and sat on her heels, he stood, snatched a towel from the stool, and wrapped the square of linen about his waist to mitigate his nudity.  Dripping wet, he bent, slipped his arms about her waist, and lifted her.  “Thou hast bestowed upon me another treasure, and thou art most kind.”  He claimed another kiss and set her on her feet.  “Now I must don my garb and fetch fresh water for thy bath.”

“Prithee, only a pail, and I shall make do with that.”  Unaware that the entire front of her slip had been rendered sheer by his damp hug, she shielded naught from him, and he took advantage of the moment to look his fill as he dressed.

“As thou dost wish.”  With that, Arucard nodded once and stepped into the chilly night air, which he hoped might cool his blood.  Beneath the silver light of the moon, he glanced at the starry sky and smiled.  Yea, the lady Isolde had cast a spell, and he ached to yield to her demands, but he would linger and win her fealty.  Then he would claim her body.

ARUCARD

CHAPTER FOUR

Four days later, Isolde descended from the traveling wagon, after the procession pulled into an expansive glade for the night.  The distinct keen of sea gulls declared they neared the coast and Chichester, but the weather had turned, the roads had deteriorated, and the sun had set, so Arucard commanded they halt their progress, rather than risk a broken wheel or an injured horse due to the muddy ruts.

“So thou hast not consummated thy vows?”  Margery arched a brow and snorted.  “Thou hast always been stubborn to a fault, and this instance mayest be thy worst yet.”

“But my husband hath been most supportive.”  With a groan of exertion, Isolde dragged the trunk containing the cooking utensils to the place that would serve as the temporary kitchen.  Given the length of their journey, she had organized the necessities to ensure rapid setup and packing.  “And he shows his affection with greater frequency.”

Not to mention, he had become far more amorous.  Ever since that glorious interlude in their tent, when she had accidentally brought him to completion with her hand, Arucard had increased their intimacy in small but effective strides.  The previous eventide, after supper, they took to their bed and explored their bodies beneath the animal pelts they shared to keep warm, and just thinking of it gave her a shiver of delight, because he touched her as he had never touched her.

As they kissed, she caressed his man’s yard, and he eased his hand between her legs.  At his first brush of her most sensitive flesh, Isolde knew not how to respond to the experience, but his whispers of praise and encouragement had soothed her nerves and calmed her fears, and she allowed him free rein.  The end result, a rather quick affair, required a change of braies for her knight, and she could not stifle a giggle at the thought.

“Then thou would do well to surrender thy maidenhead before telling him of the letter.”  The irascible steward hefted additional items and followed in Isolde’s wake.  “Else Sir Arucard could accuse thee of betrayal and ship thee home.”

“Must thou always sing the same tune?”  The relative euphoria vanished, as she pondered the possibility.  In a short span of time, she had grown fond of her husband and their fledgling routine.  “And Arucard is my champion, so he would never do such a thing.  Set up the spit, so we can serve a hot meal, as the rain has stopped.”

With that, Isolde abandoned the task at hand and sought her knight for inspiration and confidence.  As was his way, he supervised the preparation of their tent, their ancere, and their bed, so she could situate their belongings and hasten their rendezvous after dinner.  When she found him, she smiled.

“Place the rug at center, as the ground is damp, and I would ensure my wife’s comfort.”  As he directed the servants, Arucard fluffed the straw-filled mattress and placed it on the ropes of the bed frame.  “And fetch the large brazier, as the wind is strong, and it will be a cold night.”

The servants scrambled to fulfill his commands, and she pressed a finger to her lips as she entered their temporary quarters.  Alone with her husband, she slipped her arms about his waist and hugged him from behind.  “Wherefore dost thou require a brazier, when thou shalt keep me warm?”

“My lady.”  Covering her hands with his, he squeezed her fingers.  “Am I not thy champion?  Thy health and welfare art of great importance, and I would not fail thee.”

“When shall we arrive at Chichester, as I long to have thee to myself?”  The attendant returned, carrying the requisite item, and Isolde released her knight.  “Perchance, I should move the small table into our tent, and we could dine in privacy.  Thou hast never finished thy story last eventide, and I do so wish to know more of thy family history.”

“Mayhap tomorrow, mayhap the day after, our journey will end.”  Quick as a flash, he turned and pulled her into a more intimate embrace.  “And perchance thou shalt take thy sup in my lap, if thy meal is pleasing.”

“I am making cameline meat brewets, as my lord declared them another favorite.”  How she adored his smile, which featured the hint of a dimple on his left cheek.  “Will that suffice?”

“Sounds delicious, and Demetrius will be happy, as they art his favorite.”  Then he bent his head and kissed her.  As she suckled and laved his full lips, a bewitching aspect of marital life she had mastered, she relished the taste of him.  All too soon, he ceased the interlude but kept her close.  “Isolde, thy mouth is far more tempting than thy fare, although thou art an excellent cook.”

“Praise, indeed.”  For a scarce second, she pondered Margery’s warning and considering revealing the letter to Arucard.  But they had yet to consummate their vows, and Isolde feared he might return her to London and her father.  And she viewed that as a fate worse than death.  With a wicked shudder, she rubbed her arms and laughed.  “Allow me to be of use and gather the skins for our bedding.  Mayhap thou should place clean braies beneath thy pillow, in anticipation of our nightly games.”

“Mayhap thou should keep thy hands to thyself, thus I would have no need of clean braies.”  When she pouted, he winked.  “Perchance I should forgo braies, altogether, when we retire.”

“Art thou complaining?  And I didst naught more than thee instructed.”  Isolde spread the hides, as he positioned the ancere and carried in the table.  Then she checked the pillows, as her husband preferred the firmer cushion.  “Thither, it is done.  Now I should return to the kitchen, as Margery and Anne might have need of me.”

“Prithee, a moment.”  Ah, how well she knew his playful side.  She lowered her chin, he arched a brow, she veered left, and he caught her.  “Dost thou run from me?”

“Never.”  With a squeal of joy, she wrapped her arms about his neck.  “But thou hast quite an appetite, and supper will not cook itself.”

“Anon, might I persuade thee to forgo a night rail?”  He nuzzled her temple, and she well nigh melted.  “As never have I seen thee without benefit of clothing.”

“Thou dost wish me to sleep nude?”  At the prospect, she gulped, as she had kept her scarred back hidden from view, given she feared he would use her marked body as an excuse to end their marriage.  Until they consummated their vows, she wanted to maintain that secret, along with Father’s correspondence.  “Dost thou intend to claim my maidenhead?”

And that singular query interrupted his mischievous diversion.

“Isolde, as I told thee, it will happen when it happens.”  To her regret, he frowned and put her on her feet.  “I had thought we could advance our forays between the covers, and thou dost not know whither that mayest lead us.”

“Until then, my lord.”  In a rare display of confidence, she jumped up, kissed him hard and fast, and ran from their tent, and his chuckle rang clear behind her.  As she marched for the makeshift kitchen, she thrust her hands in her fitchet and came to an abrupt halt.  For several seconds, she dug and searched, as her heart pounded, her ears rang, and her breath came in fits and starts.  When reality set in, a chill of dread settled in her chest.

Father’s letter was gone.

Ever since she read the missive, she kept it on her person, as she could not risk her husband finding it, hadst she hid it amongst her belongings.  The earth seemed to pitch and roll beneath her leather slippers, as she hiked the skirts of her cotehardie and ran to the tent.

Standing with his back to her, Arucard loomed large but appeared fine, as he dismissed the help.

She exhaled in relief and dipped her chin to the servants, as they exited.  “My lord, I was just—”

Slowly, her knight faced her.  In his grasp, he held her downfall, the telltale parchment.  “Is this what thou dost seek?”

#

“Wherefore art thou so determined to consummate our nuptials?”  Raw rage charged the field, as Isolde’s treachery cut like a knife, and Arucard crumpled the damning correspondence.  “Dost thou intend to seduce me into thy web before thou dost betray me to thy father?  And is that the reason thou dost seem so interested in my history?”

“Nay.”  As he expected she wept, but her tears moved him not.  “Pray, thou must believe me.  Never would I disclose the information Father demands, as I owe him naught.  Thou dost own my allegiance, and never would I break my vow.”

“Thou dost speak pretty words, but thy letter reveals the truth of thy character and motives.”  And pain cut to his core, as he contemplated her deception, given his stated intent to foster marital accord and trust.  “I should hie thee back to London and the earl.”

“Nay.”  With a wild-eyed expression, she threw herself at his feet.  “Prithee, nay.  I beseech thee to have mercy, sir.”  Clutching his shins, she bowed her head.  “I hid the missive because I feared thou would send me away, and I was wrong.  By my troth, I am thine to command.”

How he longed to believe her, as he revisited brief but cherished moments of their journey.  But the truth was she had wounded him, and he had not prepared for that injury, which hurt worse than any he had suffered in battle.

“Arucard, come hither.”  Morgan charged into the tent.  “We art under attack by an unknown enemy.”

Operating on instinct, Arucard grabbed his sword and shield.  “Lady Isolde, thou wilt remain hither, as I am not done with thee.  And if thou art not present when I return, I will search for thee, and when I find thee, thou wilt not enjoy the outcome.  Dost thou understand?”

Sitting on her heels, she wiped her nose and whimpered.  “Aye, my lord.”

Riding a wave of righteous fury mixed with bone-chilling disappointment, he ran into the field, whither he found hooded bandits engaging soldiers in combat.  As the men had been setting up the encampment, and none had anticipated an assault, the raiders had met little resistance—until Arucard and the Brethren entered the fray.

Forming a formidable line of defense, the Brethren of the Coast waged war with a rallying cry.  Bereft of heavy armor, Arucard moved swift and sure, thrusting and swinging, and taking down various adversaries with his weapon.  With a single graceful flourish, he severed the head of a marauder and impaled another.  Standing shoulder to shoulder with Demetrius, Arucard’s faithful comrade in arms, they plowed a wide path through the boothalers.

To his right, Arucard noticed Pellier struggling to subdue a large assailant.  “Step aside, old friend.”  Arucard pushed his marshalsea clear.  “Let us see how the ornery giant handles an evenly matched opponent.”

“Thou dost not intimidate me, silk-snatcher.”  The flaxen-haired oaf rushed Arucard, and steel clashed with steel.  “If thou hast come hither to steal more lands on behalf of the King, thou art mistaken, as we rebuke thy authority.”

“I know naught of what thou speaks.”  As his opponent swung wide, Arucard landed a fist to the rival’s chin, and the young man dropped to his arse.  With the pointed end of his sword leveled at the combatant’s throat, Arucard lowered his chin.  “If thou wilt call off thy forces, I shall hear thy complaints, as I am the newly commissioned guardian of Chichester.”

“I care not for fancy titles.”  The provoking challenger spat blood and wiped his mouth.  “And wherefore should I believe anything thou dost say?”

“Because I will spare thy companions, good sirrah.”  Arucard stretched to full height.  “Otherwise, if thou dost prefer a warrior’s death, I shall indulge thee.  And my knights and I will slaughter thy men.  The choice is thine.”

“Wherefore should I take thee at thy word?”  He frowned.  “The Crown spreads lies, denying the rape of our property, while we endure the thefts and the accompanying humiliation.”

“I am Arucard de Villiers, the King’s emissary, and on my honor, I shall deal with thee honestly and fairly.”  He retreated a step and extended a hand in a gesture of faith.  “What is thy name?”

“I am called Aeduuard de Cadby.”  The gadling stood, and his scowl deepened.  “Wherefore should I trust thee, when I know thee not?  Thou could renege and run me through, as lies know no boundaries, rank, or sworn oaths, sir.  And a few pretty words cannot undo years of ill treatment, thus I have had little reason to confide in anyone.”

The statement, stark in its meaning, jolted Arucard.

In an instant, he recalled Isolde and her tragic relationship with her father and brother, which she shared in bits and pieces over the past few days.  Like de Cadby, she had been cautious and suspicious of Arucard’s motives, and he had considered her misgivings a barrier he had yet to breach.  Given the dissension in her family, the letter should have struck Arucard as odd.  Instead, unchecked ire blinded him, and he leapt to unsupported conclusions, when he should have permitted his wife to explain her situation.  Despite the urgency of the conflict, he needed to return to his bride.

Regardless of their short acquaintance, Isolde would never betray him, and he knew that now as he sure as he knew the origins of his birth.  Pain of a different sort settled in his chest, and he rubbed the back of his neck.  Around him, the fighting ceased, as the Brethren bested the ill-skilled raiders.

“Stand down thy men, and I shall see to their welfare.”  Arucard signaled Demetrius.  “We have plenty of stores and a physic.  If thou hast knowledge of a particular complication in Chichester, then I should know it, so that I may deal with it.”

“And how shalt thou deal with it?”  Aeduuard sheathed his sword.  “As we will tolerate no more.”

“What is thy command, brother?”  Holding three fighters at bay, Demetrius neared.  “What would thou have me do with these whelps, as they do not appear old enough to grow a beard?”

“Treat them with respect, and see to their comfort.”  Arucard glanced at his fellow knight of the realm.  “Give Aeduuard accommodations fitting his stature, and comprise a list of injuries and losses.  I shall be in my tent.”

With that, Arucard turned on a heel and navigated the crowd.  Driven by the urge to reconcile with Isolde, he broke into a sprint.  Anon, he ducked beneath the flap, entered his quarters, and breathed a sigh of relief to find her thither still.  When she spied him, she choked on a sob.

“My lord, art thou wounded?”  In silence, he cursed, as he noted her swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“Nay.”  He tossed aside his sword and shield.  “Wherefore dost thou ask?”

“Thou art covered in blood.”  It was then he noticed she shivered violently.

“It is not mine.”  At the small washstand, he scrubbed his face.  “But I struck a tenuous accord, and the battle is ended.”

“I am grateful my prayers were answered, so I might beg thy forgiveness.  I was wrong to conceal Father’s letter, but I did so because I feared thou might send me to London, and I did not want to be parted from thee.  While I disappointed thee, I am thy wife, and I owe thee my loyalty.  Thou must know I trust not my father.”  It was just as he suspected, but he had not anticipated her next move.  To his shock and amazement, Isolde neared and presented his belt, which he accepted.  Then she unbuttoned her cotehardie, loosened the ribbon of her chemise, and inched the garments to her hips.  Without hesitation, she turned and knelt on the ground.  “Thou art justified in thy anger, and I have earned thy discipline, which I pledge to take in the spirit of recompense, if thou would mete it and be satisfied.”

It had to be a nightmare of the worst sort, as he blinked and winced.  Suddenly, everything made sense, as he recalled her reaction on their wedding night, when he attempted to disrobe, and she armed herself with his halberd.  Frozen in some hell on earth, Arucard bent and studied her back.  Mottled scars declared years of brutal abuse, and fresh injuries marred her creamy flesh. As he pondered the cruelty she had survived, he swallowed hard.  Then he stomped forth, grasped her by the shoulders, drew her to stand, turned her about, and shook her.

“Who is responsible for this travesty?”  Again, he rocked her.  “Who did this to thee?”

“Who dost thou think?”  He caught his breath when he glimpsed the terror in her expression.  “My father.”

“Wherefore?”  Arucard narrowed his stare.  “What could thou possibly have done to merit such barbarity?”

“As I already told thee, my mother died giving birth to me.”  Now Isolde wept without restraint.  “I took the love of his life, and I must pay just penance for my crime.”

“By Christ’s fingernails.  What manner of people art thine, that they doth commit such heinous atrocities on a vulnerable lady?  Whither I hail, we shield our women.”  In frustration, he flung the leather strap into the brazier.  Then he sighed.  “That was my favorite belt.”

Isolde opened and then closed her mouth.  And then she bestowed upon him a watery gaze and a lopsided grin.  “I can work another and soften the hide for thee.”

“I am so sorry, Isolde.”  In a flash, he wrapped his arms about her waist, drew her close, and cradled her head.  So many emotions, none of which he could identify, flooded his senses, and all Arucard could do was hold his wife and savor the warmth that was uniquely hers.  “In haste, I mistreated thee, and I beg thy forgiveness.”

“But the error is mine.”  She sniffed and burrowed closer.  “I should have told thee of the note when first it arrived.”

“Wherefore didst thou hide the letter?”  When he shifted and cupped her cheek, she pressed her lips to his palm.  “Hast thou so little faith in me?”

“It is not a question of faith.”  Gripping his tunic, she furrowed her brow.  “Didst thou not read the missive?  Father threatens to take me away from thee, even after we have consummated our vows.  But without the surrender of my maidenhead, thou dost own me not.  And as I told thee, I cannot be parted from thee.  I cannot bear to think it.”

“Sweet Isolde, thou became my wife when we stood before the archbishop and pledged the sacrament.”  He bent and kissed her.  “Thou art mine.”

“But the law says—”

“I care not what the law says.  What God hath joined thy father shall not break.”  It occurred to him then that he had to make her understand his logic, and thither was only one way to relay the depth of his commitment.  As a man with a purpose, Arucard released Isolde and dropped to a knee.  With a clenched fist to his chest, he said, “On my honor, I am thy champion to my death.  And if thy father again wishes to threaten thee, he must first go through me.”

“Oh, my lord.”  With a shriek, his bride lunged, toppled him, framed his jaw with her hands, and showered his face in precious kisses.  “Thou art wonderful, and I vow to confess any future correspondence with my father, upon receipt.  Perchance, thou might help me pen a response, as I have yet to fulfill his request for information.”

“We will address that, anon.”  Without conscious intent, he squeezed her round bottom.  “Right now, I fret for thee.  Art thou truly well?”

“Indeed.”  She nodded.  “Margery hath rubbed one of her yarrow salves on my lash marks, so I shall heal, and thou art kind to inquire.  Wilt thou not tell me the source of thy noble nature, as I do so wish to know thee.”

“In light of thy candor, I owe thee the same.”  He whisked a stray tendril and tucked it behind her ear.  “My brothers and I belonged to the once great knighthood known as the Templars.”

“I know of them, as I have heard stories.”  She rubbed her nose to his.  “The Templars were arrested and prosecuted for unspeakable acts of depravity, but thou wilt never convince me that is thy character.”

“We were innocent warriors falsely accused by a greedy king bent on pilfering our amassed wealth.  We served with distinction, and that was our reward.”  In brief, Arucard revisited painful memories of the past.  “So many died for naught more than lust for power.  I sailed for England and spent the last five years in a small stone cell at White Tower, until the Crown had use for me.”

“My champion—locked in some horrid dungeon?  I bleed for thee.”  Isolde nuzzled his temple.  “In bestowing upon me thy confidence, thou dost me a great honor, and by my troth, I shall bear thy secrets to my grave.”

“I am not worried about that, my lady.”  In that moment, he realized his bride, naked from the waist up, sprawled atop him, and his thoughts veered in a different direction.  Standing, he carried her with him and then conveyed her to their bed.  Sitting on the edge, he shuffled her in his lap.  As he brushed his knuckles to her pert nipple, she licked her lips and set her mouth to his.  The initial taste of her honey kisses in the wake of their first argument well nigh slayed him, and she leveled his personal restraint.

Fire burned beneath his flesh, and a familiar hunger gnawed at his belly and below.  Instinctively, he supported her shoulders, reclined her, and suckled her breasts.  When she wove her fingers into his hair, she moaned, and Arucard slipped his hand beneath her skirts and sought the supple flesh between her thighs, which he ached to know on a more intimate basis.

A thousand times more intense than the heat of battle, her passion could vanquish untold armies, and the enchanting wiggle of her hips could conquer the will of the mightiest knight.  How he desired her.  And then he realized he had no reason to delay.  He could take what she so readily offered and feed his hunger.  He could—

“Brother, we have—” Demetrius averted his gaze.  “Forgive my intrusion, but thou didst order me to report on the outcome of our brief skirmish.”

“Wait outside, and I shall join thee.”  Cursing, Arucard shielded Isolde and situated her garments to cover her nudity.  To his wife, he said, “Thou could tempt a favored toy from a babe, sweet Isolde.  But duty calls, and thou dost require attention of a different sort.  I shall send Margery to tend thy needs, and I expect thee to rest abed when I return, else I shall be quite vexed.”

“Prithee, good sir.  I shall defer to thy charge.”  Isolde stood but held him fast.  “Dost thou regret our union, as I am damaged?”

“On the contrary.”  He patted her bottom.  “I count myself most fortunate, as never hast thou been more beauteous.”

#

Anon, with Margery’s aid, Isolde stepped from the ancere after a long relaxing soak.  “How bad doth it look?”

“Better than I hoped.”  The housekeeper dried Isolde’s legs.  “But hadst thou permitted me to treat thy wounds, as usual, thy injuries might have healed faster.  Now lie down, my lady.”

Situated on her belly, Isolde hugged a pillow, sighed, and sank into the mattress.  “My lord Arucard thinks me beauteous.”

“Sounds like a man of excellent judgment, as thou art quite fair.”  Margery smeared salve onto Isolde’s scarred back.  “Hold still, my lady.  I would cover thy wounds with boiled linen to protect thy tender flesh from re-injury.”

“Didst thou see him fight?”  Isolde recalled the terrifying sight of her husband charging the field of combat in naught more than his woolen garments, with his sword and shield.  “Though he demanded I remain in the tent, I could not resist peeking outside, as I worried for his safety.  Hast thou ever witnessed such graceful violence?”

“Never.”  Margery peered over her shoulder and then leaned forward.  “Sir Arucard fought as a man possessed, and I fear for thee.”

“What?”  Astonished, she propped on her elbows.  “Wherefore art thou fearful?  Surely thou dost not think my husband would subject me to such savagery.”

Although the steward said naught, her silence spoke volumes, and Isolde mulled the pleasurable interlude she shared with her knight, after their clash.  Despite the enormity of his frame, and the size of his hands, he had been gentle—almost loving, if she could call it that, as she had naught with which to compare.  But she nurtured hope for something more than she had ever dared fathom, and no one would convince her otherwise.

“Art thou decent?”  Holding a steaming bowl and a trencher of bread, Arucard strolled into the tent and smiled as he met her gaze.  “How art thee, my lady wife?”

“Much improved, thanks to Margery’s skills.”  And a tempting aroma teased her nose.  “That smells delicious.”

As he gazed at her body, he arched a brow.  “I presume thou hast not supped?”

“Nay.  And I could not prepare the brewets, as I remained here, at thy request.”  She blushed, as Margery settled the pelts to cover Isolde’s nudity.  “But I am hungry.”

“Margery, thou art dismissed, as I shall care for my bride.”  Then Arucard gave Isolde his full attention.  “Remain abed.  Whither thou art, I shall come to thee.”

“Wilt thou?”  She swallowed her laughter, as he wrangled a chair and located it at bedside.  However, when he placed the meal on the seat and then plopped to the ground, she fought happy tears.  “Hast thou bathed?”

“Aye.”  He blew on the soup.  “This is broth with bacon, which Anne cooked.  And I ate with the men, as I did not want to hurry Margery.”

“How thoughtful is my champion.”  With care, he positioned the dish, and she scooted to the edge of the mattress and drank from the bowl.  “What of the bandits?”

“They art locals with a serious problem, and I must send notice to the King when I have collected additional information.”  He tore off a small piece of bread and fed it to her.  “Hast thou ever heard of Juraj de Mravec?”

“Aye.”  Before she could answer, he kissed her.  “De Mravec is my father’s friend.  But thou should question Margery, as she has information related to the letter.  She claims my father conspires against the Crown.”

“She said that?”  He lifted the vessel, and she took another sip.  “Perchance, I should—”

“Sir Arucard, I beg thy indulgence, as I brought some hot tea with thyme to help Lady Isolde sleep.”  With her mouth agape, Margery blinked.  She paused and then stepped forward.  “Shall I leave it with thee, my lord?”

“Yea.”  He indicated the chair, and the steward set the cup on the seat.  “And I would like to speak with thee in the morrow.”

“Have I done something to offend thee, my lord?”  Margery wrung her fingers.

“Nay, Margery.”  Isolde perched on an elbow.  “Sir Arucard would know the facts surrounding thy suspicions regarding Father.  And mayhap thou hast details to support thy beliefs.”

“My lady, thou should not have repeated my notions.”  Margery shuffled her feet.  “And I am no herald.”

“Dost thou know of Juraj de Mravec?” Arucard queried.

Margery snapped to attention.  She glanced at Arucard, then Isolde, and then to Arucard.  “My lord, thou hast been good to my lady, and for that I shall confide in thee.  Aye, I know of him.”

“Then let us break our fast together.”  Isolde dreaded the possibility that her family engaged in nefarious deeds, but naught surprised her when it came to her sire.  “Until then, I bid thee a pleasant night.”

Margery curtseyed and exited the tent.

It was then Isolde noted the stillness investing her husband.  For a long while, he simply gazed into her eyes.  Then he traced the curve of her cheek and touched his lips to hers.  “Art thou truly well?  I have not done irreparable harm to our marriage?”

“Nay, my champion.  And that is thy pet name, known only to us.”  After emptying the cup, she passed it to him and teased his shoulder with a light caress.  “Now come to bed, as I need thee to keep me warm.”

“I had thought to sleep on the ground, as I would not risk hurting thee.”  Gooseflesh covered him, as she speared her fingers through his rich brown hair.  “Prithee, if thou would, pass my pillow and a hide.”

“I will not, unless thou dost wish I recline with thee on the earth.”  She made to sit upright.  “And I could suffer a cold, as it is damp and chilly.  Now take off thy tunic and hose, and come hither.”

“Isolde, thou art the most stubborn woman of my acquaintance.”  His playful grin and wink belied the seriousness of his rebuke, as he stripped bare save his braies.

“Thou hast claimed I am the only woman of thy acquaintance, so thou dost not say much.”  She drew back the hides as he eased to the mattress.  “And hast thou composed my pet name?”

“Given thy singular topic of conversation, I had pondered something akin to an old horse.”  Beneath the skins, he pinched her bottom.

“Ooh, thou art the villain, sir, as I am no nag.”  She pouted even as he burst into laughter.  “Mayhap thou should sleep on the ground or with thy soldiers, if thou dost find me so offensive.”

“Thou art not offensive.”  Whither she had moved to the furthest edge of the bed, he slipped an arm beneath her and pulled her to his side.  “Thou art my beauteous Isolde.”

“And thou art my champion.”  She cuddled close, as the thyme worked on her, and fought to stay awake.  When she yawned, Arucard kissed her forehead.

“Sleep, my lady wife.”  Then he suckled her lips.  “In the morrow, we complete our journey to Chichester.  And once thy wounds have healed sufficiently, I shall take thy most intimate gift.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER FIVE

“Lord Rochester hath been corresponding with Juraj de Mravec for the past few years, Sir Arucard.”  Frowning, Margery sat across the table from Isolde.  “To my dismay, their letters became more frequent about six months ago, and I feared thy marriage had something to do with the awful business.”

As Margery related more information, Isolde’s heart raced.  Could it be true?  Was her father a traitor?  And what of her brother?  Then she wondered whether or not the scandal could threaten her husband, and she fretted for his welfare, given he had recently spent five years in White Tower.

“An understandable conclusion, but how dost thou know they conspire to commit nefarious deeds?”  Arucard rubbed his chin and ignored the insult, to Isolde’s relief.  “Mayhap they art naught more than friends sharing harmless banter.”

“Nay, because his lordship bade me take the alley and deliver the letters to a masked courier, after dark, and a good distance from the house, to evade suspicion.  And on three separate occasions, when I had the misfortune to read a portion, his lordship wrote of stealing lands and blaming the Crown to undermine the realm.”  The housekeeper peered at Pellier, who sat beside her.  “And just before he terminated my employ, the earl threatened to cut my throat should I ever betray his confidence.”

For Isolde, the revelations were too much, and she bowed her head in shame.  But Arucard lent support, as he covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers.

“Worry not, fair Margery.”  Pellier lifted his chin and compressed his lips.  “I will protect thee, as Sir Arucard guards Lady Isolde.”

“Humph.”  Margery snorted.  “How can thou protect me, when thou cannot take care of thyself, little man?”

“Careful, woman.”  Pellier snickered.  “Thou didst not think me so little last eventide.”

At the shocking declaration, Isolde gasped and glanced at Arucard.  In unison, they blinked.

“Foul creature, thou dost tell wild tales.”  The maid folded her arms.  “Ask someone else to boil the elecampane for thy cough.”

“What?”  Pellier shrugged.  “Thither art no virgin ears at this table, as Sir Arucard and Lady Isolde art newly wed and, therefore, I presume art becoming quite practiced at grooming the one-eyed horse.  Wherefore should I conceal that which is obvious to everyone but thee?”

Arucard winked at Isolde, and she cursed the burn of a blush.

“And that would be—what?”  With a huff of breath, Margery gazed at the sky and shook her head.

“Thou art taken with me.”  With a hearty guffaw, Pellier poked Margery in the ribs.  “Admit it, thou art mad for me.”

“I must be mad to involve myself with the likes of thee, and I have wasted enough time on this conversation.  Sir Arucard, if thou dost require additional details, I am at thy service.”  Standing, Margery tossed her napkin in Pellier’s face.  “My lady, if thou hast no further need of me, I would pack the wagon.”

“Thou art dismissed.”  Reeling from the events that had transpired, Isolde pushed from the table.  “I should stow our personal items and close our trunks, so we may depart.”

“Allow me to help thee.”  Her husband chucked Pellier on the shoulder and said, “Thou hast dug a deep pit for thyself.  Perchance, thou should seek out Margery and apologize for thy ill manners, thou sad sack of ignorance.”

In their tent, Isolde faced her knight, covered her mouth, and together they burst into laughter.  After a few minutes, she wiped a stray tear from her cheek.  “Dost thou believe it?”

“Pellier and Margery?  Nay.”  Pressing a clenched fist to his belly, he chuckled.  “And never would I have guessed, as those two art as night and day.”

“And they have—what did he call it?”  She searched her memory and giggled.  “Groomed the one-eyed horse.  Doth that mean what I think it means?”

“Aye.”  Slipping his arms about her waist, he pulled her close.  “It would appear our stewards have beat us to the consummation, but I will see to that once we arrive at Chichester.”

“Is that a promise?”  Of course, her maidenhead seemed insignificant, in light of the morrow’s developments.  “Arucard, what will we do about de Cadby and the questionable burgage plots?  If my father and de Mravec have stolen lands under the Crown’s seal, the King will want my father’s head on a pike.  And when it comes to His Majesty, often the entire family bears responsibility for the crime.  Whither will that leave us, as I am frightened?”

“Wherefore that I should meet with the locals, hear their complaints, gather evidence, and deliver everything to the King for his judgment.”  How could he remain so calm?  “Now give me a kiss to see me through the day’s ride, as young Aeduuard insists we shall arrive in Chichester by the eventide, and I suspect we shall be right busy.”

Knowing a mere kiss would not satisfy him, she did as he bade, the usual accompanying ache blossomed in the pit of her belly, and her gut clenched.  As she moved her mouth over his, something grew between them, a foreign but mystical power she tried but failed to identify, and it spun its delicate web, enfolding them in a gossamer cocoon of comforting warmth.  When he squeezed her bottom, he suckled her lips, and she relished his taste and scent.  And, as always, he ended the sweet moment with a hug.

“Dost thou feel it?”  She shivered, as he caught the crest of her ear with his teeth.

“Aye.  I desire thee.”  Grasping her wrist, he settled her palm to a telltale bulge.  “Never doubt me.”

“Oh, my champion.”  She gazed into his eyes, as he cupped her cheek.  “I desire thee, too.  And I am so glad we waited, as I feared thee on our wedding night.”

“And now, my beauteous Isolde?”  Arucard arched a brow and grinned.  “Art thou still afraid?”

“Nay, my lord.”  As she caressed his hard length, she trailed her tongue along his jawline.  “I yearn for thee.”

“I understand.”  He massaged her breast and teased her nipple through her wool cotehardie, and she moaned.  “As I shared thy consternation, but not so anymore.  And once we art unpacked in our new home, and thy wounds art healed to my appeasement, my first order of business is to consummate our nuptials, as I burn for thee.”

#

The sun rested low on the horizon, when the procession approached the north gates of Chichester Castle.  A wide moat surrounded the square structure, which boasted crenellation and balistraria fortifications about the exterior curtain wall and towers, along with a spectacular view of the coastline.  A narrow bridge accommodated only a wagon or two horsemen riding side by side, to negotiate the expanse, which attached to an outer causeway.

With a tight grip on his sword, Arucard steered right and crossed the first drawbridge, which led to the main gatehouse and an impressive barbican marked by a vaulted ceiling filled with murder-holes and three wooden portcullises.  But an overwhelming stench left him gagging, and he searched for and discovered the source, an uncovered garderobe in dire need of cleaning, which he would have flushed before posting soldiers in the gatehouse.

The second drawbridge presented a hazard, as damaged timbers rendered the traverse unstable in places, but the group successfully navigated to the twin-towered, machicolated inner gatehouse, which connected to the lesser curtain wall.  The strategic entry opened to a large courtyard, as the castle had no keep, and all manner of refuse littered the yard.

“What a bit of good fortune.”  He dismounted his destrier and then handed Isolde to the ground.  “It appears our new home is in excellent condition.”

“Art thou blind?”  With a wide-eyed gaze of incredulity, she scoffed.  “This place is a filthy tragedy of the worst sort.  Just look at that pile of trash, as it must be at least as tall as thee, and I insist thou burn it, at once.  Lord knows how many little creatures dwell thither, and I shudder to think of what I may find in the private rooms.”

“Demetrius, organize a search of the entire premises.”  Arucard signaled his brothers.  “And if thou would—”

“Prithee, have Morgan stock the kitchen with wood and start a fire, as Margery and I must prepare thy supper.”  His wife ticked off an imaginary list on her fingers.  “I need Aristide to assemble some men to convey the food stores to the undercroft, provided we have an undercroft, and Geoffrey must locate my cleaning supplies.  And if thou would bear our personal trunks to our chamber, which I have yet to establish, I shall make some attempt to settle our lodging.”

Palpable silence fell on the group, as his fellow Nautionnier knights cast him a harsh stare, and Arucard tugged on the collar of his tunic.  How he responded to his wife’s request could either reinforce or destroy his authority, so he pondered the situation and composed a polite but unmistakable reprove.

“Isolde, I command His Majesty’s servants.”  Checking his tone, as he had no wish to frighten her, he folded his arms.  “Thy entreaties must perforce yield to mine.”

“Dost thou wish to eat?”  She tapped her foot in an impatient rhythm.  “Dost thou wish to bathe?  Dost thou wish to sleep in a warm, comfortable bed?  Mayhap thou would prefer the stables.”

At the thought, he swallowed hard, stretched to full height, and glared at the Brethren.  “Thou didst hear the lady.  Wherefore dost thou linger?”  After a few grumbles in protest, the knights hurried about their tasks, and then he winked at his wife and smiled.

“Well, I would ask the same of thee.”  Narrowing her stare, she lifted her chin, and he adored her fiery spirit.  “Else I am certain thy stallion would love to share its stall with thee.”

“Banishing me from our marital bed?”  In an instant, he swooped, flung her over his shoulder, and smacked her bottom.  “I think not.”

“Oh, Arucard.”  Pounding his back with her fists, she attempted to wriggle free.  “Put me down.”

“Apologize.”

“Nay.”

“Apologize.”

“Nay.”

“Then thou wilt spend the eventide thus, and I quite enjoy the arrangement.”  To impress upon her the seriousness of his proclamation, he hefted her trunk and carried her into the living areas, which lined the interior curtain wall.  “It appears I have found the great hall.”

“And it is dirty.”  Isolde shifted and propped herself on her elbows.  “The dais is serviceable, but the tables and chairs art in disarray, so thou should release me to be about my work.  And I should remind Margery to inspect the chimney before lighting a blaze, as she could fill the castle with smoke.”

“I am sure Margery can survive without thee, and she seems competent enough.”  Arucard spied a narrow passage, which led to a stairway, and he ascended to the second floor, whither he discovered a dusty solar and what he suspected were the main accommodations.  “Home, at last, my lady.”

“And thither is much to be done, if we art to retire after supper.”  Again, she squirmed, and he tightened his hold.  “Pray, let me go.”

“What hast thou to say?”  He pinched her round arse, and she shrieked.

“Now.”  In response, she attempted to kick free.

“Wrong answer, my lady.”  In play, he rotated in circles, until she begged him to stop.  “Art thou prepared to offer thy words of regret?”

“Art thou truly annoyed?” she asked in a small voice, and he altered his grasp, letting her slide down the front of him, but her feet dangled as he hugged her about the waist.  “I am sorry if I disappointed thee.”

“On the contrary, thou hast neither annoyed nor disappointed me.”  Resting forehead to forehead, he sighed.  “But thou must remember thy station and mine, else I cannot maintain discipline, as the men will not respect me.”

“I had not thought of that.”  To his delight, she brushed her lips to his and wrapped her arms about his neck.  “The bedframe and ropes art rotted.  We should move ours hither; else we may end up on the floor.  And I should sweep and scrub everything.”

“Isolde, I would caution thee to take care of thy person, as I would prefer thy injuries heal that we might consummate our vows.”  Given the depth of their regard, which had grown in so short a space of time, he anticipated a magical night.  “Or would thou delay the singular event?”

“Oh, no.”  And now she favored him with her shy smile, which never failed to stir his blood.  “But I would do my duty as chatelaine.”

“Precisely.”  He rocked on his heels.  “Thou art no scullion, and we have servants.  Thou dost need only to direct them.”

“But I have strict standards, sir.  As thou dost well know.”  Then, to his surprise, she kissed him, his ears rang, his blood stirred, and the one-eyed stallion reared its head.  Some day soon, he promised himself the simple expression of affection would no longer startle him, but at that moment she captivated him.

“Margery bade me clean the fireplace and—” Turning to the side, Pellier cleared his throat.  “Beg thy pardon, Sir Arucard.  Should I come back anon?”

“Nay.”  To his chagrin, Arucard set his bride on the floor.  “Lady Isolde and I were just assessing our rooms.”

“That is precisely what I thought.”  Pellier’s sly smile declared otherwise, and Arucard ignored his marshalsea.  “Permit me to build a fire, and thou may continue inspecting the fertile surroundings and, perchance, spark another blaze.”

“Very funny.”  Arucard grimaced.

“My lord, look.”  Aglow with joy, and attempting to hide her charming pink cheeks, his wife jumped and pointed to the rear wall.  “We have glazed windows.  Is that not wonderful?”

“I suppose.”  He shrugged.  “Does it make thee happy?”

“Yea.”  As she admired the glass inserts, she trailed her finger along the casement.  “I should wash them, but they art in fine form, and we will be grateful for them when winter arrives.”

“Art thou always so practical?”  Baring his teeth, Arucard distracted his shy bride, as Pellier waggled his brows and thrust his hips in a crude gesture.  “And what lovely tapestries hang in the solar.”

“Indeed, they art exquisite and very heavy, which will shield us from the cold.  Mayhap thou could help me take them down, as I must beat them.”  How quickly she changed purpose, when all Arucard could think of was what would eventually occur in the inner chamber.  “Canst thou unfasten the frame?”

“Of course.”  As she perched on tiptoes, he reached above her and unhooked the mount.  Then he rolled the heavy wall hanging and set it on the table in the solar.  “I suppose thou would clean the other two, as well?”

“Yea, as I would not unpack our belongings until everything is scrubbed.”  With Isolde’s supervision, he retrieved the other coverings.  “If thou would carry the tapestries into the courtyard, I will ask Anne to beat them, if that will satisfy thee.”

“It will.”  When Pellier snickered, Arucard groaned.  “But I would ask thee to take care of thy person, as thou art precious to me.”

In the hall, Isolde spun about and faced him, and her hopeful expression touched him beyond words.  “Am I?”

“Aye.”  Adjusting the load on his shoulder, he eased an arm about her waist and drew her near.  “I understand it not, as our situation is still quite new to me, but I speak the truth.”

“No one has ever manifested such sentiments for me, and I treasure thy declaration.”  Given her tear-filled gaze, he doubted her not, and in silence he cursed her father for the cruelty she suffered at his hands.  “My lord, thou art precious to me, too.  And like thee, I am confused in relation to my feelings, but do not let that diminish the depth of my regard for thee.”

A small army of servants scurried about, and with great reluctance he released his bride.  Together, they strolled into the courtyard; whither Aristide had set fire to several piles of trash, per Isolde’s request.

“Brother, we found a postern gate on the south wall.”  Geoffrey wiped his brow.  “The drawbridge ropes art in disrepair, so we must replace them, and we could use thy assistance.”

“Thither I will be, anon.”  Arucard glanced at his wife.  “Whither shall I deposit the tapestries?”

“In the corner.”  She pointed.  “I shall ask Anne to erect temporary frames, so we can beat the fabrics free of dust and dirt.”

“All right.”  He did as she bade and then caught her chin.  “Remember what I said.  Thou art no scullery maid.  Thou art the lady of the castle, and I would have thee behave as such, if for no other reason than to preserve thy health, which is dear to me.”

“Aye, my lord.”  Grinning, she sketched a half-curtsey.

And so he ventured to the battlements, to aid his men as they reinforced the barbican and the postern gate.  With new twine in place, the rear bridge was raised to protect against a surprise assault.  Then he assisted Morgan, as the soldiers cleared the garrison quarters, so the maids could sweep and wash.  Next, he labored in the stable, as drains were cleared, fresh straw was spread in the stalls, and horses were settled.

The castle drew water from three wells conveniently situated near the kitchen, the stable, and the garrison.  Twice, as Arucard worked, he caught Isolde bearing a shoulder yoke, and he had but to arch a brow, and she surrendered the task to a nearby servant.  At last, the primary living spaces had been rendered fit for occupation, and it was late when he retired to his private accommodation.

After a quick bath, he pulled on clean braies and a robe.  In the solar Isolde set out their meal of a savory roasted bream with darioles and her signature fresh herb bread.  At one moment while they dined in quiet, as they were too exhausted to share conversation, he discovered she dozed with her chin propped in her palm, and he could not help but laugh.  So he lifted her into his lap, held her close when she stirred, and fed her a good portion.

“My lord, I fear I am too tired to eat.”  As proof of her claim, she yawned, and he carried her to their bed.

In mere seconds, he doffed his robe, blew out the candles, stoked the blaze in the earth, and slid between the covers.  As always, his wife shifted and draped herself alongside him.  He slipped his arm beneath her, and she nestled ever closer, with her head resting on his shoulder.  In the flickering light from the fire in the hearth, he studied her pert nose, apple cheeks, and heart-shaped face, so elegant in repose.

She manifested an odd combination; delicate yet strong, shy yet confident, and reserved yet bold.  And with each passing day, he found her far more fascinating and difficult to resist.  How strange it was that what he once had viewed as a curse he now considered a blessing, and he kissed her forehead.  “Soon, Isolde, thou wilt be mine.”

#

“My lord, if thou dost wish to dine, thou must first clean thy muddy boots, hands, and face.”  Five days after arriving at Chichester Castle, Isolde stood guard at the main entry to the great hall, clutched a large wooden spoon, assumed a formidable posture, and folded her arms.  “Now.”

“My lady, the men have labored for hours, clearing and restocking the undercroft, at thy behest.”  Arucard adopted an equally imposing stance, and she gulped but did not falter.  “And we art hungry.  Step aside, so we may eat.”

“Not until thou dost doff thy shoes.”  Somehow, she had to make him understand her perspective, so she tapped her foot and held firm in the righteousness of her cause.  “As the women have wasted valuable time picking up after thy men, again and again.  Wherefore should we tarry, when thy knights will destroy what we have worked so hard to achieve?”

“Arucard, wilt thou remind thy lady of her place?”  With a narrow stare, Demetrius rested fists to hips.  “As my belly grumbles, and I grow impatient.”

“Mayhap a good spanking will soften her mood.”  When Aristide reached for her, she rapped his knuckles with the spoon.  “Ouch.”

“If thou dost try it, thou should sleep with one eye open, good sir.”  Not for a minute did the knight frighten her, as her husband would never let anyone hurt her.  “And what I ask is no great burden, given the fare the cook hath prepared.  What say thee to cameline meat brewets, to which Sir Demetrius is partial, hot flampoyntes, loach in green sauce, stewed beef, and capon crisps?  We also have fresh herb bread, jellies, and a lovely apple muse.  And for Sir Arucard, I made my special blancmange.  Such a pity, that it should go to waste over a simple entreaty.”

For several seconds, the group appeared on the verge of a siege, and no one relented.  As she pondered her request, which she judged reasonable, she thought she might have to cede her fight.  All of a sudden, a commotion stirred at the back, and the crowd parted.

“Make way.”  Morgan, the youngest and most audacious of her husband’s friends, marched to the fore.  At the entrance, he kicked off his boots, extended his hands for inspection, and winked.  “What say thee, fair Isolde?  Dost thou approve?”

“Traitor.”  Geoffrey scowled.

“Brother, were I not about to faint from starvation, I might take offense to thy insult.”  Just as she feared she might have incited a riot, Morgan grinned and bowed with an exaggerated flourish.  “But I have been invited to dine with a beauteous lady, so I dare not linger, as the food grows cold.”

“Welcome, Sir Morgan.”  In fine humor, she curtseyed.  “Thou mayest sit whither thou dost wish, as thither art plenty of empty chairs.”  With renewed confidence, she leveled her stare on the remaining opposition.  “Well?”

“Ought to lock her in her room.”  With a mighty scowl, Aristide relented.

“Never will I take a wife.”  Kicking a rock, Demetrius made for the well.

Soon, the angry crowd followed suit, with a single exception.

“Isolde, thou should not challenge the men, as it is not proper behavior for a wife.”  Her greatest ally stretched tall, and just as she wavered beneath his scrutiny, he smiled.  “Dost thou know that when thy temper is engaged thine eyes sparkle?”

“Art thou trifling with me?”  She inclined her head.  “As I quite enjoy thy playful conversation, my lord Arucard.  And I missed thee this morrow.”

“Thy burgundy cotehardie brings out the blush in thy cheeks.”  He checked the immediate vicinity, swooped, and claimed a quick kiss.  “I missed thee, too.  But thither is much to be done, if we art to be ready for the winter.  And I cannot hold assemblies until the castle is adequately fortified, but I assigned my men to thy cause, for thee—and thee, alone.  Dost thou understand the urgency?”

“Aye, my lord.”  It was all she could do to manage her excitement, as he expressed affection in so many ways, great and small, and he never failed to thrill her.  “And I cooked my blancmange for thee—and thee, alone, in grateful appreciation of thy efforts in the undercroft.  At last, the kitchen, the spicery, the saucery, the pantry, the buttery, and the scullery art fully repaired and operant.  And when thou dost hold thy first feast as lord of Chichester, thy staff stands at the ready to fulfill thy commands, as fit for a king.”

“Owed in large part to thy hard work, despite my commands to rest easy.”  As soldiers from the garrison, washed in obeisance of her demands, strolled into the great hall, Arucard lowered his voice.  “But I am so proud of thee.”

“I apologize for disobeying thy directives, but I am unaccustomed to being idle.”  Grasping his wrist, she led him to the well.  When she picked up a bar of soap, he retrieved a bucket of fresh water.  As a dutiful wife, she lathered his hands and then scrubbed his face.  After he rinsed, she pulled a towel from her fitchet, daubed him dry, and bestowed upon him a whisper of a kiss.  “Thither, thou art presentable.”

“Now may I dine?”  He arched a brow.

“Aye.”  She nodded once.

As they returned to the great hall, he removed his boots and set them in a long line of shoes.  “Shall I escort thee to the dais?”

“Prithee, most gallant knight.”  Arm in arm, they navigated the crowd, which took note of the late arrivals, as conveyed in a lull of boisterous mirth.  As she settled in her seat, she waved to the servants, who brought food and drink.  “Eat thy fill, my lord.  And on the eventide, I shall prepare thy bath with mint, to soothe thy aches and pains.”

“And wilt thou join me?”  As he lifted his tankard of ale, he cast her a side-glance.

Isolde almost choked on her wine, but she recovered before she embarrassed herself.  “Dost thou truly wish it?”

“We have tried many things since we wed.”  With his fingers, he scooped a morsel of blancmange.  “I have yet to see thee completely nude.”

“And thou would have me know thee?”  The prospect gave her gooseflesh, as he requested something they had never before attempted.  “Wilt thou consummate our vows?”

“Margery tells me thy wounds could benefit from another few days to heal.”  To the left, the Brethren roared, and Arucard nodded.  “She suggested a fortnight from the time of injury would suffice to avoid further damage to thy back.”

“Thou didst speak with Margery about our situation?”  Despite her close relationship with the steward, his candor shocked Isolde.  “Thou didst share the private details of our marital life?”

“Nay, as I could never be so indelicate.”  Atop the table, he covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers.  “I merely inquired after thy health, as a concerned husband.  She knows not the motivation for my query.”

“Well I should hope not.”  Just then, Sir Aristide approached the dais, and she dipped her chin in acknowledgement.  “Is the loach to thy liking, as I had it made at thy request?”

“It is superb, my lady.”  The most temperamental of the Brethren shuffled his feet.  “I made thee a new tapestry frame to replace the broken one, and Pellier had a servant install the mount, so thou wilt have no more trouble.”

“How thoughtful of thee, Sir Aristide.”  Was it her imagination, or did he blush?  “And how is thy back?”

“Much improved, thanks to thy services.”  He rubbed his neck and leaned forward.  “The henbane worked a miracle, and I thank ye.”

“Thou art most welcome, Sir Aristide.”  And then Sir Morgan neared.  “Good sirrah, how dost thou favor the capon crisps?”

“Lady Isolde, thou hast outdone the eels, which I once considered my primary partiality.”  Morgan cast a sly grin, waggled his brows, grasped her hand, and pressed his lips to her knuckles.  “Were thou not wed, I should take thee to wife.”

“That is a lovely offer, Sir Morgan.”  She could not help but giggle, until her husband wrenched her chair closer to his.

“Let go my bride, brother.”  Not for a minute did she take Arucard’s warning serious, even when he bared his teeth.  “Thou hast lingered long enough to express thy appreciation of my lady’s talents.”

“My apologies.”  Again, with a wild exhibition, the gadling bowed and chuckled as he returned to his seat.

With a grimace, Arucard huffed a breath.  “Isolde—”

“Excuse us, brother.”  With unveiled pride, Demetrius, with Geoffrey in tow, conveyed a small wooden bench.  “Lady Isolde, I am most grateful for thy delicious meat brewets.”

“I am right glad I could serve thee well, Sir Demetrius.”  Beneath the unanticipated praise, she could have wept tears of joy, as never had her father or brother ever expressed recognition of her efforts.

“And the tunics thou didst sew for me art incomparable, my lady.”  For some reason she had yet to discern, Geoffrey never met her gaze, but he blushed crimson whenever he addressed her.  “As thy original furnishing was damaged beyond repair in the journey from London, Demetrius and I built a new one for thee.”

Now she cried.

“Er, leave the gift, brothers.”  With his napkin, Arucard wiped her damp cheeks.  “On behalf of Lady Isolde, I thank ye.”  Then her husband flagged a passing servant.  “Carry the bench to my chamber.”

“Aye, sir.”  The young man bowed.

Then, to her surprise, Arucard stood, flagon in hand, and the great hall quieted.  “My friends, it hath been a difficult journey, but we hath persevered, thanks in no small part to the women in our midst.”  A chorus of concurrence erupted.  “So I ask thee to raise thy glass in toast.”  Her husband turned and faced her.  “To my Lady Isolde of Chichester Castle.”

“To Lady Isolde.”  The singular rally echoed in the cavernous hall, and the crowd rapped their fists atop the tables.

For as long as she could remember, she had yearned for acceptance—for validation of any kind, however minuscule, but never had she dreamed it would actually happen in her lifetime.  And she vowed, thither and then, to merit the cherished accolade until she breathed her last.

Powerful emotions cascaded over her, and she tried but failed to muster a response.  Then she realized thither was only one thing she wanted, and with that in mind she addressed the gathering.  “Words cannot express the value of thy approbation, and I shall endeavor to deserve thy praise, every day.  For now, Sir Arucard and I bid thee a pleasant eventide, as we take our leave.”

Confusion invested his handsome features, as her husband escorted her into the hallway, which led to their private rooms.  “Isolde, art thou upset with me?”

“Nay.”  She paused, and he faced her.  “I cannot tell thee what I feel, as I know it not, but I am conquered.”  As something between euphoria and pain assailed her senses, she clutched her throat.  “I can only say that I wish to be alone with thee.  Nay—I need to be alone with thee, as I require the warmth and comfort of thy body.  I need thee.”

In a flash, Arucard bent, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to their sanctuary.

ARUCARD

CHAPTER SIX

Two days anon, wearing a mail coif and hauberk over his garments, Arucard strolled into the courtyard a tad late for weapons practice, after lingering in bed with his bride.  As had become a most agreeable habit, his wife tarried to solve what he had considered the new bane of his existence.  In short, every dawn since his wedding, he woke with a stout and stubborn man’s yard, and it often took hours to calm his dragon, as he suffered in silence.

However, in light of the spectacular night in their room, when they shared the ancere for the first time, and she noted his affliction as he soaped and bathed her breasts, she labored to ease his discomfit.  And in Isolde’s delicate but firm grasp, she never failed to drain his moat and appease the beast in a matter of minutes, much to his relief and everlasting gratitude.

“Wherefore art thou grinning like a giddy virgin?”  Demetrius snickered.  “As thou didst surrender that distinction a fortnight ago.”

“And thou dost appear to have shrunk since then.”  Aristide elbowed Morgan.  “Mayhap the lady wields the longsword better than our good sirrah.”

“Mayhap we have no need of arms, as thy wife hath evacuated the castle.”  Geoffrey peered at his fellow brethren, and the knights burst into laughter.

“Art thou not the wit?”  Naught could ruin Arucard’s mood, as memories of Isolde’s tender touch proved a powerful shield.  “Perchance, thou missed thy calling, and thou should compose a comedy.  And thou should not gainsay what thou hast yet to sample.”  Then he seized upon the one proclamation guaranteed to quell the jests.  “Of course, thou wilt learn, in time.”

The ensuing quietude was deafening.

When Pellier emerged from the servant’s hall, he glanced in their direction and came to an abrupt halt.  “Did I miss something?”

“Nay.”  Chuckling, Arucard waved at his friend, and they gathered near the stable, because it was past due to launch his plan.  “My brothers art a curious cadre, as am I.”

“Oh?”  The marshalsea unsheathed his sword, in preparation to train.  “I am interested, my lord.  Hast thou a question for me?”

“Actually, I have several.”  He assumed the proper stance, and they engaged in a bit of play.  “First, I would have thee know that I am not entirely ignorant of the marital bed.”

“Ah, I see.”  Pellier smirked.  “Young Arucard wishes to know how to seduce thy wife.”

“Wilt thou keep thy voice down?”  He winced, as never would he hear the end of it, were his fellow knights to discover the truth.  “I know whither goes what, but I would not terrorize the poor girl.”

“Hast thou considered a bath for two?”  Metal clashed with metal.

“Aye, we have tried that.”  Arucard deflected Pellier’s lunge.

“Hast thou taught her to rub the Franciscan monk’s bald head?”  The second-in-command guffawed.

Arucard frowned.  “Dost thou reference choking the fire-breathing dragon?”

“Is that what thou dost call knighting thyself these days?”  Pellier grimaced, as Arucard charged.

“Aye.”  Arucard nodded.  “She hath done that, several times, in fact.”

“And yet thou still hast not consummated thy vows?”  Pellier scratched his temple and narrowed his stare.  “Wherefore not?”

“Because I would not frighten Isolde.”  And he struggled with another reason, which he had steadfastly refused to examine in the light of day.  “She is a fine lady, and I would foster an abiding devotion.”

“And thou would not injure her.”  Signaling a pause in their activity, Pellier walked to the well, dipped a ladle in a bucket, and took a drink of water.  “Sorry, my lord.  But Margery told me how Lord Rochester treated his daughter, and it grieves me more than thou dost know, as Lady Isolde is a gentle soul.”

“Hear me well, sirrah.”  Studying the sharp edge of his sword, Arucard clenched his jaw and pictured her torn flesh.  “What the earl hath wrought upon Isolde, he shall reap.”

“I do not doubt thee for an instant.”  Pellier gazed at the sky and sighed.  “Margery says thy wife is partial to lavender in her baths.  And Lady Isolde favors mylates of pork for supper and a sweet of gyngerbrede.  Mayhap thou should make a special request of the cook.  Have the maids light candles, instead of the braziers, and romance thy lady with pretty words and praise.”

“And what of the deed?”  He braced for all manner of mirth at his expense.  “As I would be a considerate husband.”

“With thy fingers, prepare her nether eye until she is moist.  Then set thy hips to hers to mount her, and be gentle, as thou dost part her thighs.  Teach her to lift her ankles and hug thy waist with her legs.  Ask if thou art too heavy, and prop thyself on thy elbows to ease her burden.”  The marshalsea’s crude instruction sufficiently startled Arucard, but he listened with intent.  “When thou dost breach her, restrain thyself, as thy instincts will tell thee to ride hard, but thou must resist.  And use passionate kisses to distract her.  Take her slow, and heed her warnings, else thou mayest hurt her.  If she is distressed, thou must retreat, even if it kills thee, and it might.”  When a soldier passed within earshot, Pellier lowered his voice.  “Use her but a single time, as her untried flesh will be sore in the morrow.  Perchance, thou might arrange for one of Margery’s soothing soaks to ease any lingering aches, as the second coupling often proves far more enjoyable than the first.  Trust me, if thou dost desire her now, thou wilt crave her body doubly so after the deflowering, especially as thou art a virgin, too.”

“While I am grateful for thy wisdom, I am not entirely comfortable with the breadth of thy knowledge of such intimate matters.”  With his course set, Arucard made a momentous decision.  “And I shudder to think on thy exploits and thy soul’s ascendance to the glorious hereafter, but it is not for me to judge thee.”

“Worry not about my soul, Sir Arucard.”  Pellier chuckled.  “Thou art the Templar Knight, and I always thought thy abstinence born of lunacy.  I am but thy not-so-humble servant, and I caution thee not to place thy tenets upon my conscience.  When I meet my fate, I shall make my own way.”

“Somehow, I know thou wilt be fine.”  With renewed vigor, Arucard picked up his weapon and swung wide.  In a matter of seconds, he backed Pellier into the curtain wall.  After a few more rounds, which resulted in similar outcomes, the marshalsea surrendered.

“My lord, we both know thy heart and mind art otherwise engaged.”  Pellier sheathed his sword and bowed.  “And before thou dost sever something I need, I suggest thou dost heed my advice.”

“Deliver these to my chambers.”  He ceded his arms and mail coif.  “And whither might I find Margery at this hour?”

“Mayhap, in the spicery.”  Pellier grinned.  “And I shall drink to thy success in the great hall, but thou must take my word for it, as thou wilt be otherwise occupied.”

And so Arucard went in search of Margery to make plans.  To Pellier’s credit, Arucard found the steward and made arrangements to woo his wife.  As he walked through the screen passage to the great hall, he spied his lady in conversation with a trio of maids.

Gowned in vivid emerald velvet, with her hair plaited, she embodied elegance.  After a few minutes, she dismissed the servants and turned in his direction.  When she spotted him, she bestowed upon him a brilliant smile, and he nodded an acknowledgement.  Under his breath, he said, “This eventide, Isolde, thou wilt be mine.”

#

It was late in the afternoon, when Isolde ventured into the kitchen to finalize the menu, and she was surprised to find the cook had employed Margery in the preparations, as Chichester Castle was fully staffed.  But the servants assured Isolde thither was no cause for concern, as they labored to produce a special meal, which they preferred not to discuss.

As she neared the fire, a distinct aroma caught her attention, and she halted and sniffed the air.  “Is that gyngerbrede I smell?”

“Lady Isolde, thou art no scullion.”  Frowning, Margery wiped her hands on an apron and then ushered Isolde into the great hall.  “And, mayhap, thou might do me a favor.  Hast thou checked on the between maids?  As Pellier informed me they lingered about, whilst the soldiers washed for supper, and I object to their questionable behavior.  They should have finished their chores long before the men returned to the garrison, so thou canst guess at their motives.”

The steward spoke so fast that Isolde could get nary a word edgewise.  “Of course, but—”

“And then thou should return to thy chambers, as Anne guards the set pot, and thy bath should be ready, anon.”  Then Margery gave Isolde a gentle push.  “Hurry along, my lady.”

Amused by the steward’s unusually abrupt demeanor, Isolde walked to the servant’s rooms, whither she observed the young maids in conversation.  When one servant struck the other with a pillow, the work yielded to play, amid a chorus of giggles and shrieks, which she loathed to interrupt, as theirs seemed a harmless game.

“Oh, didst thou see Sir Demetrius in the communal bath?”

“Yea.”  A particularly lovely domestic clasped her hands beneath her chin and sighed.  “And what a large sword he doth brandish.”

“How I would love to polish his helmet.”

“Well, I prefer Sir Morgan.”  Another maid arched a brow and grinned.  “Hast thou admired his one-eyed horse?”

“Mm.”  A brunette rocked on her heels.  “What I would give to ride him.”

“I like Sir Geoffrey and his flaxen hair.”

“I favor Sir Aristide, as he is quiet.”  A blonde bit her lip.  “And the quiet ones art always the most adventurous.”

“Indeed, the knights art giants, and Lady Isolde hath married the biggest, of all,” declared the redhead.

“But I imagine her ladyship doth not complain.”

“Who would, with that in thy bed?”

The women collapsed into a fit of hilarity, and Isolde retreated to the courtyard.  Never had it occurred to her that another female would admire Arucard, as he was Isolde’s husband, and the revelation disturbed her for some reason she could not quite understand.  But she would caution her man to guard his habits, as she would neither tolerate nor permit unsanctioned observation of Arucard, as his man’s yard was hers.  As her mood grew sour, she stomped toward her chambers, but a soldier flagged her.

“Lady Isolde, a message is just arrived for thee.”  He handed her correspondence, which bore familiar script.

“Thank ye.”  A wave of nausea swirled in her belly, as Isolde noted her father’s seal.  Clutching the letter to her chest, she ran through the great hall and navigated the passage to her quarters.  When she strolled through the solar and entered her room, she started.  “Oh—Margery.  What art thou doing hither?”

“As thou hast hired no lady’s maid, I shall continue to perform the services thou dost require.”  The steward glanced at Isolde and frowned.  “What is wrong, my lady?  Thou art white as a sheet.”

Seized by fear neither frivolous nor acute, Isolde could not manage a reply, so she merely thrust the envelope at her friend.  When Margery did not immediately respond, Isolde flicked her wrist.

“What is it?”  Margery took a single step, her expression sobered, and she flinched.  “Nay, not again.”

“Help me, Margery.”  Shivering with uncontrollable terror, Isolde dropped the parchment, fell to her knees on the stone floor, and clutched her throat, as all manner of nefarious enterprises assailed her.  “What am I to do if Father comes for me?  His first missive declared his unmistakable intent to take me from Arucard, and I cannot allow that.  I must act with expediency, so how can I stop him?”

“Stop—who?”  Arucard loomed in the solar, and Isolde gulped as she pondered his reaction to her dire news.  “And wherefore art thou on the ground?  Art thou ill?”  Then he peered at Margery and narrowed his stare.  “Hast thou revealed my surprise?”

“Nay, my lord.”  With a shrug, Margery folded and unfolded her arms, and then she glanced at Isolde.  “I was just preparing thy wife’s bath, as usual.”

“What surprise?” Isolde inquired, as he grasped her by the elbows and lifted her to her feet.  “Have I displeased thee?  Art thou vexed?”

“Thou art on the verge of tears, when I bring glad tidings.”  He framed her chin and turned her left and then right.  “Wherefore art thou distressed?”

Given the grim backlash from the first letter, which still possessed the power to cause her alarm upon reflection, and her promise to apprise him of future correspondence, Isolde pointed to the disconcerting item.  “Father hath written again, and I dread reading his entreaty, which I suspect contains evil intentions, given his last demands, and I have yet to fulfill his petition.”

“That is thy worry?”  In play, he tapped her cheek and then bent to retrieve the envelope.  Without hesitation, he broke the seal and unfolded the note, which he scanned.  “Margery, thou art dismissed, as I shall see to Lady Isolde’s bath.  And I trust everything is in order for our supper?”

“Aye, sir.  I shall convey thy meal to the solar at the requested hour.”  After a quick curtsey, Margery scurried from the lord’s apartment.

It was then she noticed his damp hair.  “Hast thou already washed?”

“Aye.”  He grimaced, and her belly twisted and turned.  “I joined my men in the communal quarters, as I did not wish to disturb thee.”

That revelation did little to improve her state of unrest, as she imagined the maids admiring Arucard’s sword.

“Husband, take pity on my gentle spirit, as it withers beneath the weight of my father’s unscrupulous scheme.”  In that instant, Isolde could tolerate no more suspense, and she tugged on his sleeve.  “Pray, what does it say?”

“More of the same nonsense, which does not signify at this moment.  As it stands, I have arranged a meeting with the locals, with the assistance of de Cadby, and I shall gather information regarding the contentious burgage plots and inform His Majesty of the developments.”  He set the parchment on his bedside table and then faced her.  “Now about thy bath, shall I help thee disrobe?”

“Thou cannot be serious.”  Venting a half-smothered sob, she flung herself at her husband and wrenched his tunic, as the tension investing her burst forth.  “Do not let him take me from thee.  Give me thy solemn vow, else I shall go mad, as I cannot be parted from thee.”

“Sweet Isolde, if thou dost require it, allow me to allay thy fears, as I will never surrender thee to thy father, or anyone else, as long as I draw breath.”  Then he unbuttoned her cotehardie.  “Is that lavender I smell?”

“Yea, it is my favorite.”  But she could not believe how calm he remained, when all she wanted to do was scream.  “My lord, dost thou not perceive the danger?  Dost thou not comprehend the threat my father presents?  As we have yet to consummate our nuptials, our marriage—”

“—Shall at last be unimpeachable, once I claim thy maidenhead this eventide.”  With that, he kissed her silent, nibbled gently on her flesh, but he could not quiet her thoughts, which ran amok in light of his statement.  When he lifted his head and met her gaze, he smiled.  “Better?”

“Dost thou speak the truth, or dost thou jest?”  After kicking off her leather slippers, she shed the heavy wool outer garment and then turned, so he could unlace her gown.  Then she untied her chemise, and he whisked the slip from her body.  Naked, she accepted his escort, as he led her to the ancere.  Nudity bothered her not in his presence, as they had engaged in various intimate diversions since they journeyed to Chichester.  “Prithee, do not tease me, as I cannot bear it.”

“My lady, I would think thou dost know me well enough by now to know I would never jest on the matter.”  As she eased into the warm water, he grabbed a barilla of soap.  “And I know of no other way to ensure thy father cannot annul our marriage.  But the real reason I wish to seal our vows is far simpler.”  With great care, he scrubbed her back.  “The fact is I want to make thee mine, and I can delay no longer.”

“Oh, my lord.”  How her heart sang in accompaniment to her amazement, as she would shout from the rooftops that she was Arucard’s wife in every way.  “I want that, too.”  Reaching up, she cupped his cheek and drew him to her.  Emboldened by newfound courage, she licked his lips, and then took his mouth, as she speared her fingers through his thick hair.  At once, he dropped the cloth and caressed her breasts.

“Isolde, thou art a sorceress, and thou has cast a spell over me.”  He tickled her navel, and then touched her between her legs, and she gasped.  “I am thy grateful servant.”

“Art thou?”  She adored his warm and flirty side, which he reserved for their private hours, and she caught his earlobe with her teeth.  “And what would thou do for me?”

“Whatever thou dost require.”  He nipped the tip of her nose.  “As I am thine to command.”

“Thou dost know what I want.”  As he eased a finger inside her, she nuzzled his chest.  “What I have always wanted.”

When she spread her thighs further apart, he groaned.  “Then permit me to tend thy needs, that we might hasten to our bed.”

#

At the table in the solar, Arucard sat across from Isolde, both wearing naught but robes, and shoveled a healthy portion of pork into his mouth.  In painful silence, he mulled the situation, which had grown ever more contentious after her bath, and he was at a loss to explain what happened and whither he had lost control.

What began as a pleasant interlude had devolved into an awkward series of clumsy moves on his part, after he spilled her wine and knocked over his tankard of ale.  As he sipped his beer, he cast his wife a furtive glance, and she peered at him and blushed.  And he returned his attention to his trencher, as the tension built.

“So how was thy day?” Isolde inquired in a small voice.

“Fine.”  Like an idiot, he searched for something to say but could seize upon naught of interest or significance, so he settled for the obvious.  “And how was thy day?”

“Fine.”  With her elbow propped atop the table, she rested her cheek to her knuckles and huffed a breath.

Again, the room grew quiet as a tomb, while they ate.  Then Arucard snapped his fingers.  “How is thy meal?”

“Delicious.”  With a hopeful expression, Isolde sat upright.  “Mylates of pork art my favorite.”

“Yes, I know.”  Wherefore had the heretofore-pedestrian act of conversing with his bride become so difficult?  “I asked Margery for information regarding thy preferences, as I would please thee on our special occasion.”

“Thou art very thoughtful.”  For a brief moment, she smiled—until she gazed at their bed.

“I would be a good husband to thee.”  What an imbecile he had been, planning the singular event as a staged production, when he could have taken her after they retired, as they always engaged in a bit of intimate play before they slept.  It would have been a natural progression on their nocturnal games.  Instead, he quivered like the virgin he was and cursed himself a fool.

“My lord, may I ask a question?”  Shifting her weight, she bit her lip.  “If it is no trouble.”

“Thou mayest ask whatever thou dost wish.”  He reached across the table and covered her hand with his.  “What would thou know of me, as I have naught to hide from thee?”

“Art thou nervous?”  After a strained lull, she inclined her head.  “About tonight, I mean.  As I cannot stop shaking.”

“I hope this doth not lessen thy opinion of me, but I am nervous, too.”  Yes, he had bungled the entire affair, but how could he set it right?  “In fact, I quiver as a green lad on the eve of his first battle.”

“Oh, I am so glad to hear thee say it.”  To his surprise, she jumped from her seat and walked to his side.  “Wilt thou hold me, as I am never afraid in thy embrace?”

“Of course.”  Without hesitation, he tossed his napkin atop the table, eased back his chair, and stood.  When he splayed his hands wide, she all but ran into his waiting arms, which he closed about her.  “Isolde, thou art shivering.”  He tightened his grip and posited a proposal that might render him insane if she agreed.  “If thou dost prefer to postpone the consummation, I will not protest.”

“Art thou mad?  I cannot bear to delay another second.”  With a violent flinch, she grasped fistfuls of his robe.  “I demand thee take me now.”

Given her haughty demeanor, he could not stave off laughter, which did much to abate the tension currently investing his shoulders.  But her innocent request also had another effect he had not foreseen, as his man’s yard grew hard as stone, upon which he could bounce a thousand groats should he choose to do so.

“But what of thy sweet?”  No, Arucard had no intention of denying his wife, but he could not resist baiting her.  “I had Margery prepare the gyngerbrede just for thee.”

“We could enjoy it, anon.”  With a half-sob, she wrested free, grabbed his wrist, and led him to their inner chamber.  “Perchance, thou might feed me, as a treat, after the deflowering.”

“An excellent suggestion.”  So he stoked the blaze in the hearth and wondered whither to begin, as Pellier had provided no specifics, in that respect.  Again at a loss, Arucard rubbed the back of his neck.  “Art thou warm enough?”

“Aye, my lord.”  Wringing her fingers, Isolde shuffled her feet.  “May I ask another question?”

“My dear, thou mayest ask whatever thee dost wish.”  Painfully aroused, he feared he might spill his seed before they ever made it to bed, but her trembling chin gave him pause.  Summoning the patience of a saint, he sighed.  “What dost thou want to know?”

“What if I fail to please thee?”  Wide-eyed, and her distress apparent, she hugged herself.  “What if thou dost find no satisfaction?”

“Thou must be joking.”  At the irony of her worry, he chuckled.  “Allow me to assure thee that thy anxiety is ill-founded, as what concerns thee is not possible.”

“I do not follow.”  In light of her naïveté, she furrowed her brow.  “Of the marital relations I know naught, and I have no idea how to inspire thee.  But another woman of experience could service thee to my detriment.”

“As I told thee on our wedding night, I will join only with whom I have taken the sacrament, and that is thee.”  How could make her understand his predicament, when he possessed no direct knowledge, either?  “Dost thou trust me?”

“Aye.”  She nodded once.

“Take off thy robe.”  She did as he bade, untying the belt and letting the garment slip to the floor, and he smiled.  “I am inspired.”

“Art thou truly?”  Telltale fidgeting declared her skepticism.

Without a word, he doffed his garb and shrugged.  As he anticipated, her gaze lit upon his most prominent protuberance, which, at the moment, provided substantial and indubitable proof of his desire.  “Dost thou still doubt me?”

“No.”  With an arresting grin, she shook her head.

“Then come hither.”  While his petition seemed rather pedestrian, his current state proved tricky, until she situated his length to rest against her belly.  As she nestled close, he kissed her hair.  “I am sorry, Isolde.  Thou dost deserve a man familiar with the mysteries of intercourse.”

“I prefer thee.”  Then she met his stare.  “So how should we initiate the deed?”

“The natural progression would be to lie abed.”  His gut clenched at the mere suggestion.  “Shall we adjourn to our respective places?”

It struck him as ridiculous that he should suffer uncanny nervousness at the prospect, when he and Isolde had shared the tent, the mattress, and even the ancere since their wedding a fortnight ago.  So he bolstered his resolve as he slide between the sheets, reclined, and exhaled.  After adjusting his pillow, he studied the dancing shadows on the intricate wood ceiling, as the flames flickered in the fireplace.

“Now what should we do,” Isolde inquired.

“Mayhap we could indulge in our usual fare.”  Just as he turned on his side, she faced him, and her ill-situated knee almost ended the evening on a sour note.  He jumped and groaned, as he shielded his most male member.  “Careful, my lady.”

“Sorry, my lord.”  She reached for him, just as he drew her near, and her forehead collided with his chin.  “Ouch.”

“No apologies necessary, as I am but a sad sack of ignorance.”  Given the information Pellier had imparted, and Arucard had committed to memory, he mulled the most reliable path to his goal.  “Perchance, we should kiss.”

“All right.”  To his unutterable astonishment, she charged as if running the gauntlet and bit his lip in the process.  Wild and wanton, she yanked his hair and darted her tongue at his, as she pressed her pelvis to his.

It occurred to him that he was supposed to direct their movements, and in that he had failed.  Recalling Pellier’s sage counsel, Arucard nudged her legs apart and settled his palm to her thatch of sweet curls, as he always gave her the opportunity to adjust to his caress.  Isolde shuddered and moaned, and he well nigh lost himself in the moment.

Slow and steady, he slipped a finger into her moist and tight sheath, and she bucked as an unbroken horse.  He had touched her thus on previous occasions, but each contact had been brief, as he had spilled his seed and brought their nightly forays to an abrupt end.  In a scarce second, he promised himself to persist in his goal.

To advance his cause, he rolled his wife onto her back, and she gasped as he loomed above her.  With his mental notes ordered, he lowered his hips to hers and gently spread her thighs to accommodate him.  Propped on his elbows, he framed her face.  “Art thou comfortable?”

“Is that of great importance?”  Her expression did not inspire confidence.

“It is to me.”  Shifting, he brought his man’s yard to her slick passage.  “Art thou ready?”

“Aye.”  She nodded and clutched his shoulders.  “What should I do?”

“Lift thy ankles.”  As she abided his request, he flexed his spine and inched the tip of his arousal inside her.  Everything Pellier recommended flooded Arucard’s consciousness, and he pressed forward.  As she took him into her body, bathing him in succulent heat, he clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth.  Resistance halted his path, and he paused.  “Kiss me, Isolde.”  When she set her mouth to his, he proceeded until he had fully seated himself deep within her pliant flesh, and she tensed beneath him.  Against his better judgment and Pellier’s warning, Arucard retreated and then repeated the sumptuous attack—and he fired his seed in a vicious volley that left him huffing and wheezing for breath.  “Oh, holy mother.”

As the world spun beyond his control, a powerful euphoria simmered in his veins, and bursts of light flashed before his eyes, he relished each successive spasm of pure, unadulterated pleasure, such as he had never known possible.  Tremor after spectacular tremor rocked his frame until he was spent, and then he collapsed.  For a long while, he simply languished and savored the intimate bond with his bride.

“My lord, is it done?” she asked in a whisper.  “Art thou all right?”

“Aye.”  With insufficient energy to lift his head, he merely sagged atop her and grunted.  “I have claimed thy maidenhead.”

“So I am, at last, thine.”  Then she wept and curled about him.  “And our marriage is irreproachable.”

“Wherefore dost thou cry?”  Summoning the strength to shift and gain a view of her much-cherished visage, he frowned.  “Have I hurt thee?”

“Nay.”  Favoring him with her shy smile, she brushed aside a lock of hair.  “I am happy, my lord.  In fact, I have never been so happy.  And should my father attempt to take me from thee, I would fight to my death to stop him.”

“That will never happen, Isolde.”  When she hugged him tight with her arms and legs, a primitive hunger, raw and insatiable, flourished in the pit of his belly, and he struggled with a potent possessiveness he could neither understand nor contain.  “Never will I surrender thee, as thou art mine per the sacrament and His Majesty.  And I would slay an army to defend thee.”

“Thou art my champion.”  As she bestowed upon him another oh-so-tempting kiss, which stirred the dragon, she wiggled her hips, and that was all Arucard needed to resume the exquisite dance.  When she closed her eyes and compressed her lips, he thrust.  “Oh, my lord.”

“Ah, thou dost entice me, beauteous Isolde.”  Now he comprehended Pellier’s fascination with the female sex, as Isolde posited an allure he could not and would not resist.  In silence, he swore an oath to sustain their conjugal activities beyond the meager two thrusts that marked their first coupling and injured his pride, and somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he vaguely recalled a recommendation to abstain from further enterprises in deference to his wife’s delicacy.  As she voiced no complaints, he saw no reason to deny them the rapturous diversion he found so enthralling.

But enchanting completion beckoned with the third drive of his hips, and he counted that a small yet significant improvement.

Now he comprehended His Majesty’s caution, as Arucard would be content to spend the remains of his days between his bride’s supple thighs, and he counted himself a most fortunate husband—until Isolde tapped his shoulder and inquired, “So, is that all thither is to it?”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER SEVEN

The sun cast its brilliant rays through the glazed windows, as Isolde stirred.  At her side, Arucard slept, and she smiled as she revisited memories of the previous night.  After the initial much prayed for consummation of their vows, her husband had taken her three more times in the wee hours, once following the tender relaxation wherein he fed her the gyngerbrede she loved, and she would treasure the memory until her death.  And yet she remained oddly discomfited.

While he declared his satisfaction in startling grunts and groans, she had been left oddly cold and empty by the experience, which she had not anticipated.  The gentle caresses and long, intimate kisses, coupled with the joining of their bodies, had awakened something within her that she tried but failed to identify; yet she could not escape the pervasive intuition that something was missing.

For a barely ex-virgin, the connubial games proved a mystery, as a foreign tension twisted her insides, pressure built in the now sensitive flesh between her thighs, and then—naught.  As he found his prize, she ached for what she knew not.  In short, she lacked.

“Art thou awake?”  With a chuckle, he poked her with a telltale aspect of his anatomy, and she giggled.

“Aye, and it appears thou art aroused again.”  Without prompting, she rolled onto her back and spread her legs in welcome, as she knew what he wanted.  “So take thy ease, my lord.  As I am thy most willing servant.”

“Isolde, thou art irresistible when thou art so accommodating.”  In mere seconds, Arucard lowered himself atop her and situated his sword, and she lifted her ankles and hugged him with her limbs.  In a single fluid flex of his spine, he entered her, and she winced.  Pausing, he kissed her forehead.  “Did I hurt thee?”

“Nay, my lord.”  Despite her faults, and of that thither were many, he desired her, and that was all that mattered, so never would she refuse him.  “Given thy appetite, which seems endless, I am a tad sore, but if thou would but move, I will adjust to thy gratifying invasion.”

“Sweet Isolde, thy body intones a bewitching siren song to which I am incapable of contravening.”  As he rose on his arms and towered above her, Arucard closed his eyes, grimaced, and pumped in a now familiar rhythm.  When she splayed her fingers across his beauteous chest, he groaned.  “Yea, I crave thy touch.”

For some strange reason, she suspected he counted his drives, which struck her as absurd, so she dismissed the thought.  But then the oh-so-tempting heat swirled and soared within her, providing fortuitous distraction, and she yielded to the sensations he incited, as he set his lips to hers.  And just as she gained momentum, and her muscles tensed, Arucard threw back his head, contorted his face, and emitted another dramatic roar, which well nigh terrified her.  Then, huffing and puffing in time with tempered thrusts, his pleasure evident, he draped atop her.

Thirsting for something as yet unknown to her, she remained strangely unfulfilled by their coupling.  But she would not apprise him of that fact, as she feared the fault rested with her.

“I am late for weapons practice.”  He trailed his tongue along the curve of her neck.  “But thou art a sorceress, and thou hast cast a spell over me, so I am thy most obliging prisoner.”  As he shifted and withdrew, she vented a plaintive cry.  “And I have used thee without compunction, when I should have moderated our first union.  Forgive me, Isolde.”

“Thither is naught to forgive, as I am thy wife, and it is my duty to please thee.”  He could not possibly know what his declaration meant to her, as no one ever cared whether or not she was injured, much less expressed remorse for her pain.  As she slipped from their bed, she took a single step, flinched, and toppled to the mattress.  “Oh.  I ache in places I did not know I could ache.”

“God’s blood.”  In seconds, her husband came to her aid.  He flung back the covers and halted, as his gaze lit upon the small but distinct crimson stain that sealed their bond for all eternity.  When he stared at her and brushed his knuckles to her cheek, she spied regret in his countenance.  “I should be horsewhipped for abusing thee on our special occasion.”

“Nay, my champion.”  As he tucked her in with care, he kissed her forehead, and the customary yearning blossomed anew, in spite of her discomfort, which rendered her confused.  “If thou would send for Margery, I will soak in a soothing bath and regain my strength for my lord’s taking, this eventide, as I would not disappoint thee.”

“Thou dost employ my pet name, which I have yet to compose for thee, as it must be perfect, just like thee.  And given our consummation, thou dost know that is not possible.”  How she adored his blush and boyish grin.  “But I would grant another deferment until thou hast recovered, before I take thee again, if thou art amenable.”

“Nay, I do not accept, as I am not amenable to any further deferment.”  To her relief, his man’s yard grew hard, offering irrefutable proof of his passion, and she worked his length, as she yearned to discover what she had yet to experience.  “And thy body agrees with me.”

He studied the ceiling.  “Isolde, I must partake of weapons practice.”

“Indeed, I concur.”  A drop of moisture seeped from the tip.  “As thy primary weapon beckons.”

“Thou dost know what I mean.”  He closed his eyes.

“As doth thee.”  She yelped when he jumped her.

And so they ended up right whither they started—back in bed.

The next thing Isolde knew, she woke just as Arucard bent and kissed her.

“I have sent for Margery, and I have given orders that thou art to remain in our chambers and rest.”  Again he claimed her mouth in a lengthy and thorough affirmation of his regard, and Isolde wrapped her arms about his neck and held him close.  “Thou dost make it difficult to leave thee, but I shall return in time to sup with thee.”

“But thou wilt not stay away too long.”  As he made to withdraw, she tightened her grip.  “Promise.”

With nary a word, he seized her lips in a searing demonstration of his ardor, which left her breathless and in no doubt of his affection.  Then he marched into the solar, closed the doors behind him, and she sighed and stretched.  Almost immediately, visions of a heretofore-impossible future sprang to life, and she clutched the sheet to her chest, but a knock intruded on her fanciful thoughts.

“Come.”  She burrowed into the pillow and laughed.

“My lady, how art thou this fine morrow?”  Carrying her usual bag of potions, Margery perched on the edge of the mattress.  “Thy bath is ready, and I had cook prepare a light meal.”

“Trust me, after last night, I could eat a heavy meal.”  Scooting to the side of the bed, Isolde accepted Margery’s proffered hand and stood.  “Oh, dear friend, I am not certain I can make it to the ancere.”

“I would have had it placed in thy inner chamber, but I did not wish to disturb thee, given Sir Arucard had not yet appeared in the courtyard.”  The steward wrapped an arm about Isolde’s waist for support.  “Take it slow, my lady.  Thither is no rush.”

“Tell me the truth, is this normal?”  At the tub, Isolde moaned as she lifted one foot and then the other and sank into the unusually hot water.  “I can hardly walk, and I feel as though I have been run over by Arucard’s destrier.”

“I know not if I can describe it as normal.”  Situated at the rear, Margery chuckled and used a basin to wash Isolde’s hair.  “But it is a very good sign.  And thy husband’s commands show concern for thee, which is God’s work, as thou art finally safe from thy father’s schemes.”

“That reminds me, I have yet to read his latest letter.”  Isolde peered over her shoulder.  “It rests on Arucard’s bedside table.  Wilt thou fetch it for me?”

“Of course.”  Margery dried her hands and returned seconds later with the correspondence.  “How I wish he would leave thee alone.”

Sitting upright, Isolde scanned the contents.

Isolde,

Wherefore hast thou not written in accordance with my commands?  Dost thou willfully disobey me?  Must I remind thee of thy obligations?  As thy father, thou dost owe me thy allegiance.  I must know the origin and location of Sir Arucard’s fortune, and how is he connected to His Majesty?  I expect a response from thee, posthaste.  If thou dost continue to disobey me, thou wilt live to regret it.

Thy father, Lord Rochester

“What does it say?”  Margery massaged Isolde’s scalp.  “If I may inquire.”

“Arucard was correct.”  Isolde dropped the parchment to the floor, reclined, and resumed her soak.  “Father repeats his demands, though he hath abandoned the false endearments that never fooled me.”

“Dost thou intend to respond?”  With a towel, Margery dried Isolde’s hair.  “Hath Sir Arucard instructed thee on a proper reply?”

“Nay.”  Savoring the bath, Isolde closed her eyes, revisited the glorious morrow, and savored the memory of her knight’s ardent attention.  “My husband will deal with it, so what have I to fear?”

#

It was well past noon when Arucard, garbed in his mail coif and hauberk, and sword secured in his grasp, sauntered into the courtyard.  Three days after the memorable consummation of his vows, wherein he surrendered his virginity in the very same moment he claimed Isolde’s innocence, and he had yet to report for weapons practice on time.  As his marshalsea had correctly predicted, Arucard could not keep his hands off his wife.

The hour mattered not, as he sought her company and took her without compunction.  That should have satisfied him, yet he craved her body the instant they parted, which always drove him back to her arms.  And while she never turned him away, he could not elude the unsettling suspicion that Isolde did not derive as much pleasure from their interludes as did he.  It was a disconcerting deficiency he intended to amend, without delay.

“Someone is distracted.”  Waggling his brows, Morgan assumed a provoking stance.  “Mayhap I can help thee focus.”

“And it appears that very same someone hath trouble abandoning his bed.”  To Morgan’s left, Demetrius brandished his sword and adopted a goading pose.  “Perchance a sound defeat will improve thy commitment to duty.”

“Thou dost challenge my dedication and abilities?”  It was to their misfortune that Arucard was in no mood to play—unless his partner was his delectable bride.  So the sooner he dispatched his antagonists, the sooner he could broach the topic foremost on his mind with his chief advisor in matters of the flesh.  Planting his feet wide, he bent his knees, squared his shoulders, and lowered his chin.  “Gird thy defenses, brothers.”

Metal clashed with metal, as Arucard engaged his fellow Nautionnier knights in spirited combat neither facetious nor serious.  When Demetrius charged, Morgan attempted a flanking maneuver, but Arucard deflected the gadling with a wide swing and then followed with a vicious molinetto, which caught Demetrius by surprise.

As Arucard was briefly distracted, Morgan moved in with a wicked riverso, but Arucard spied the oncoming assault from the corner of his eye and turned aside the attack with a brutal taglio, which wrenched the weapon from the youngest brother’s grasp, and he splayed his palms in submission.  “I yield.”

In a flash, Arucard whirled about and discovered Demetrius with his sword leveled in preparation to strike, but just as he initiated his advance, his fingers tensed, which signaled Arucard.  Lightning quick Arucard shifted to the right, inverted his sword, stomped his brother’s foot, and clipped his chin with the hilt.  Demetrius dropped to the ground, and Arucard rested the pointed end of his blade to his friend’s throat.

“Capitulate.”  Arucard bared his teeth.  “Now.”

With a mighty scowl, Demetrius nodded once.  “I concede.”

“That did not take long.”  With fists on hips, Geoffrey frowned.  “Mayhap thou should concentrate thy efforts on thy own skills, and allow our fearless leader to tend his affairs.”

“Indeed.”  The voice of reason, Aristide rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue.  “Demetrius, see to thy injury, and be grateful Arucard only toyed with thee, as the last time someone challenged his prowess on the field of honor, the ignorant soul lost his head.”

“I thought we were merely exercising.”  As he stood, Demetrius dusted off himself and then rubbed his jaw.  “And we meant no offense.”

“Perchance the Lady Isolde keeps thee busy in thy bed.”  With an exaggerated strut, Morgan thrust his hips.  “And Arucard doth not sleep much, which hath fouled his mood.”

“Do not gainsay what thou hast not tried.”  And that otherwise unremarkable comment brought Arucard full circle, as the pithy battle heated his blood, which pooled in a particular part of his anatomy, and he pondered a swift return to his chambers and his wife.  Just then Pellier appeared in the courtyard.  “Marshalsea, I require thy services, as Demetrius and Morgan have surrendered the fight.”

“That is because they do not know thy weakness, as do I.  And from what I hear from my fetching Margery, thy enthusiasm is possessed of black hair, green eyes, and tender flesh.”  Pellier guffawed and waved at the four other knights.  “Entertain thyself near the stables, as Sir Arucard and I have important matters to discuss.”  As soon as the men were beyond earshot, Pellier scowled.  “Hast thou lost thy mind?  Art thou no better than a boothaler that thou would treat thy gentle wife with such callous indifference, as if she is naught more than a poxy-cheeked strumpet?”

“I beg thy pardon?”  Arucard scratched his temple and slumped, as he recalled her wince and grimace when he took her in the faint dawn light.  “I have shown great deference to my bride.”  Even as he voiced the claim, he knew he did not speak the entire truth.

“Of course, thou hast.”  The marshalsea slapped the flat of his blade to Arucard’s arse.  “That is wherefore Margery tends Lady Isolde every morrow, and thy wife cannot walk to the great hall without a noticeable teeter.  Thou hast used her roughly.”

Arucard opened his mouth and then closed it.

“Well?”  Pellier folded his arms.  “After I offered thee my best counsel, what is thy excuse?”

Denial danced on the tip of his tongue, but Arucard was no liar, and his friend had correctly assessed the situation.  “I am a terrible husband.”

“Nay, thou art fallible, as art we all.”  The second in command sat on a bench near the well.  “And it appears the great Templar is but a man with the usual inclinations, and thither is no shame in that.”

“Thou art correct in thy assumptions, as I ache for her, Pellier.  Isolde is the most fascinating creature of my existence.”  In his mind, Arucard envisioned her as she looked at sunrise, with her raven locks splayed across her pillow and her luscious breasts jostling in time with his thrusts, as he claimed her.  “I burn for her, and it is as thee didst warn.  I cannot defend against her charms, and she hath not once denied me.”

“That is because thy lady is a good and dutiful woman.”  The marshalsea narrowed his stare.  “But thou art her caretaker, her owner, responsible for her health and welfare.  Thou must learn to control thy lustful appetites.”

“In that respect, I am an abyss of unknowing, but I would argue she owns me.”  Disheartened, Arucard plopped beside his friend.  “While I have killed untold numbers in battle, and I have maintained an austere and faithful life, when it comes to Isolde, I am her devoted servant.  Regardless of my intent, I am but clay in her hands, and I am powerless to resist her.  Nay, I do not wish to resist her.”

“Well, if she celebrates thy union, then who am I to argue otherwise?”  In that instant, Pellier smacked Arucard on the shoulder, stood, and then furrowed his brow.  “What is it?  What bothers thee?”

“Thither is something I need to ask thee.”  The nagging question, the original source of his quandary shot to the fore, and he shuffled his feet to ease the awkwardness.  “How dost thou know whether or not thy mate enjoys the pinnacle of thy coupling?  Not that I am unsure.”

“Oh, my poor friend.”  With a snort of mirth, Pellier wiped his face.  “Trust me, if thou must ask, thy lady hath not enjoyed it.”  Then he burst into a fit of chuckles.

“I find naught funny about thy observation.”  And Arucard’s confidence flagged, but he cared not for his pride when it came to Isolde’s satisfaction, or lack thereof.  “And as thou art a trove of information on the subject, I would avail myself of thy recommendation.”

“What hast thou tried?” Pellier inquired with a grin.  “Owing to discretion and my respect for thy wife, know I shall never betray thy confidence, so thou mayest speak with frankness.”

“I did as thee instructed.”  Arucard shrugged.  “Naught more.”

“Art thou joking?”  When Arucard indicated otherwise, Pellier sighed and rested his forehead in his palm.  “Dost thou mean to tell me thou hast spent a fortnight in thy wife’s bed, thou hast claimed her maidenhead, and thou hast not explored her body?”

“I have touched her.”  In haste, he searched his memory.  “We have kissed, we have engaged in intercourse, as thou didst dictate, and I followed thy instructions to the letter.”

“And that is it?”  Pellier furrowed his brow.  “My friend, my directions were intended as a start on thy quest for carnal knowledge, the journey of which thou hast yet to complete.  Hast thou not surveyed the paradise between her thighs?  Hast thou not kissed her nether eye, spelt thy name in her most succulent flesh, suckled the pearl of her desire, or taught her to lick and nurse thy one-eyed horse?”

At the prospect of such arousing activity, Arucard stammered in disbelief, but his thoughts quickly turned to seductive strategy, with Isolde at the center of his erotic plans.

“What?”  The marshalsea elbowed Arucard.  “Art thou shocked?”

“I know not how to respond.”  He swallowed hard.  “Is such behavior permissible?”

“Noble sirrah, what happens in thy connubial quarters stays in thy connubial quarters.”  Now Pellier collapsed in a full belly laugh.  When at last he quieted, the marshalsea wiped a tear from his cheek.  “Arucard, Isolde is thy mate, as charged by the sacrament.  Thou hast promised to love and honor thy lady.  How thou dost achieve that is up to thee.  But if thou canst bring her sweet release and make her scream, the rest is simple.”

#

It was an unusually sunny and warm fall afternoon, when Isolde ventured from her chambers in search of food to quiet her grumbling belly.  Something about Arucard’s lustful jousting between the sheets spurred a furious appetite.  Just as she entered the great hall, she almost collided with her husband.

“My lady, thou art awake.”  With a smile, he whisked a stray tendril from her face.  “I had thought, mayhap, we might partake of a ride, as the weather is fine, and I desire thy unreserved company.”

“My lord, I would love to indulge thee, but I am famished and near wasting.”  At that very moment, her tummy emitted thunderous proof of her hunger, and she rolled her eyes as he laughed.  “It is thy fault, as thou didst exercise me quite thoroughly this morrow.”

All levity ceased, and he narrowed his stare, cupped her chin, and gifted her a whisper of a kiss.  “Yea, I did, and I right enjoyed myself.  But I have a solution that meets both our needs, if thou art amenable to my suggestion.”

“Oh?”  When he took her by the arm and led her into the bailey, she started.  “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course.”  In a flash, he lifted her to the saddle of his destrier.  “Thou canst come with me.”  Then he seated himself behind her, pulled her close to rest against him, tucked his ermine collared cloak about her, grasped the reins, and nipped the crest of her ear.  “Or thou canst come with me.”

“Arucard.”  Biting her lip, she shivered, as his rich tone betrayed an underlying meaning she understood too well, and her gut clenched, as they navigated the barbican and then the outer gatehouse.  “Thou cannot intend to engage in…that is to say…we cannot possibly…out in the open…oh, thou dost know what I reference.”

“My naughty wife, I like the way thou dost think.”  Once they cleared the castle battlements, he heeled the flanks of his stallion and galloped to the main road, whither he set a blazing pace.  “Thither is a nice hilltop with an impressive view of the ocean, from which we might dine on a meal of boiled chicken, grapes, fresh bread, wine, and the gyngerbrede thee dost favor.”

“What a wonderful idea.”  Reclining in his embrace, she squirmed when he nibbled her neck.  “My lord, thou art brazen, but I favor that about ye.”

“And thou art tantalizing beyond compare.”  He rounded a bend, steered for the verge, and then charged the hill.  “The grass is tall, but hither it is dry, and I have a plan that should provide privacy for my shy bride.”

“Thou art resourceful, my gallant knight.”  As they reached the top of the range, a spectacular vista spread wide before her, and Isolde turned and nuzzled him.  “It is beauteous, Arucard.  Thank ye, for bringing me hither.”

“Mayhap we shall consider this our special place.”  He drew rein, dismounted, and then lifted her from the saddle.  “And we might share this spot in milder seasons.”  With his sword, he cut a circular haven amid the thick foliage, which was dormant in the fall, and then untied a blanket from his horse, which he handed to her.  “Spread the cover on the ground, whilst I retrieve the sack of food.”

“Aye, my lord.”  She did as he bade and then sat.  “This is cozy, just like our own little nest.”  As she glanced from left to right, she realized she could not see over the tips of the blades, but situated along the rise, she had an unimpeded outlook of the sea.  Everything was perfect, and then she pondered his motives.  “Hast thou discovered information relating to my father’s letters and questionable activities?  Wherefore dost thou require seclusion?”

“Aeduuard de Cadby will arrive this eventide to discuss the burgage plots, and he brings additional witnesses.”  Squatting beside her, he unpacked the fare.  “I shall hear their complaints and seek His Majesty’s counsel on a proper course of action.”

“But what of my father?”  While she had more to protest, he quieted her with a plump and juicy grape.  “My lord, thou art distracting me.”

“Nay, I am tending thy welfare, as a dutiful husband.”  As she made to argue, he shoved a portion of chicken into her mouth.  “Eat.”

“Arucard, that is too much,” she said between chokes.  “And I wish to know thy plan to deal with my father.  He frightens me, as he is cruel, and he will punish me for not responding to his correspondence.”

“Isolde, as I promised, I will handle thy father and protect thee, so thou dost worry for naught.”  Without ceremony, he stuffed a piece of bread between her lips.  “And thy primary occupation, as of this moment, is to express thy appreciation my efforts.  Art thou not pleased with my gesture of affection?”

“Is that thy aim?”  Now he garnered her interest.  “Thou dost wish to demonstrate devotion?”

“Aye.”  Then he shrugged, as he uncorked the wine and took a healthy gulp.  “And I thought, perchance, thou mayest want to talk.”

“About—what?”  As he made it clear he had no desire to discuss the predicament with her father, she understood him not.  “The castle is in order, we art fully staffed, with the exception of a lady’s maid, and thou hast established the garrison, per the King’s command.  What else do we need to discuss?”

“Well, I wondered if thou art happy?”  Exhaling, Arucard scratched his cheek.  “As thy happiness is important to me.”

“Yea, of course, more than ever.”  Thrilled by his boldly proclaimed interest in her contentment, she could have danced a jig.  Taking his lead, she selected a large grape and fed it to him.  “And what of thee?”

“Aye.”  And again he kissed her, but he lingered, and she sighed as a languorous calm settled her nervousness.  “Thou art my treasure, Isolde.”

And that statement inspired all manner of joy, as she relaxed.  Peaceful quiet fell over their modest sanctuary, as they ate.  And while the minutes ticked past, the gentle breeze rustled through the dry grass, the gulls keened in the distance, and the waves crashed ashore on the beach below, Isolde suspected her husband had not revealed the true motive to their special outing.

“One piece of gyngerbrede remains.”  She held up the tempting confection.  “I will half it with thee.”

“Thou art the soul of generosity.”  Despite his grin, she spied distress in his crystal blue eyes.

“What troubles thee?”  After folding the cloths in which he stowed the food, she scooted closer to him, and, as she anticipated, he lifted her to his lap.  Draping an arm about his shoulders, she hugged her husband.  “Thou cannot keep secrets from me, as I share thy bed and thy body.”

“Dost thou enjoy playing my fiddle?”  With brows quirked, he grimaced.  “Prithee, tell me the truth.”

Well, she asked.  And he most certainly answered.

“I beg thy pardon?”  In her embarrassment, that was the only response Isolde could muster.

“My lady, thou art an uncommonly intelligent woman.”  Was it her imagination, or was he sweating?  “Pray, I must know if thou dost find pleasure when I stir thy waters?”

Convinced thither was something inferior about her, given she had not celebrated their coupling in the demonstrative fashion as had her knight; she knew not how to reply without shaming herself.  “Mayhap it is not the same for wives.”

“I knew it.”  Smacking his forehead, he groaned.  “This is all my fault.”

“What?”  Shock dispelled the tranquility of their interlude, as she digested his revelation.  “Thou dost think thou art to blame?”

“I am thy husband.”  Arucard pressed a fist to his chest.  “The responsibility for thy pleasure is mine, and I have failed thee.”

“Nay, thou hast made too much of it, and I must explain.”  Never had Isolde fathomed confessing such embarrassing details, but she had to make him understand.  Framing his jaw, she kissed him.  “Do not overstate the issue, as it is not so great as thou dost believe.  Yea, I cherish our intimacy, as thou dost inspire feelings I never knew existed, when we join our bodies.”  He rested his forehead to hers, and she drew strength to continue.  “I ache for thee, but the balm doth not quite ease my pain, and wherefore I know not.  Rather, it intensifies it, and I am left with a void I can scarcely bear.  But I would never refuse thee, because I crave thy touch.”

“Wherefore hast thou said naught?”  In that moment, he settled his palm to her hose-covered calf.

“My lord, I would not hurt thee or thy pride for anything in the world.”  She met his gaze.  “And I considered it my deficiency, as thou hast had no problem finding thy release.  Thither must be something wrong with me.”

“Well, thither is a way to find out, if thou art willing.”  With his fingers, he walked a path to the inside of her thigh, and she shuddered.  “Dost thou trust me?”

“Always.”

#

In a single tear, Arucard ripped the seam of Isolde’s cotehardie.  As she reclined on the blanket, with her eyes closed, he all but shredded her chemise and then spread her legs.  Once again summoning Pellier’s sage wisdom, he eased between her thighs and cupped her bottom with his hands.  Slowly, he bent his head and expelled his breath to her triangle of soft curls, and she bit her fingers and emitted a muffled sob.  That singular exhalation presented the greatest response he had ever garnered and did much to bolster his confidence, which he needed just then, so he trailed his tongue along her nether lips.

With an achingly sweet cry, his wife lauded his efforts, as he repeatedly spelled his name on her pliant folds, and he ventured further into her honey sheath, relishing the hint of lavender mingled with the tart essence that was uniquely hers.  When he located what Pellier had referred to as the pearl of her desire, Arucard fastened his mouth about the tiny bud and suckled hard, and his bride bucked and squirmed.  And with each successive murmur and wiggle, which he counted as a priceless treasure, he realized he had never felt more a man in his life.

“Oh.”  Yanking his hair, Isolde rolled her head from side to side and then arched her back.  “Prithee, Arucard.  I can take no more.”

Anchoring her firmly in his grasp, he licked and laved in a tempting rhythm, until his suddenly not-so-shy lady stretched her limbs, gazed at the sky, and heralded her release with an earsplitting shout of exultation, which echoed on the rocky cliffs.  Never had he glimpsed anything so bewitching as his wife in the throes of passion, and a powerful hunger built in his chest and scored a path straight to his crotch.

In seconds, Arucard doffed his belt, hitched his tunic, untied his leather breeches and linen braies, and entered her in a single potent thrust.  How he longed to savor her scorching wet heat, which branded him hers, but, as usual, he drove into her a mere five times before his seed burst forth deep within her.

Some day, he would linger and luxuriate in her body, but now was not that day.

Collapsing atop her, he reveled in her ready embrace, as she nestled close.  But when he discovered her crying, he propped on an elbow.

“What is wrong, Isolde?”  With care, he placed a kiss on the tip of her nose.  “Did I hurt thee?”

“Nay.”  Tears streamed her temples as she smiled.  “Never could I have imagined such sensations, and my emotions have run rampant, such that I cannot contain my joy.  If I could describe it to thee, I would, but words fail me.”

“Art thou trying to tell me I have, at last, pleasured thee?”  With the pad of his thumb, he caressed her cheek.  “And I did not frighten thee?”

“That is not possible.”  For a while, she stared at him.  Then she clutched his wrist and pressed his palm to her lips, and his gut clenched.  “At first, when I met thee outside the chapel in London, I pictured so many dreadful things, as thou art quite large and imposing.  And when I witnessed thee fight the bandits and de Cadby, thou didst behead a man, and I was terrified of thee, as I suspected I might suffer thy violence.  But despite thy incomparable size and strength, thou hast never harmed me.”  Then she drew him near and set her mouth to his.  “In fact, thou art a most gentle husband.”

Thither were many things Arucard wanted to tell his wife that afternoon, as she cradled him with her sumptuous thighs.  He pondered declarations of devotion and trust, but none seemed sufficient to convey the depth of his regard and commitment.  Instead, he took her again and said with his body what he could not voice.

ARUCARD

CHAPTER EIGHT

Chichester Castle came into view as Arucard steered his destrier to the south.  Given the pleasant afternoon spent in his wife’s company, his mood was light as he pondered the meeting with de Cadby and the locals.  And while he should have focused his attention on the impending gathering, a series of memorable feminine screams echoed in his brain, and he hugged Isolde close.

“I believe I have composed an appropriate pet name for thee.”  In play, he rubbed his nose to crest of her ear.  “And it is perfect, as art thou.”

“Oh?”  Wrapped in the blanket, because he had destroyed her cotehardie, and riding astride in his lap, she rested against his chest, turned her head, and lifted her chin in position to receive his kiss.  “How would thee address me in private, my champion?”

“Well, thou art sweeter than any confection, which begs a comparison to honey, and I should know, as I sampled thy nectar more than once today.”  And then he chuckled, as he revisited recent activities and developments, which had surpassed his expectations.  “And it is said that a woman blossoms when she surrenders her maidenhead, but I would argue otherwise.  I think ye blossomed when thee experienced thy first release, and I will endeavor to inspire thee in our bed, henceforth.  So, combining the two, thou art my honey flower.”

“Honey flower?”  She giggled and then cast him a charming smile.  “I like that.”

“Then it is settled.”  And he would carry that bit of information to his grave, as he could only imagine how his brothers would react to that revelation.  As he crossed the first drawbridge, he waved to the guards.  “And this eventide, when we retire, I shall spread thy petals and make thee sing, honey flower.”

“Arucard.”  Now she burrowed into his tunic.  “Thou art shocking.”

“What?”  As he navigated the barbican, he pinched her bottom through the thick cover, and she yelped.  “We art married, and the King demands I produce an heir, so I am but following orders.”  Then he whispered, “Mayhap I shall teach thee to pleasure my body as I satisfied thee.”

“Is that permissible?”  Was it wishful thinking, or did she seem interested as she peeked at him?  “Thou hast been very naughty.”

“My lady, what we do in our chambers is our affair.”  In his mind, he pictured her taking his man’s yard into her mouth, and the dragon woke.  “Wilt thou gainsay what thou hast not tried?”

“Dost thou truly wish it?”  She sat upright and met his stare.  “Thou would have me behave in such a manner, and thou dost encourage my adventurous nature?”

“Aye.”  As they entered the courtyard, he noted several horses tied neared the stable.  “I adore thy adventurous nature, and I have scarcely wanted anything more.”

“My lord.”  Pellier rushed forward.  “Young de Cadby and his supporters have arrived.  Margery hath installed them in the great hall.”

“I should see to thy refreshments.”  Clutching the blanket, Isolde scooted forward, as Arucard dismounted and then handed her down.  “But first I require a change of clothing in order to properly address our guests.”

“And I shall inquire after their comfort.”  Disappointment sank into his bones as she strolled toward their quarters.  But at the last second, she peered over her shoulder, and Arucard arched a brow in question.

“By thy command, I am at thy service.”  Then she stuck her tongue in her cheek.  “And at thy earliest convenience, I shall fulfill thy humble request.  Thou wilt be sure to let me know when that might be, as I would not wait too long.”

And so it was with a spring in his step and wicked thoughts swirling in his mind that Arucard ventured to greet his visitors.  When he strolled into the cavernous hall, Aeduuard stood from his chair, and Arucard extended his hand in friendship.  “De Cadby, welcome to Chichester Castle.”

“My lord.”  With an exaggerated bow, Aeduuard grinned and then rocked on his heels.  “Or should I call thee Sir Arucard, as thou hast so many titles?  Hast thou a preference?”

“I do not stand on formalities with friends, and I consider thee as much.”  Situated at a place of honor at the head of the table, Arucard paused to acknowledge the other wronged landowners.  “Good eventide, and thank ye for coming on such short notice.  As the new earl of Sussex, I am charged with dispensing His Majesty’s justice and overseeing the garrison in this region, and it is my responsibility to determine the validity of the burgage plots, as well as the perpetrator of the scheme.”

“I am Sewal Verley, my lord.”  An elderly figure with a regal bearing stood.  “For almost a hundred years, my family farmed the pilfered acres, but with a single stroke of his quill, Juraj de Mravec executed the King’s authority and stole our heritage.  We art now but tenants on what we once owned.”

“And I am in the same position,” another man added.  “Yet we were not compensated.”

“We were robbed of our legacy,” an unknown individual cried.

A murmur of concurrence built, slow at first, but erupted as an incoming tide.  Each injured party nodded agreement, with revelatory parchment to support their assertions, which Arucard collected as evidence.  As he perused the documents, he noted the Crown’s seal and frowned.  Naught made sense, given His Majesty had discussed his intentions and made no mention of the burgage plots.  His instincts told him all was not as it appeared.

“This is puzzling.”  Stacking the papers, Arucard glanced at Aeduuard.  “Wherefore didst the previous earl of Sussex not negotiate the deeds?”

“Mayhap because his head was rotting on a pike outside White Tower.”  De Cadby rubbed his chin.  “Dost thou doubt our grievances?”

“Perchance thou art involved in the thefts.”  Verley narrowed his stare.  “Wilt thou profit at our expense?  Wilt thou continue our oppression?”

“Do not question my honor, sirrah.”  Arucard pounded his fist on the table.  “The last man who doubted my sincerity met his demise at the rude end of my halberd.  However, as our acquaintance is new, I shall indulge thee.  But do not let it happen again.”

The great hall fell silent as a tomb, and the tension mounted.

“A pleasant eventide, good gentles.”  Gowned in rich burgundy velvet, with her raven hair plaited in her usual style, Isolde inclined her head and curtseyed.  “Am I interrupting anything of importance?”

In unison, the men stood and bowed.

“Allow me to present my wife, Lady Isolde, countess of Sussex.”  What perfect timing his bride possessed, as she had just diffused a rapidly deteriorating assemblage, and he considered her a heretofore-underutilized weapon in his arsenal.  “Wilt thou join us?”

“Thank ye, for the invitation.”  With grace and elegance of which he was immensely proud, she waved to Pellier, who carried a chair, which he perched beside Arucard.  “And permit me to offer refreshments, as supper will be served soon.”

Isolde clapped her hands twice, and maids conveyed armfuls of mugs to the table.  From a tray, his wife retrieved a pitcher and made the rounds, casting him shy glances and coy smiles, as if they shared a delicious secret.  And then it dawned on him that they did, indeed, harbor a bit of confidential but mutual enlightenment, the extent of which had fueled his afternoon games.  When he winked, he distracted her, and she spilt the ale.

“Oh, I am so sorry.”  Snatching a cloth from a passing servant, Isolde compressed her lips and then dried the unfortunate fellow’s sleeve.  “Margery, thou mayest deliver the meal.”

“Yea, my lady.”  The steward rushed to perform Isolde’s bidding.

Again and again, he shared furtive reflections with his lady, in unspoken summons, while she tended their guests, and in his brain he vowed to make his move in an altogether different direction, neglecting his chief duties, at the moment, if she issued another secretive invitation.  When she steadfastly avoided his gaze, disappointment sparked in his chest, and he sank in his seat.  Then he seized on an idea.

If his wife met his stare before he counted to ten, he would take her, thither and then.

As he advanced his cause, slow and steady, as he would not rush her, it occurred to him that the afternoon fostered new and enticing feelings he still could not quite comprehend, but one thing was certain—Arucard needed Isolde, and he needed no one.

Often the gentle curve of her swanlike neck held him spellbound, as he loved to suckle the shallow hallow just below her ear.  And his wife was ticklish, which he discovered when he nibbled the succulent flesh of her round bottom and nipped at the indention above her hip.

Just then, she returned the ewer to the tray and looked him in the eye, and he lurched upright.  Yea, she was his just as he was hers.

“If I may, how doth the Lady Isolde favor Chichester?” Verley inquired.

“It is quite beauteous.  The seashore is rugged but breathtaking, and I find the hills rather stimulating.”  Her subtle reference did not escape him.  After taking her seat, Isolde leaned to the side, offering him a delectable view of her bosom, and whispered, “My lord, I understand thy behavior, of late, as I crave thee, and I know not how to manage what threatens to consume me.  Prithee, take pity, as I need thy assistance.  Canst thou help me?  Pray, what should I do?”

The raw hunger in her gaze, undeniable in its clarity, bespoke an unembellished truth and impressed upon him the urgency of their situation, as fiery desire simmered in his veins, capturing him to the detriment of all else.  He could only imagine what she experienced, as an innocent.  It was as though she had just punched him in the gut, because the force of her much prized confession rendered him almost giddy.  And then his body responded, in kind.

“Meet me in the undercroft.”  Nay, he should not do what he planned to do, but he could not restrain himself when it came to Isolde, and he had to have her, else he feared he might degenerate into insanity, and she could run amok.  “Go, now.”

“Aye, my lord.”  To the gathering, Isolde said, “Forgive me, but I must check on the bread, as I ordered it fresh from the oven.  By thy leave.”

Deploying his earlier tactic, Arucard counted to ten and then vacated his chair.  “My lady prefers wine with her sup.”

Pellier stepped to the fore.  “I can fetch it—”

“I will get it, myself.”  Driven by decadent determination, the potency of which he could not withstand, Arucard stormed into the kitchens, navigated the narrow passage, and all but ran into the storage cellar.  “Isolde?  Whither art thou?”

“Hither, my lord.”  From behind, she jumped him.

And the sumptuous battle commenced.

As Arucard turned and grabbed her, Isolde leaped, wrapped her arms about his neck, and set her mouth to his.  The delicate taste of her, a thousand times more intoxicating than the finest liquor, rendered him drunk with passion, and his flesh burned for her.  With his hands on her hips, he lifted her to sit atop a barrel.  When he flicked up the skirt of her gown, she swept aside his tunic, fumbled with the ties of his breeches and braies, and freed his man’s yard.

In implied surrender, she spread wide her supple thighs in welcome, and he could have cried in gratitude.  Standing between her legs, he joined their bodies, and she sighed as he rested his forehead to hers and exhaled in relief.  With his thumb, he massaged her pearl in rhythm with his thrusts, which became ever more frenetic.  Riding her hard and fast, he savored the subtle gasps, each with its own unique pitch to laud his efforts, which she vented as he took her—until a servant interrupted their licentious liaison.

“Hello?”  The maid cleared her throat.  “Thither is someone in the undercroft?”

Furrowing her brow, Isolde tensed, and he stilled, yet an invisible but nonetheless powerful web spun a fragile swathe about them.  Completion beckoned as a demanding lover, and Arucard ached to answer the call.  Footfalls signaled the interloper’s departure, so Arucard resumed the voluptuous assault.  And when she stretched in telltale rigidity, he covered her lips with his palm and smothered her cry of release.  Seconds later, he followed her into the bliss, gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw to stifle his groans of pleasure, as he bent over her and collapsed.

“My lord, I needed that.”  Giggling, Isolde kissed his ear.  “Art thou disappointed with me?”

“Thou must be joking.”  Weak from their coupling, he mustered a half-hearted chuckle.  “Admit it, thou art a witch in an angel’s garb, and thou hast cast an incantation over me, as I am thine, body and soul.  And while I should be entertaining our guests, all I want is to bury myself in thy sheath, honey flower.”

“And I would hold thee in my arms until I pass from this life, my champion.”  How he loved it when she hugged him with her thighs and flexed her muscles, tempting him with a far more intimate embrace.  “But what an ending.  Shall we return to the great hall?”

“Aye.”  Against his wishes, he withdrew and secured his attire.  Then he lifted her from the impromptu perch.  As his thoughts centered on the land dilemma, something occurred to him.  “Isolde, if thou dost ask thy father’s opinion on the burgage plots, dost thou believe he will answer honestly?”

“Given my father thinks me ignorant, I suppose he will.”  Marching toward the kitchen, she paused when he tapped her shoulder.  “Yea, my lord?”

“Pray, a moment.”  In good humor, he tugged the back of her skirt from her garter.  “I would permit no one to look upon that which is mine.”

“And shall I dine with thee and thy men?”  The gentle sway of her hips held him mesmerized.  “Or would thou charge me with another task?”

“I would have thee at my side, always.”  Plotting and strategizing in silence, he mulled the possibilities, in regard to the current problem.  At the last minute, he snapped his fingers and swiped a pitcher of wine from the kitchen and then offered his escort.  “And tonight, when we retire, I would have thee compose a letter to thy father.”

#

“How is thy nose?”  With a sheepish grin, Arucard shuffled his feet, and the poor man seemed so contrite, so she could not, in good conscience, tease him.  “And I am sorry.  If it makes thee feel any better, I will never forgive myself.”

“It is much improved.”  Biting her lip, Isolde managed not to laugh, but she gave vent to a snort, and he groaned.  “And it was an accident, so thither is no need to apologize.”

“But I almost drowned thee.”  Prior to the day’s events, his mighty scowl would have frightened her, but not so anymore.  Instead, she could not help but notice his rippled muscles, broad shoulders, and thick hair.  “We should not have attempted to…thou dost know what I reference.  To my immense regret, I embarrassed myself.”

After a spirited supper, wherein the guests consumed mass quantities of ale, and an odd contest ensued, regarding the length of their swords, which Isolde still didn’t quite understand, she and Arucard had retired to their private quarters with like-minded intent.

As promised, she endeavored to pleasure her husband under his somewhat awkward tutelage, given neither had any personal experience with the maneuver she haphazardly employed.  While the outcome went as planned, the path to release had been at her expense, because the instant she locked her lips about his length, he erupted with such force it had taken her by surprise, to the extent that she withdrew without warning, and he sprayed her face with his seed.

“Nonsense.”  How difficult he made it to focus on the task at hand, as he finally sat opposite her in the solar and pouted, and all she wanted to do was soothe his injured pride.  “I am thy wife, and I should know thy body as intimately as thou dost know mine.  I believe we achieved that, tonight.”

“To my everlasting shame.”  With an adorable grimace, he propped his elbow atop the table and rested his chin in his palm.  “We will never do it again.”

“Oh, yea, we will, my lord.”  Then she glanced at the parchment in her grasp.  “Now what dost thou wish me to say in the letter?”

“Tell him thou dost not know the origin of my relationship with His Majesty.”  As he narrowed his stare, he scratched his cheek.  “But thou dost suspect nefarious deeds in my history, which would render me vulnerable to attack.  Pledge to uncover my secrets in thy father’s service.”

“Nay.”  She shook her head, as she found the mere suggestion repugnant.  “I will not conspire with my father against thee.  And I shudder to think what he might do, should he discover thy Templar associations, which I shall carry to my grave.”

“But I am not asking thee to betray my confidence, as thou art incapable of treachery.”  On the precipice of conflict, the consequences of which could result in the separation of their heads from their necks, he remained calm, which kept her grounded.  “However, if we art to appease thy father and divert his attention from thee, we must satisfy his curiosity.”

“Is that thy only aim?”  In accordance with her husband’s directives, she scribbled a few sentences, even as his worry thrilled her.  “As I would protect thee, too.”

“Isolde, I can take care of myself.  And I would have thee explain thy belief that my fortune is vast, but thou hast yet to locate it, although thou art searching, which should shield thee from thy father’s wrath.”  Then he reached for and clutched her wrist.  “Thy safety is my primary concern, as thy life is precious to me.”

“Am I?”  So many sensations rushed through her, as he leveled his gaze, and the truth of his statement shone clear in his blue eyes.  In the brief term of their union, they had grown together beyond her wildest imaginings, and never would she doubt him.  “As thou could always marry again, should I meet my fate.  Most men take second wives in such cases.”

“Mayhap that is true.”  When he stood, rounded the table, and came to a halt behind her, she gulped.  Cupping her breasts through her robe, he trailed sweet but effective kisses along her neck.  “But I am not most men, and, now and forever, thou art my only mate.  So finish thy work, as I desire thee again, honey flower.”

“Dost thou?”  Tempted by his desire, and the mention of her pet name, which he had devised, she dropped back her head and cast him a side-glance.  “I am hungry, too.  But thou art distracting me, and I would fulfill thy request before I sup on thy flesh, as I would make a second attempt at thy favored exercise.”

“Nay.”  And now he blushed, which charmed her to her toes.  “We will abstain from that particular activity.”

“We shall see about that.”  After composing a few more statements intended to mollify her father, she signed her name to the bottom of the correspondence.  “Thither it is done.”  Quick as a flash, she spun about on the bench and grabbed his hips.  Riding a crest of steely determination, and emboldened by his expression of affection, however moderate, she slipped her hand between the folds of his robe and found him hot and hard.  “Now, whither were we?”

“Isolde—”

“Cease thy talking, my champion.”  Holding his gaze, she untied his belt, swept aside the cloth, and pressed a kiss on his plumb-shaped tip, and he hissed.  Oh, yea, he was hers every bit as much as she was his.  “Unless thou would impart thy words of passion, which I rather enjoy.”

“Words of passion?”  He tensed at her touch, and she found her rhythm as she worked him.  “I know not of which thou dost speak.”

“Thou dost know what I mean.”  Slowly, she drew him into her mouth and retreated, and again he groaned.  “Ah, that will suffice.”

As it turned out, naught else was said that night.

ARUCARD

CHAPTER NINE

A fortnight later, well past the noon hour, Arucard strutted into the bailey.  To his infinite satisfaction, Isolde remained tucked, safe and sound, in their bed, sleeping the sleep of the sated, which was just as he preferred her.  In his mind, he pictured his wife, her raven hair splayed across her pillow, revisited sweet recollections of what he had done to tangle her thick locks, and he smiled.

Given he clutched a letter from her father, which had just arrived via a messenger wearing the earl of Rochester’s colors, he would rather discuss the correspondence with his brothers, put a plan in place, and devise a written response before burdening his lady.  Waving at Demetrius, he nodded at Aristide, and that was all that was necessary to clue the Brethren.

In the great hall, he selected a smaller table near the back wall and sat on a bench.  Soon, his fellow knights joined him.  Without a word, he passed the earl’s missive to Demetrius.

“Surprised to see thee up and about so early, brother.”  Geoffrey snickered.

“I cannot recall the last time thou hast attended weapons practice at sunrise.”  The telltale frown of disapproval signaled Aristide’s disappointment.  “Art thou no longer a warrior in service to the Crown?”

“Or hast thou misplaced thy dedication to duty?” Morgan inquired.

“Thou art mistaken, my friends.”  It would have been easy to take insult to their comments, but Arucard knew his aim was true.  “As it stands, I labor every eventide at the Crown’s direction, long after thou hast retired.”

“Thou art not serious.”  Aristide scoffed.  “Would thou make light of our reasonable concerns, as thou art the lord of Chichester Castle?”

“Not at all.”  Just then, Demetrius glanced at Arucard.  “I am charged with begetting an heir, and I endeavor to fulfill my Sire’s command, but it is strenuous work.  Hence I have launched numerous initiatives to the task, yielding precious hours of sleep to the cause.”

“Methinks thou dost complain in jest.”  Demetrius attempted to return the parchment, but Arucard indicated otherwise, so Demetrius handed it to Aristide.  “I take it thither art more notes?”

“Aye.”  Arucard nodded and revealed the two previous dispatches.  “The first was given to my wife on the day we departed London.”

“The earl threatens his own daughter?”  With an expression of unmistakable disgust, Aristide grimaced.  “Dost thou believe he would hurt her?  Although Lady Isolde is a fine woman, mayhap she is involved in the scheme, and the warning is intended to divert thee from the obvious.”

“Nay, it is not possible.”  The mere suggestion incited anger, but Arucard took no offense, as Aristide knew not the depth of her suffering.  “Her heart is pure.”

“How dost thou know for certain?”  Geoffrey scanned the original letter.  “Thou hast known her but a short length of time.”

“She fears her father,” Arucard replied, as he pondered her wounds, which had at long last healed.  Yet the invisible injuries plagued her still, and she often woke him with screams of terror, quieting only when he held her.  “And with good reason.”

“I saw her that night in thy tent, after the battle with de Cadby and his men.  I apologize, brother, but she was unclothed, as she sat in thy lap, and I could not help but notice the scars.”  Rubbing his neck, Demetrius sighed.  “Did the earl do that to her back?”

“Aye.”  How was it the simple acknowledgment of Isolde’s hardship, the whole of which occurred prior to their acquaintance and nuptials, managed to hurt him?  “He abused her for much of her life, and she is terrified of him.  And despite what the earl hath done to her, she frets for my safety.  Believe me, she owes him no allegiance.”

Morgan arched a brow, and Demetrius said, “The man beat her to the extent she is forever marked, and it sickens my stomach to think any father could visit such brutality upon his child.”

“Art thou talking a few lashes with a belt?”  Geoffrey appeared skeptical.  “Perchance the earl disciplined Lady Isolde and naught more.”

“What I witnessed is not the result of discipline, as her flesh is disfigured from shoulder to shoulder and down to her waist.”  Demetrius wiped his forehead.  “Conjure thy worst imagining and then double it.  Never have I seen anything so hideous, and I find it a testament to her character and admirable she survived, given we discuss a gentlewoman, which makes it far worse in my humble estimation.”

“Christ’s bones.”  Morgan blinked.  “What dost thou intend?”

“We must defend her, at all costs.”  Considering the options, Arucard formulated a strategy.  “First, I would send word of the burgage plots and the earl’s suspected involvement and conspiracy with Juraj de Mravec, which seems construed to implicate the Crown in the land thefts and undermine the King’s authority in the region.”

“And what of the earl’s queries regarding thy background and fortune?”  After a quick check of the vicinity, Aristide gathered the letters and stacked them in a pile at the center of the table.  “We cannot permit anyone to know of our history, as we could still end up burning at the stake.”

“Isolde is aware of my affiliations, and she would never betray my confidence.”  Arucard braced for their reaction, as his confession revealed their connections, too.  “But she is my wife, and I could not keep it from her, after she shared her secrets.”

“Arucard is right.”  The voice of reason, Demetrius stretched his arms.  “Lady Isolde is our family, and we will sacrifice our lives to save hers, if necessary.”  Then he extended his hand, palm down.  “For King and Country we stand.”

Together, the men followed suit, one atop the other, forming their customary bond forged of flesh, blood, and bone.  In unison, they stated, “For love and comradeship we live.”

“Oh, my.”  Clutching a pile of folded cloth to her bosom, Isolde peered at Arucard.  “My lord, have I interrupted something of significance?”

“Nay, my lady.”  With a smile, Arucard stood, as did the Brethren, and he walked to her side and slipped an arm about her waist.  “We were just discussing thy brewets, as we can smell them from the kitchen.”

“As Sir Demetrius and Sir Geoffrey favor them, I asked the cook to prepare a special batch.  And for Sir Morgan, thither is bream and eel pasties.”  How she beamed beneath his praise, and the now familiar but unsettling sensation, which he had come to anticipate every time she entered the room, built in his chest.  Then she dipped her chin.  “And good morrow, to all.”

Morgan furrowed his brow.  “But it is past the—oomph.”  The youngest Nautionnier knight winced, when Demetrius elbowed Morgan in the ribs.

“Good morrow, my lady.”  Aristide bowed.  “And thank ye, for the excellent mend to my breeches.  Thy sewing skills art such that I cannot locate the original tear.”

“That is because it was to thy arse.”  Geoffrey rolled his eyes.  “Must thou wear thy garb so tight?”

“Mayhap he hath not much to stow.”  Demetrius smirked.  “Else he might injure something of value.”

“Art thou not the wit?”  With a scowl, Aristide smacked a fist to a palm.  “Perchance I shall teach thee some manners on the practice field.”

“Prithee, do not argue.”  As they quieted, Isolde approached Morgan.  “I completed thy tunics, to thy request.”  And then she addressed Geoffrey.  “And thou hast four new sets of hose and braies.”  To Demetrius, she said, “Per thy charge, I fashioned a sack, of sorts, to hold thy various small weapons and appurtenances, and thither is five, one for each knight.  Thou canst attach it to thy saddle, using the ties on the back.  I hope thee dost find it serviceable.”

“My lady, thou art too kind.”  When Demetrius met Arucard’s stare, he nodded and then dropped to a knee.  Together, the other Brethren knelt and pressed a clenched fist over their heart.  “On my honor, if called upon, I shall give my life for thine.”

With immense pride, Arucard studied his friends, as they pledged fealty to his wife, which she had won in honest trade.

“Sir Demetrius, they art but a few garments.”  She opened her mouth and then closed it.  “Never would I exact so high a price in return.”

“Because thou art a fine woman, thou would never take advantage, but I would protect thee, nonetheless.”  After regaining his feet, Demetrius bowed.  “Come, brothers.  I am interested in the manners Aristide doth claim to possess and would commence the instruction.”

“Oh, thou art itching for a bruising, brother.”  Aristide chucked Demetrius in the shoulder.  “And I am the man to deliver it.”

The jokes continued until they exited the great hall.  Alone with his bride, Arucard pondered how to reveal the most recent letter and its contents.  Were it possible, he would spare her the details, as she had suffered enough.

“Thou hast heard from father.”  It was then he noticed she had retrieved the missive from the table.  In minutes, she scanned the parchment and then glanced at him, her distress evident in her tear-filled gaze.  “I will not do it.  I will not aid my father’s schemes, even in play.  And I will never leave thee.”  Then she flung herself at him, hugging him tight at the waist.  As the first drop of moisture coursed her cheek, she beckoned, and he kissed her.  “Arucard, thou art…I am so…it is such that I cannot describe…oh, dost thou feel it, too?”

“Aye, I feel it.”  Without doubt, he knew to what she referred, and he could manage it no better.  “Honey flower, thy safety is my chief concern.”

“And thy neck is mine.”  Resting her head to his chest, she sobbed, and he cradled her in his grasp.  “Wherefore will my father not let us live in peace?  Wherefore must he ruin everything?  Have I not paid his penance a thousand times over?  Hath he not exacted his revenge upon me?  Am I not absolved?  Am I not entitled to a measure of happiness?  Am I not permitted to dream?”

Her torment, raw in its intensity, cut to his core, and he could not bear it.  In an instant, he silenced her the best way he knew how, with his lips.  Summoning the patience of a saint, he tasted her slowly, savoring her soft flesh, until she joined the dance and relaxed in his embrace.  “Come to our chambers, whither I shall feed thy desire, and we might take comfort in shared pleasure.”

“But I should see to the midday meal.”  As he nibbled her ear, she gasped.  “And what of thy weapons practice?”

“Sweet Isolde, it is well past the noon hour.  Thither is only one sword I would wield with thee, to our mutual gratification.”  And then it struck him—the hunger he could neither control nor deny, as he still had not mastered it.  It dawned on him in that precise moment he cared for her beyond the bonds of friendship, and the realization unnerved him.  Before she could protest, he bent and scooped her into his arms.  “Now let us seek solace in our bodies.”

#

It was the first dawn of a new day, absent the sun, Isolde could recall enjoying in more than a month, as grey clouds blanketed the sky, and light snow dusted the courtyard below.  Fluffing the pillows, she tucked the covers beneath the cushions and then strolled into the solar, just as Arucard, carrying a tray, returned to their chambers.

“Good morrow, honey flower.”  Every time he looked upon her, his gaze softened, and a shiver of delight traipsed her spine.  “Wherefore art thou out of bed, as I rode thee hard, and thou dost require time to recover.”

“But I am accustomed to thy naughty games, my champion.”  Then she noticed the subtle strain in his expression.  “What is wrong?  What troubles thee?”

“Am I that obvious?”  As he set the tray on the table, he frowned.  “I brought thee some tea, bread, and a sop, as thou hast worked up an appetite.”

“Thou art thoughtful.”  When he sat, she strolled to a position beside him and arched her brow.  Without a word, he scooted back, slapped his thigh, and steadied her as she eased to his lap.  Cupping his cheek, she kissed him.  For a long while, they indulged in the exquisite communion of flesh, and it never ceased to amaze her how gentle he handled her, when he could crush her like a twig.  “Given I am thy mate, thou could never hide anything from me.”

“Thou dost distract me, my lady.”  As was his way, he caressed her bottom.  “Shall I feed thee?”

“I would like that, very much.”  Again she could not escape the sense that something was amiss.  “Wilt thou not share thy concerns with thy wife?”

“It is an unpleasant matter, and I cherish thy smile, which I would not diminish with my news.”  After tearing off a piece of bread, he dipped it into the sop and then brought it to her mouth, which she accepted.  “But the time has come to take action against thy father and de Mravec.”

“What hast thou planned?” she asked between bites.  “Wherefore art thou hesitant to share thy burden?”

“Because I must detail thy father’s involvement, and the consequences could be dire for him and thy brother.”  Arucard pressed his lips to her forehead and then tipped her chin to meet her gaze.  “In order to establish thy innocence, I must apprise His Majesty of thy ill treatment, thy wounds, and thy correspondence from thy father, as he threatens thee in each letter.  With the statements taken from the injured landowners, and thy missives, I would send Demetrius to London, with all due haste.  Without thy proof of the crimes committed against the citizenry, it is my word against thy father’s.  Dost thou understand the urgency?”

“Of course.”  Then she realized the source of his discomfit, inched from his hold, and strolled into the inner chamber.  Lifting the bottom right corner of the mattress, she retrieved the bundled parchments.  When she returned to the solar, she recovered her place in his lap and surrendered the evidence he required.  “My lord, what is mine is thine.”

“Dost thou trust me with thy fate?”  He swallowed hard.

“Aye.”  Resolved to stand with her husband against her father’s treachery, she discovered renewed strength such as she had never known, which quashed any lingering fears.  “As always, I am at thy command, my champion.”

“Mayhap we can compose a joint entreaty, if thou wilt sign it.”  When she framed his face, he heaved a sigh.  “Isolde, if thither were any means available to keep thee from the conflict, know that I would employ it.  But thy father has left me little choice, given his letters, and I must confront thy involvement and explain thy unwilling and minimal participation in the scheme.”

“Then I shall affix my name to thy cause.”  Riding a wave of conviction, she rebuked her father’s claim on her loyalties.  “As thou hast promised to defend me, I would defend thee.”

“Hast thou so much faith in me?”  He appeared so earnest she had not the heart to tease him.  “Dost thou believe in me?”

“Yea, my lord.”  Only a month ago, Isolde had no reason to believe in anyone or anything, and now she clung to hope for a future she never dared imagine, and Arucard had given her that—hope.  And she gloried in it.  “I doubt thee not.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER TEN

“Hast thou everything thou dost require for the journey?”  Arucard tied another blanket to the back of Demetrius’s saddle.  “And Isolde packed a substantial amount of thy favorite fare.”

“Brother, thou art more nervous than a virgin on her wedding night.”  As he mounted his destrier, Demetrius chuckled.  “Calm thyself.”

“And what would thee know of such things?”  The momentary levity did much to lighten the mood, but the focus quickly returned to his brother’s departure, as he sent his friend into the lion’s den and could only pray he survived unscathed.  “Hast thou stowed the letters in a protected place, as thou must not lose them?”

“Cease thy worry, old woman.”  A cold November wind caught the folds of his wool cloak, and Demetrius adjusted the ermine collar.  “I have my marshalsea and my sword, and we will ride hard until we reach His Majesty, wherein I shall plead thy cause with thy right and true evidence.”  Then he reached with his hand, which Arucard accepted in friendship.  “Take care, good sirrah.  Until we meet again.”

“And I would have thee do the same.”  The rough weather boded ill tidings, as Arucard stepped back and saluted, but he had no choice in the matter.  “I know not what thee can expect to find in the palace of Westminster, but I would not lose thee, if it can be helped.”

“In that we can agree.”  As he drew rein, Demetrius dipped his chin and then heeled the flanks of his horse.  In mere minutes, he traversed the first and then the second bridge, with his man in tow.

“Close the gates.”  After securing the entries to the castle, he sought Pellier.  “I want three watches to rotate on the wall and the gatehouses must be staffed, at all times.  And assign the archers to overlapping duties.  Make sure the barbican is ready to defend against an assault, and devise a secret word or phrase of thy choosing, which any party must know to gain admittance.  And Lady Isolde must have a full escort if she ventures forth for any reason, unless I am with her.”  Then he snapped his fingers.  “Wait, my wife is not to travel beyond these confines without me.”

“Aye, sir.”  Pellier nodded and rushed to the garrison.

“What is thy worry, brother?”  With a countenance of confusion, Aristide folded his arms and snorted.  “What dost thou fear, as thou dost fear naught?”

“I know not, and that is what troubles me.”  Scanning the immediate vicinity, he assessed the castle from a new perspective.  As a Templar, his tasks were marked by a clearly defined goal in conflict with an equally obvious adversary, on familiar territory.  In England, he knew not of hidden dangers.  A battle-hardened warrior, he dreaded not Rochester or his soldiers.  Indeed, the earl could not hurt Arucard, unless the bastard struck Isolde.  The mere thought of his wife in peril was enough to summon the bitterness of anger he had always managed with ease.  “And I must ensure Isolde’s safety.  That is enough to inspire concern.”

Not to mention he had yet to examine the strange sensations associated with his wife.

Something about her mere presence called to him, woke the hunger impossible to satisfy, and drove him to the brink of insanity for want of her.  And just when he thought he had sated his craving, it prospered anew, and he sought her sweet body at all hours of the day and night.  To her credit, she never denied him, and that knowledge, alone, lured him into her arms.  Her steadfast acceptance was a humbling prospect, which fostered a powerful attachment he could not quite understand.

“Thou dost care for her.”  With an expression of bewilderment, Aristide cleared his throat.  “And thy feelings extend beyond friendship.”

“I know not what I harbor for my lady.”  Yet he spent countless minutes in contemplation of their union, their commitment, and their marriage bed and had formulated no clear conclusion, as the matter was out of his depth.  “But I will not deny a fondness I can neither comprehend nor explain.”

“So thou art content in thy marriage?”  Geoffrey appeared to Arucard’s left.  “As we art curious.”

“And Demetrius threatened to remove our tongues if we asked ye.”  Shameless as usual, Morgan winked.  “Does thy wife gratify thee between the sheets?”

“Do not disparage Lady Isolde, else I shall fulfill Demetrius’s pledge.”  Then he spied his bride, strolling from the servant’s quarters, with Margery in tow, and the peculiar but pleasant warmth sparked in his belly and spread to his limbs, enveloping him in the glow of her beguiling visage.  “But she intrigues me like no other.”

“So thou would recommend the marital state?” inquired Aristide.  “Because we suspect the King will require us to wed, too.”

“I cannot speak for His Majesty or to his plans, as I am not privy to the inner workings of the Realm.”  Although the Crown had indicated the Brethren would be similarly matched, Arucard would cross that bridge, as must needs.  For the time being, he would not presume to know the Sire’s mind, as situations changed.  “But if thou art so fortunate to gain such a mate as my Isolde, then thou art truly blessed, for she is an estimable lady.”

“And what of the female form?”  Now Geoffrey blushed, and Arucard could not stifle a snort of laughter, as he knew well what his friend referenced.  “As never have we looked on a naked woman, excepting in paintings, and I am not convinced that will suffice, when it comes to the performance of husbandly obligations.”

Oh, there was much Arucard could say, in that respect.

“Take pity on us, brother.”  Morgan shuffled his feet.  “After all, how didst thee fare on thy wedding night?”

In an instant, he remembered Isolde’s brief but stunning attack with the halberd, and he chuckled.  “Verily, it was not what I expected.”  And that was an understatement.  “But I vow to counsel thee, if thou art called upon to make the same sacrifice.”

“Is that what I am—thy sacrifice?”  The Brethren parted to reveal Isolde, arching a brow, standing with her arms folded, and tapping her slippered foot.  “Oh, but I am crushed.”

And then his fellow Nautionnier knights scattered like leaves in the wind and abandoned him to his bride.

“Er, it was but a harmless manner of speaking, my lady.”  Then he noticed her playful grin and relaxed.  “Perchance it is an accurate description, as I surrender to thee every night.”

“Thou art so romantic, my champion.”  When she rocked on her heels and clucked her tongue, he pulled her close for a hug.  “Hither I thought I surrendered to thee.”

“Mayhap we could take turns.”  As she embraced him about his waist and burrowed beneath his cloak, he pulled the wool folds over her and kissed her forehead.  “Thou dost distract me, honey flower.”

“I hope to do more than that, as the guest accommodations art ready for inspection, and I wondered if thou might assist me?  We should ensure the bed frame is sturdy, and I know of a tried and true method to test it.”  Splaying her fingers across his tunic, she nudged him with her hips.  For the past sennight, they had initiated a game, of sorts, wherein they made love in various rooms and chambers in the castle.  “Unless thou hast a prior occupation of greater importance.”

Ah, he would inspect something, all right.

“My lady, I am at thy service.”  Then he bent and flung her over his shoulder, and she shrieked.  “And I intend to submit the mattress and supporting ropes to a rigorous examination.”

#

A light rain fell on a dreary morrow, as the wind whistled and howled beyond the walls of the bedchamber, and Isolde cuddled closer to Arucard, after a prolonged round of lovemaking.  Ever since Demetrius’s departure, some four days ago, her knight’s demands had grown more desperate than usual, and she had not the strength to dismiss him, so she indulged her husband whenever he beckoned.  Given his suspicions, in regard to her father, their private time became far more precious, and she considered their marital activities a chance to deepen their intimacy.

As he traced circles on a particular part of her anatomy, she giggled.  “Thou art hungry, my lord.”

“Thy bottom is a wonder to behold.”  To her surprise, he flipped her onto her belly and drew back the covers.  Had he ever given her reason, she would have been ashamed of her scarred flesh, but never had he mentioned it.  Then he nipped her skin, and she squealed.  “It is soft, yet firm, and deliciously round.”  When he tickled her sides, she bucked.  “Yield.”

“Nay.”  An ensuing match proved entertaining, as they tangled amid the sheets, and just as the situation grew serious, and all levity ceased, someone knocked at the door.

“Great bleeding balls of frustration.”  Stomping from their bed, Arucard glanced about the floor, located his robe, and shrugged into it.  “Thither who goes?”

“Pellier, sir.”  The muffled call came from the hall.

Raking his fingers through his hair, her husband glanced at her and winked.  “Whither thou art, thou shalt remain, as I will return.”

Encouraged by the promise in his heated expression, she stretched long.  “Do not make me wait too long, my lord.”

“Admit it, thou art a sorceress.”  For a scarce second, he gazed at her.  Then he bent, planted his palms at either side of her head, and kissed her.  “And I am thy willing devotee.”

Alone in their inner sanctum, she drew the sheets to her chin, wiggled her toes, and sighed.  From her earliest childhood memories, Isolde had nurtured dreams of a knight in shining armor, riding to her rescue, but none had ever taken hold as she had spent so many years in isolation and loneliness, and so Arucard manifested her salvation.  Studying the intricate woodwork on the ceiling, she hugged herself and dared aspire to new possibilities, as she yearned to bear his child.

After a few minutes, she sat upright.  “Arucard, whither art thou?”

When he did not respond, she flung aside the blankets, jumped from the mattress, foraged for her nightgown, which she rarely used because her husband preferred her naked, pulled the garment over her head, cracked open the door, and peered into the solar.  To her surprise, she discovered him situated before the window that featured a view of the courtyard.  As he did not acknowledge her, she moved to a position behind him and wound her arms about his waist.  With her cheek pressed to his back, she squeezed him.

“Something has gone very wrong.”  In an instant, he covered her hands with his.  “His Majesty demands I report for questioning, in person.”

“But that is a good thing, as thou canst plead thy case directly to the Crown.”  When he turned and faced her, she noted the strain at the corners of his blue eyes.  “Thou dost make too much of the Sovereign’s request.  What does Sir Demetrius say on the matter?”

“I know not, as he remains a guest of the King.”  Now she understood her husband’s concern, and fear blossomed in the pit of her belly.  “And that is what troubles me, as thither is no reason to hold Demetrius, unless—”

“—Thou dost stand accused.”  Trepidation grew in epic proportions, and she shivered as she pondered the possibilities.  “Whither dost thou depart for London?”

“That is another interesting bit of information.”  Heaving a sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck.  “His Majesty and his forces art camped just south of Guildford, which does not bode well, and I cannot escape the belief, however misplaced, that the Brethren and I ride into a trap.”

“How soon must thou report?”  In haste, she formed an imaginary list of items to complete before they commenced their journey.

“According to the King’s messenger, with all due expediency.”  After claiming a quick kiss, Arucard strode into their bedchamber and doffed his robe.  “Thus I travel, at once.”

Disappointed they would not finish what they started, Isolde followed in his wake.  In quiet, they washed and garbed themselves for the day’s events, and while naught was spoken, much was conveyed in the occasional glance and brief touch.  And then they came together for another tender kiss, which struck her as a subtle farewell, for some odd reason, and they emerged from their shared sanctuary.  Thus her heart weighed heavy when she entered the kitchens, in search of Margery.

“How long dost thou expect to be gone?”  The steward sampled a dish and wrinkled her nose.  “Needs more salt.”

“That I know not.”  Isolde selected various dried foods to be packed for the journey.  “But I charge thee with the upkeep of Chichester Castle, in my absence.”

“Aye, my lady.”  Snapping her fingers, Margery summoned the scullery maid.  “Anne, prepare Lady Isolde’s trunk, and air the navy wool cotehardie and matching cloak.”

“Aye.”  The young woman, boasting her usual dirty cheeks and disheveled appearance, curtseyed.

“Make sure thither is plenty of food, as the knights have large appetites, and we have an additional mouth to feed.”  Despite Arucard’s anxiety, Isolde vowed it was all for naught, as the King would not act without cause; at least, that is what she kept telling herself.  Given her husband was innocent, what had she to fear?  “And stow the brewets, as they travel well, and I anticipate Sir Demetrius will be glad of them.”

“Doth my lady require anything else?”  As she had on so many previous occasions, Margery smoothed a lock of hair from Isolde’s forehead.  “Mayhap thou should rest until it is time to depart.”

“Nay, as thither is too much to be done, but I shall prepare Sir Arucard’s belongings.”  And so Isolde returned to her chambers and organized her husband’s personal items with care.  When he appeared, with a stranger in tow, she walked into the solar.  “We art almost ready, my lord.  And Margery bundles suitable sustenance for our party.”

“Thank ye, my lady.  Allow me to present the King’s messenger and sergeant, Briarus.”  Her husband stepped aside, and a young and handsome soldier bowed.  “And I would ask a favor, which would aid our cause, if thou wilt but cooperate.”

“It is my great pleasure to meet thee, Lady Isolde.”  With twinkling amber eyes and flaxen hair, the soldier cast a kind smile.  “I have heard many complimentary things about ye.”

“Thank ye, Briarus.  If ye would but make thy request, I am at thy service.”  Curious, she set down her swaddled clothing.  “What would thou have of me?”

“Forgive me, Isolde.”  Something in her husband’s tone and countenance gave her pause, as he approached and rested his palms to her shoulders.  “I have told Briarus of thy wounds suffered at the hands of thy father, but it would strengthen our argument if—”

“Wilt thou untie my laces?”  Despite her embarrassment, she understood what he asked of her, so she gave Arucard her back, as she knew well his intentions, and she would not balk.  In silence, he loosened her garment, and then she tugged on the ribbon of her chemise and shrugged free.

“Wait.”  Arucard turned her to face him, drawing her arms about his waist, and she pressed her cheek to his chest as he inched her gown to her hips.  “Canst thou see what violence the earl hath wrought upon my wife?”

The cool air teased her flesh, and she shivered.  On display for a stranger, she fought tears of humiliation but relaxed, when her knight kissed her temple.  “I pray thou art satisfied, sir.”

“By Christ’s blood, that is not how I would describe what I have just witnessed.”  Briarus cleared his throat.  “I beg thy pardon, Lady Isolde.  Prithee, know it was not my purpose to shame thee, as thou art without blame.”

“Thou art brave, my lady.”  Once Arucard righted her gown, he framed her jaw.  “I am so proud of thee.”

“Praise, indeed.”  Just like that, he relieved a burden she had long carried as a defect.

“Sir Arucard, everything is in order, per thy charge.”  Pellier loomed in the hall.  “Shall I collect thy trunk?”

“Aye.”  He nodded.  “If thou wilt permit me a moment in private with my wife, I would make my farewells.”

“What—wait.”  Panic crushed her in its invisible clutch, as Briarus and Pellier made a hasty exit.  “But I journey with thee.  Wherefore would thou bid farewell?”

“Isolde, the battlefield is no place for a woman and most especially my wife.”  Arucard ushered her to the table, sat on the bench, and then pulled her into his lap, and she dreaded his next words.  “Even now, thou mayest carry our babe, and I will not risk thy most precious life.”

“Didst thou not promise to defend me?  Thou must take me with thee.”  Now she wept openly, and she suppressed none of her misery at the prospect of his withdrawal without her.  “How canst thou protect me if we art apart?  Art thou not my champion?”

“But thou hast no need of me, if thou dost remain at Chichester Castle.”  As she sobbed, he hugged her tight and rocked, to and fro, in a gentle rhythm.  “Thou art safe within these walls, my honey flower.  And with thee secure hither, I can focus on the task, convince His Majesty of thy father’s guilt, and establish thy innocence.”

“And thou cannot do so if I am with thee?” she inquired in a small voice.  “As I cannot bear to be separated from thee.  Hast thou not proclaimed we art stronger together?”

“Somehow, I knew thee would make this difficult.”  Arucard tipped her chin and brought her gaze to his.  “Sweet Isolde, if I am to gain thy independence from thy father and his schemes, I must ride without distractions, and thy very presence captivates me, such that I can concentrate on little but thy alluring body.  Pray, wilt thou remain hither, for me, so I might do my duty?  Wilt thou cooperate because I ask it of thee?  And the sooner I succeed in my endeavor, to our mutual benefit, the sooner I will venture home to thy cherished embrace.”

“Thou dost make it quite impossible to deny thee.”  She sniffed, even as he dried her face.  “Yet I will obey, as I pledged to do so before the archbishop, but I am not happy, as I believe naught good can come of our estrangement, however brief, and I beg thee to reconsider.”  In desperation, she grasped his tunic.  “Arucard, I beseech ye, do not leave me, as I dread what might happen in thy absence.”

“God’s bones, woman, art thou blind?”  When he barked, she flinched, and he groaned.  “How can I make thee understand my position?”  Then he sighed, speared his fingers in the hair at her nape, and held her tight.  “At dawn, I force myself from our bed, as I would not relinquish ye, and I count the hours until we retire, and I lie between thy sumptuous thighs.  When thou art not at my side, I wonder whither art thou, and I search for thee until I find ye.  And even after I claim thy enchanting blossom, my first thought is how I desire thee again. The simple fact is I care for thee—too much, and all I want to do is make love to thee, when thou art near.”

“Oh, my lord.”  Stunned by his admission, however graceless, her heart rejoiced, and she collapsed against him.  “I care for thee, too.”

“If that is true, then do as I say, and stay hither, whither I am assured of thy wellbeing.”  Cradling her head, he nuzzled her neck and then suckled her earlobe.  “And upon my return, I would have thy promise to welcome me in the courtyard, wearing naught but thy arresting smile, a cloak, and thy slippers, as I would have thee naked and in our bed with the least amount of impediments.”

Then he kissed her—hard.

Hand in hand, with nary a word spoken between them, they walked to the courtyard; whither they shared a final hug, and something within her fractured in that instant.  “I bid ye an unadventurous and boring journey, my lord.”  Then she perched on her toes and whispered, “Prithee, come back to me.  Remember, thou art my champion.”

“And thou art my honey flower,” he replied in a low tone.  “And I miss thee already.”

As a cold wind penetrated her cotehardie, she shuddered, and he released her.  Without so much as a backward glance, he mounted his destrier, grasped the reins, and charged the main gatehouse and the barbican.  In that second, Isolde realized thither was naught sadder than the ever-growing distance as a loved one rode away.

It dawned on her then that she loved her husband.

Breaking into a run, she called after him, but he navigated the first bridge, and the soldiers drew the traverse.  So she rushed the garrison, flew up the stone steps, and hurried along the top of the curtain wall to the northwest tower.  From the crenellated rooftop, she stood as a sentry until she could no longer distinguish her husband’s traveling party.  Shielding her eyes from the pelting raindrops, she sent him well wishes for a safe and prosperous journey.

For some reason Isolde could not fathom, she could not escape the nagging suspicion that all was not as it appeared, but she prayed her fears were unfounded and her knight would survive.  With one last survey of the landscape, she closed her eyes and sent him an oath, as a shield against danger, on the chilly fall breeze, and willed him to hear her.  “Arucard, I love thee.”

#

After two days on the road, and as many sleepless nights, Arucard exited his tent and admired the pale watercolors that streaked the morrow sky.  Isolde favored dawn, and often they rose from their bed, naked and wrapped only in a blanket, to stand before the east facing windows of the solar and delight in the sunrise.  In that moment, he wondered if she shared the view, and he ached for her.

He missed her soft and inviting body splayed beneath his, her warmth as she cuddled to his side, and her cries of bliss as he pleasured her.  He yearned for the reassurance of her steady heartbeat, the rush of her breath to his flesh, and the enchantment of her tender touch.

Despite years of service, battles, and hardship, he realized he had known no true suffering until he left his wife in Chichester.  Invested with quiet and unassuming strength, Isolde had become indispensable, a significant part of his existence, and he relied on her sage opinions for guidance.  Her absence, marked by palpable emptiness, rendered him at a loss, as a ship adrift without an anchor, and he struggled with uncharacteristic and unappreciated doubt.

Without her, to his frustration, he questioned everything.

“So how long hast thou been in love with thy wife?”

Arucard snapped to attention, and Briarus grinned.  His first instinct was to deny the soldier’s assertion.  Instead, he scanned the dew-covered meadow and pondered the possibility, which neither troubled nor frightened him.  “How dost thou know I am thus afflicted, as our acquaintance is new?”

“I suspected as much when thou didst hold thy lady, as thou displayed her wounds, and thou were gentle.”  Slapping his thigh, Briarus snickered.  “But it was thy apology for thy actions that convinced me of thy engaged affection, given no man expresses regret for what must be done unless his heart is fixed.”

“All right.”  Well, that seemed simple enough.

“Hast thou naught more to say on the subject?”  Mouth agape, the sergeant blinked.  “As most men cower in terror at the prospect.”

“What have I to fear?”  He scoffed at the mere thought.  “My wife is the kindest and most compassionate chatelaine, and she cares for me, which she stated prior to my departure.  Indeed, I am fortunate the King chose Isolde for my bride.”

“His Majesty did so in hopes of fostering better relations with the earl of Rochester.”  Shifting his weight, Briarus compressed his lips.  “It is doubtful the Sovereign possessed any knowledge of the violence inflicted upon Lady Isolde or their less than propitious kinship, else he may have selected another.”

“Still, I am grateful for Isolde, and I would explain the circumstances surrounding the burgage plots to the Crown’s satisfaction.”  Yawning, Arucard rubbed the back of his neck.  “And I would have the earl and de Mravec arrested and tried for their crimes against England.”

“Arucard, I must warn thee, as I have come to discern thou art honorable.”  The soldier squared his shoulders.  “Thither art an untold number of schemes poisoning our lands, and His Majesty receives information from various sources, which makes it difficult to trust anyone.  Thou would do well to prepare thy position with concern for details and appreciable facts.”

“Thank ye, Briarus.”  How he wished he had brought Isolde with him, as she would have manifested irrefutable evidence of her father’s evil deeds.  “But His Majesty will see that my cause is right and good.”

“Perchance it is, but I have seen many right and good men die by the executioner’s ax, at His Majesty’s command.”  Briarus chucked Arucard’s arm.  “I would hate to see that happen to thee, as I believe thee to be a loyal servant of the Crown.”

“What dost thou know?  Am I riding into a trap?”  In that instant, a chill of unease traipsed his spine, and he mulled so many outcomes, none of which inspired confidence.  At once, he pondered Isolde.  What would happen to her if he failed?  “Wherefore hath His Majesty held Demetrius?  Is my friend a prisoner?”

“I know naught of Demetrius, except he remains in the royal encampment.”  Thunder rumbled from the south, and Briarus and Arucard turned to discover a storm approaching.  “But only the King holds all the cards in a dangerous game, Sir Arucard.  Thou would do well to guard thyself and thy friends.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A sennight had passed since Arucard’s departure, and Isolde immersed herself in the daily activities associated with running the castle.  Unafraid of hard drudgery and a little dirt or, in the case of the clogged drain in the garrison, a lot of foul-smelling muck, she rolled up her sleeves and joined the household staff in their chores.

“Lady Isolde, how many times must I remind thee, thou art no scullery maid?”  With hands on hips, Margery shook her head and frowned.  “Wherefore art thou scrubbing the buttery floor, when it is Anne’s responsibility?”

“Because she hath failed to remove the mold in the back corner, and I would get it clean.”  Of course, Isolde welcomed the arduous toil, as it kept her mind from wandering.  “And I have naught else to do, as Arucard is gone.”

And that brought her full circle, from the desolation of their massive bed, which seemed empty without her husband, to the brief respite found in onerous labors, to the recollection that at the end of her grind, she would retire alone.  On the thought, she sat on her heels and rested her chin to her chest.

“Oh, my lady, do not cry.”  Margery knelt and placed an arm about Isolde’s shoulders.  “I am sure everything is fine, and Sir Arucard hath been too busy to send word of the situation.”

The simple statement, intended to offer solace, only inspired more anxiety, and she grasped Margery’s sleeve.  “Dost thou think he is injured—or worse?”

“My lady, calm thyself.”  The steward stood and brought Isolde upright.  “Sir Arucard performs the King’s bidding, and he will write thee when he has time.  Until then, thou shalt not work thy fingers to the bone, as his lordship will not be pleased upon his return.”

“Whenever that may be, as I know naught of his homecoming.”  Wiping her hands on her apron, she mulled the condition of the pantry, as she had yet to organize the contents.  Then she yawned.  “Mayhap I should take a nap, as I am rather tired, but I find it difficult to sleep without Arucard at my side.”

“Then I shall make thee a nice pot of tea, to help thee relax.”  As they entered the kitchen, Isolde noted the spilt flour and scattered herbs on the table, but Margery steered for the door to the great hall.  “Leave it, as one of the girls will clean the mess.”

“But I may as well do it, while hither I am and able.”  After locating a cloth, Isolde wiped the numerous food preparation sites, while Margery set a pot of water to boil.  “And how fares thy association with Pellier?”

“Thou dost know of that?”  The steward blushed, and Isolde laughed.  “Ah, he is a foul little man.”  Then Margery smiled.  “Oh, very well.  I find him quite entertaining, and I might even be convinced to marry him if he did not irritate me so much.”

“What art thou carping about now, woman?”  Speak of the devil, and Isolde bit her tongue.  “And thou hadst no complaints in thy chamber, when I stoked the flames in thy hearth.”  When Isolde gasped in shock, he sketched a proper bow.  “Sorry for my indiscretion, my lady.”

“No apologies necessary, Pellier.”  To Margery, Isolde said, “And I believe I will take that nap.”

“Beg thy pardon, Lady Isolde, but I require thy assistance.”  The marshalsea scratched his cheek and shuffled his feet.  “A matter of some urgency requires thy right and good judgment.”

“Have I been remiss in my duties?”  She searched her mind but could seize upon naught she had overlooked.  “Regardless, I am at thy service, Pellier.”

“It is not serious, my lady.”  He ushered her into the great hall, whither a young maid and a soldier from the garrison waited.  “If thou wilt take thy place on the dais, thy approval or disapproval is needed, but first thy servants must plead their cause.”

“I am curious.”  Sitting in her chair, and ignoring the empty space to her right, she reclined.  “How can I help thee?”

“My name is Grimbaud Van Daalen, and I am one of thy lancers, my lady.”  The guard bowed.  “I would humbly ask thy permission to court Miss Isotta.”

Well that was an unforeseen development she never would have predicted, and she knew not how to respond.  Then again, the chatelaine had final say in such affairs involving the staff, absent his lordship, and she could not surrender the decision to another.  So Isolde pondered the one query that would determine her ruling.

Leveling her gaze on the dignified soldier, she cleared her throat.  “Art thou in love, Grimbaud?”

For a few seconds, he appeared to examine her question.  Then he glanced at Isotta and smiled.  “Aye, Lady Isolde.”

How Isolde wished she had declared her engaged affection to Arucard, prior to his departure.  While she admitted she cared for him, and he proclaimed a similar attachment, she did not explain the depth of her regard, and now she feared she might never get the chance.  “And doth Isotta welcome Grimbaud’s suit?”

Without hesitation, the maid nodded and took her beau’s hand.  “I do, my lady.  As I love Grimbaud.”

“Then as chatelaine of Chichester Castle, I hereby grant consent in Sir Arucard’s stead.”  But Isolde wagged a finger in caution.  “However, thou must observe all proscribed strictures in advance of thy wedding.  Treat thy future wife with kindness and respect, Grimbaud.  And I insist we celebrate thy nuptials hither, with a special supper, which I am certain His Lordship would approve.”

“Gramercy, Lady Isolde.”  With a fist pressed to his chest, Grimbaud dipped his chin, and Isotta curtseyed.  “By thy leave.”

“Thou art dismissed.”  When the couple reached the narrow passage that led to the domestic apartments, Grimbaud lifted Isotta into his arms and whirled in circles, and Isolde laughed.  “They seem very happy.”

“My lady, a messenger hath just delivered a letter for thee.”  Pellier charged the dais.  “Mayhap it is news from Sir Arucard.”

“Pray it is so.”  But as she stared at the writing, Isolde flinched, as it was what she dreaded.  “No.”

“Do not tell me it is from the earl.”  Margery swallowed hard.

“Indeed.”  While she preferred to toss the missive into the hearth, and intuition told her to do just that, she could not disregard the threat her father posed.  So Isolde broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, read the note, shuddered, and whispered, “Arucard.”

“My lady, if I may.”  Pellier stepped forward.  “What doth it say?”

Anger—not fear, burned as a steady flame, surged in her veins, and her fingers trembled as she passed Pellier the letter.  Nay, she would not yield, despite her father’s claims to her allegiance.  But a certain aspect of his message rocked the earth beneath her feet.  “According to Father, I need no longer consider myself married.”

#

The royal encampment dotted an otherwise pristine pasture, and a sea of tents bespoke an army of considerable size.  Countless soldiers noted the latest arrivals, which sparked Arucard’s nerves and fighting instincts.  As he rode into what struck him as enemy territory, for some odd reason he could not shake, he assessed the terrain in search of a hasty exit, should the situation merit escape.

“Follow me to His Majesty’s lodging, and I shall announce thee.”  Briarus took the lead.  “The King commands thy immediate audience.”

The Crown’s men closed about the Brethren, as the ocean overtook a sinking ship, enfolding it in a watery grave, and Arucard struggled with the weight of the unsettling scrutiny.  He glanced at Aristide.  “We art popular, brother.”

“Aye.”  Frowning, Aristide nodded once.  “I noticed.  What would thou have us do?”

“Naught, as we are surrounded.”  Every instinct screamed at Arucard to flee, but he had to apprise the King of the earl’s schemes and Isolde’s innocence, so he stayed the course.  “Keep calm, my friend.”

Dismounting, he surrendered his destrier and peered at Geoffrey, who signaled Morgan, who prompted Aristide.  On watch for the slightest attack, they walked the plush rug that disappeared into the large tent embroidered with the royal crest.  Behind him, a maid secured the outer flaps.  Then two servants tied back a partition, revealing a full compliment of armed soldiers, and Arucard unsheathed his sword.

“Lower thy weapon, Sir Arucard.”  Briarus positioned himself between his comrades the Nautionnier knights.  “And stand down, as no lives will be taken today.”

“Brave words from our sergeant, as thy charge hath much to answer for, in light of recent revelations.”  The soldiers parted, and His Majesty perched on a somewhat small throne.  “And what hath Sir Arucard to say for himself, after we saved him from certain death and bestowed upon him our friendship?  How hast thou shown thy appreciation of our benevolence?  Thou hast conspired with our enemies to steal lands and attacked our loyal citizens without our permission.”

“Majesty, I have purloined naught.”  With his sword leveled at the nearest guard’s neck, Arucard poised for battle.  “I sent my man to meet with thee and deliver proof of the earl of Rochester’s evil plans.  And if the Crown references the assault on my caravan, which occurred as my party neared Chichester, it was a misunderstanding brought about by the counterfeit burgage plots.  But I secured sworn testimony to that purpose, which Sir Demetrius was tasked to convey to thee.  Whither is my friend?”

“He is safe, for now, and we shall conduct thy interrogation.”  The King stood and narrowed his stare.  “We have been aware of questionable dealings in Chichester and Winchester for some time, and we dispatched our agents to gain evidence, yet none proved successful.  The previous earl of Sussex connived with a mysterious partner we had yet to discover, but he took that secret to his grave, much to our disappointment.  Then thou didst promise to investigate and bring to justice the unknown villain, and we had high hopes for thee, given thy professed honor and religious beliefs.  Imagine our surprise when we were informed of thy traitorous behavior.”

“I am no traitor.”  Leashing his fury, Arucard rolled his shoulders and chose his words with care.  “Sovereign, I remain thy faithful servant, and any claims to the contrary art false.  While my life is of little significance, and I will not beg for my continued existence, I would plead for the soul of my gentle wife, Lady Isolde, that thou might have mercy on her.  The earl of Rochester schemes with a man named Juraj de Mravec to misappropriate lands thou hast awarded, in order to undermine thy authority in the area and incite revolution.  Lord Rochester hath solicited her involvement, which is minimal, but she fears him on equitable grounds.  She hath born the wrath of her father and his deeds, and I would ask Sire to spare and shield her, in my absence, if thou dost deem it necessary to send me to the hereafter.”

“A noble request, and thy argument is sound.”  The King rubbed his jaw and studied the ground.  “But I have correspondence that implicates thee in the deception.”

“Then I would ask His Majesty to consider the source, as I am unjustly accused and the unworthy recipient of thy ill-founded suspicions.”  And it appeared the earl had struck the first blow, so how could Arucard sway the Sovereign?  What more could he do?  “In fact, thy sergeant can attest to the validity of my statements.”

“Sir Arucard is correct, Sire.”  Briarus glanced at Arucard and nodded.  “I witnessed, with my own eyes, the abuse inflicted upon Lady Isolde.”  Slowly, Briarus detailed the wounds on Isolde’s back, and Arucard recalled holding her, as he bared her twisted flesh.  Again, he ached for her, and he summoned her sweet and reassuring image.  The next thing he knew, the soldiers stowed their weapons.  “My King, I speak honestly when I say I believe Sir Arucard.  If someone hath misled thee, it was with nefarious purposes in mind.”

Tension hung in the air, as the Crown paced.  Arucard gripped the hilt of his sword and tensed, as he remained alert.  At his back, the Brethren shifted.

“Thou art in luck, as we are in a mood to show compassion.”  At last, His Majesty eased to his throne.  “We will seek additional information before we determine thy fate.  Take the Brethren into custody.”

#

It was a cold and dark afternoon, as Isolde assisted Margery and the physic in the herbarium.  A host of illnesses plagued her small community, which the steward declared normal when groups of people were confined to such close quarters, but she permitted no violation of Arucard’s commands.  Per her husband’s orders, no one ventured beyond the walls of Chichester Castle.

Of course, many questioned her continued adherence to Arucard’s demands, given she had received naught of his whereabouts since he departed in November.  But she remained resolute in her responsibilities as chatelaine and kept the bridges drawn.

“We have little horehound, flax, and saffron in store, my lady.  Yet the line of patients only grows.”  The physic examined the clusters of dried plants.  “If the situation remains the same, I will run out of my most critical medicines, unless I am allowed to purchase more provisions, as the early snowfall either damaged or destroyed the new garden in the courtyard before we could harvest what few herbs grew.”

“While I understand thy concerns, and I admire thy dedication to treating our sick and injured, we must abide his lordship’s dictates, until Sir Arucard returns and rescinds the restrictions.”  If only she had some idea when that happy day would occur, and she refused to consider the contrary conclusion.  “In the meantime, we will make do with what we have and tend our people.  Mayhap thou could employ secondary treatments, or devise new remedies.”

“Aye, my lady.”  The physic nodded his assent.  “I will do my best, but I am no miracle worker.”

“My lady, come quickly.”  A soldier wiped his brow.  “The marshalsea requests thy presence in the courtyard.”

“Of course.”  Curious, Isolde wiped her hands on her apron, rushed through the kitchen, ran across the great hall, and pushed ajar the heavy door that led to the open-air square.  To her horror, a slew of soldiers, including a standard-bearer carrying an all too familiar ensign, filled the grand expanse.  “Oh, no.  How can this be?”

“Lady Isolde, I could not stop them.”  Pellier drew her toward the well.  “Young Grimbaud convinced a guard to lower the bridges, that Grimbaud might venture to town and procure a gift for Isotta.  When Grimbaud navigated the first traverse, the earl’s soldiers overtook our lancer.  They threatened to kill Grimbaud if our watch did not open the main gate, so our men relented.”

It was her worst nightmare, as she had yet to respond to her father’s most recent letter.  And her instincts told her that, whatever he was about, he was up to no good.

“Come hither, Pellier.”  She grabbed the marshalsea’s arm and led him to the stables.  Availing herself of the confusion and activity amid the unexpected arrivals, Isolde summoned additional assistance.  To the Master of the Horse, she said, “Hurry.  Thou must saddle our fastest mount, and send thy apprentice to the rear guards to lower the postern bridge, per my directive.”

“My lady, I am at thy service.”  Pellier peered over her shoulder and frowned.  “But if I try to leave the castle, thy father will see me.”

“Not if thou dost exit the rear gate—now.”  As her plan formed and took shape, Isolde attempted to anticipate his needs and clapped twice as Margery, out of breath, stumbled into the stall.  “Return to the kitchen and pack foods that travel well, and make haste.”

“Whither doth Pellier journey?”  Pale, Margery swallowed hard.  “And wherefore hath thy father traveled hither?”

“Anon, I will explain, and I know not my father’s aim.”  Isolde shoved her friend.  “But do not delay, as I suspect my life, and that of Sir Arucard, hangs in the balance.”

“Aye, my lady.”  Margery disappeared as fast as she had appeared.

A shiver of unease danced along her spine, but Isolde shook off the disconcerting sensation and focused her efforts, as now was no time for panic.  She had but a single opportunity to send for help, and if Pellier failed, she might never reunite with her husband again.  When the hand led a stallion into the yard, she wound her arm about Pellier’s.  “Let us stroll, under shield of calamity, to avoid attracting unnecessary attention.”

“My lady, while I shall not challenge thee, I do not like this.”  The marshalsea scowled, as they navigated the throng.  “I am charged with thy safety, and I would not abandon thee to thine enemy.”

“That is thy first mistake, Pellier.”  When they gained the small, unremarkable gatehouse, which blended into the background, to her good fortune, with none the wiser, Isolde uttered a silent prayer of thanks.  “Thou art not abandoning me.  Thou art my lone chance for survival if thou canst locate my husband.”

“I grabbed everything I could find that would not spoil in thy belly.”  Margery conveyed a bundle, which she tied to the saddle.  “Try not to consume it all by dusk, as thou dost eat enough for three.”  Then she sniffed and stared at the ground.  “Take care, Pellier.”

“Woman, thou wilt not be rid of me so easily.”  To Isolde’s surprise, Pellier cupped Margery’s cheek and bestowed upon her a thorough kiss.  “Perchance I might marry thee when I return.”

“Thou should be so blessed.”  The steward smoothed the folds of his cloak and then hugged him.  “If thou dost come back, I will be thy wife.”

“Ah, that alone is reason to fight.”  The ground shook as the drawbridge extended, and he jumped into the saddle, drew rein, and turned the stallion.  To Isolde, he said, “My lady, I will not fail ye.”

“I have faith in ye.”  Isolde clasped hands with Margery.  “Tell Sir Arucard I need him.”

With that, Pellier dipped his chin and charged the traverse.  As soon as he had safely crossed the expanse, Isolde glanced at the guard.  “Raise the bridge.”

“My lady, what shall we do now?” Margery asked, as they returned to the courtyard, which manifested a beehive of activity.

“Ready the guest rooms.”  Her father descended his great black stallion, and Isolde inhaled a calming breath.  “And have the cook prepare pykes in brasey and a mushroom pasty for supper.”

“The earl’s favorite.”  Margery frowned, as he spied them and waved.  “My lady, I will do whatever thou dost require, but I ask ye not to trust his lordship.”

“I know better than that, old friend.  I will see thee at dinner.”  Marching into the breach, Isolde dreaded each consecutive step she took, which brought her closer to her adversary.  With images of Arucard flashing in her mind, she invoked his strength to meet her foe.  “Father, what a lovely surprise.”  The epitome of elegance and refinement, she curtseyed, even as her heart plummeted.  “Welcome to Chichester Castle.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER TWELVE

Two days had passed since the fateful confrontation in the Sovereign’s tent, and Arucard seethed in silence and under guard, as the royal forces marched east.  Despite His Majesty’s promise to keep the Brethren safe from harm, naught was said regarding the length of such hospitality, and Arucard knew too well the dangers of powerful rulers and fickle favor.

“I am so glad I expended considerable worry for thy welfare, as we journeyed hither.”  Aristide snorted and glared at Demetrius.  “As the King’s food and drink poses a dire threat to the size of thy waist.”

“Do not confuse my appetite with indifference, as I am just as concerned as thee.”  Demetrius tossed aside a chicken bone.  “But I see no reason to starve myself, if I am but to die.”

“Thou hast always thought with thy belly.”  Geoffrey kicked over a platter of fruit.  “Dost thou not care for our necks, and what of Lady Isolde?”

“I understand the risks.”  Demetrius shot to his feet and squared off with Geoffrey.  “Dost thou question my honor?”

“What honor?” Aristide inquired.

“Cease thy arguments.”  As their leader, Arucard situated himself in the middle of the fray, as he pondered how long it would take before someone struck a blow.  “We will not do this.  We will not permit anyone to put us at odds, when we art not enemies.”

The misplaced anger did not surprise him, given their close quarters.  Add to that the restlessness of an unknown future, and it was no small wonder his fellow knights had not already clashed.

It was, perchance, for that reason he was infinitely glad of his decision to leave Isolde in Chichester, whither she was safe from harm.  If the worst happened, and he was executed, thither remained the outside chance she would survive the baseless charges.  As long as she lived, all was not lost.

“I am sorry, brother.”  Demetrius extended a hand in camaraderie, which Aristide accepted.  “But the uncertainty of our predicament gnaws at my gut.”

“My apologies.”  With a chuckle, Aristide chucked Demetrius.  “Thou hast always been a nervous eater.”

Arms splayed wide, Geoffrey winked.  “Give us a kiss, pretty one.”

“I am anxious, not crazy.”  Demetrius grimaced.  “And I would sooner have my head separated from my body than kiss thy ugly face.”

“Easy, friend.  Thou mayest yet get thy wish.”  And so Arucard heaved a sigh of relief—until Briarus entered the tent.  “What say ye, sirrah?”

“His Majesty commands thy presence.”  The sergeant bowed.  When Demetrius, Geoffrey, and Aristide loomed behind Arucard, Briarus stated, “My apologies, but only Sir Arucard is summoned.”

“Whither my brother goes, so go I.”  Demetrius stretched to his full height.  “Would thou attack us, one by one?  Art thou a coward?”

“Stand down, men.  Hither thou shalt remain, as I confront the Sire’s judgment.”  Having surrendered his sword, Arucard possessed naught but the strength of his conviction and faith, as he walked to the exit.  At the last second, he peered into the corner and rolled his eyes.  “And someone wake Morgan.”

Outside, he shielded his gaze from the sunlight and noticed the servants and soldiers rushing to dismantle tents, put out fires, and pack the encampment.  To the left, he observed a makeshift pen and the Brethren horses.  Numerous opportunities for escape flashed in his brain, now that he had located their mounts; as the prisoner knights had been transported in a wagon since falling from favor, and he formed a strategy, should a chance at liberty prevail.

In the King’s huge lodging, Arucard discovered no garrison of soldiers.  Instead, only the Sovereign waited.  As customary, Arucard knelt, bowed his head, and pressed a fist to his chest.

“Rise, Sir Arucard.”  As Arucard gained his feet, His Majesty displayed two parchments, one of which he passed to Arucard.  “The burden of rule presents us with a seemingly endless supply of enemies in quest for our throne, and we must depend on our judgment to determine who we can and cannot trust.  We art gratified to learn we can rely upon thee.”

Scanning the contents of the missive, Arucard clenched his teeth and simmered with rage, given the outright lies contained in the document.  “Majesty, on my life, never have I—”

“Keep reading, Sir Arucard.”  The King smiled and then poured two goblets of wine.

As he neared the closing, Arucard paused, sighed in relief, and then chuckled, as the traitor, in his zeal to deflect blame and condemn an innocent, had unwittingly provided too much information and all but heralded his own culpability.  “The earl of Rochester knows naught of my affiliations or my history.”

“And therein lies his downfall.”  His Majesty rubbed his chin and narrowed his stare.  “At the time thou were supposed to have committed thy heinous infractions against our authority, thou were, in fact, our guest in White Tower.  Thus thou could not have perpetrated the crimes of which thou dost stand accused.  And Aeduuard de Cadby supports thy account of the skirmish in Chichester as an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Lord, be praised.”  For the first time since departing Chichester Castle, Arucard relaxed.  “Sire, if I may, I would like to ride for Rochester.”

“Sir Arucard, thither we have journeyed, since thou joined our caravan.”  The revelation stunned Arucard, as the King descended his traveling throne and stretched upright.  “And we would ask our Nautionnier knights to drive ahead, as we art but a day’s ride from thy wife’s childhood home.”

And Arucard could arrest the earl for offenses against the Realm, if not for Isolde’s abuse.  At the prospect, he rejoiced.  “Majesty, it would be my pleasure.”

#

It was just after dawn when Isolde emerged from her chambers, clothed in a green cotehardie and with her hair plaited.  While most homes opted to forgo a morning meal, her father always demanded a sop, bread, and tea, so she prepared the fare, herself, to spare the cook and Margery any complaints.  But she coveted other motives, as she preferred to keep him isolated, in the event her servants divulged precious information that might harm Arucard.  So to avoid any additional protests, she delivered the food.

“Good morrow, Father.”  She set the tray on the bedside table and turned to exit.

“Come in and pull up a chair, chitty-face, as I would have words with thee.”  How she hated it when he called her that, but she would not protest and incite his anger, as she found comfort in his disdain.  Garbed in a robe, he sat at the edge of the mattress and draped a blanket over his legs.  “Wherefore hast thou not answered my last letter?”

“I did not realize it required a response, as thou didst not ask for one.”  Given he thought her dull-witted, she saw no reason to disabuse him of the notion, especially when it aided her cause. So she would play her part to perfection and, mayhap, save her husband.  “Art thou comfortable in thy accommodations?  Is this not a grand castle?  Sir Arucard hath many plans for improvements, we shall purchase new oak benches for the great hall, and I should love to plant roses in the spring.”  Smoothing her skirts, she bounced.  “And dost thou favor my new fashions?”

“Stupid girl, I did not travel hither to discuss the furnishings or thy attire.”  He scowled, as sop trickled down his chin, and she yearned to vomit, but she maintained her false veil.  “What hast thou learned of thy husband’s fortune?  And how hath he earned the King’s favor?”

“I know not, Father.”  She blinked and shrugged, but inside she laughed at his ignorance.  “As Sir Arucard doth not discuss such things in my presence, as I am but a woman.”  It physically hurt to proclaim such a falsehood, given Arucard shared everything with her, but Father would never learn her husband’s secrets from her.  To reinforce her act, she giggled and toyed with the cuff of her sleeve, knowing such behavior would incite him.  “Hast thou admired the tapestries?  Art they not very fine?  And hast thou noticed we have glazed windows?  Is that not a wonder?”

“That thou art my issue is the wonder.”  The ire in his tone left her shaking, as she feared a lashing.  “Get thee gone, as thy mere existence annoys me.”

“Aye, Father.”  He did not know it, but that was just what she wanted—his condescension and dismissal.  If she could fool her father until her husband returned, she would survive.  For good measure, she skipped to the door and added, “Have a lovely day.”

As expected, he didn’t even acknowledge her.  So Isolde returned to the kitchen to plan supper.  But just as she gathered the ingredients for her special herb bread, a soldier approached, and his expression conveyed ill tidings.

“My lady, a visitor is just arrived.”  The guard shuffled his feet.  “He claims an acquaintance with Lord Rochester, and the earl’s men permitted entry, despite our protests.”

“But thou didst make the right choice.”  So many decisions had fallen to her judgment, and never had she foreseen assuming such responsibility prior to her marriage.  And while Arucard had not written, she maintained their home and their people.  Given her father’s troops outnumbered the garrison of Chichester, by a majority of two to one, Isolde had instructed her husband’s soldiers to yield, as she would not risk unnecessary violence.  “Whither is our guest?”

“In the great hall, my lady.”  The young soldier speared his fingers through his hair and sputtered.  “It seems he expects thee to provide lodging.”

“Oh.”  Fear sparked and grew, as she contemplated housing her father’s ally, and she loathed another villain in their midst, but she recalled her position and the power invested therein.  “Then summon Margery and have her prepare an additional chamber.”

“Aye, my lady.”  The guard saluted, and she laughed.

When she entered the primary seat of dining, drinking, and celebrating, she was surprised to find a tall and handsome man waiting.  With the garb of a noble, ebony hair, and foreign features, the stranger gazed on her and smiled.

“Welcome to Chichester Castle.”  She extended her hand, and he bowed and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles.  “I am Lady Isolde de Villiers, the chatelaine.”

“I have heard much of thee, my lady.”  When she attempted to retreat, he squeezed her fingers, and she swallowed her trepidation, lest she panic.  “Thy father neglected to mention thou art beauteous.  Permit me to introduce myself.  I am Juraj de Mravec.”

#

The journey to Rochester had been arduous, given the weather had turned, but Arucard uttered a prayer of thanks when they arrived.  Quaint but rugged, Isolde’s childhood home presented an odd mix of quiet beauty and austere resilience.  A rolling hill hugged the manor house, which was protected by a large ditch at the base of the outer wall.  To his surprise, the lone gatehouse remained open, and he rode into the courtyard with no resistance, just before sunset.  As he studied the natural stone structure that boasted a single crenellated tower, an elderly man and woman emerged from a large entry.

“Good eventide, sir.”  The grey-haired servant bowed.  “I am Hervisse, Lord Rochester’s majordomo.  How may I be of assistance?”

“I am the earl of Sussex and thy master’s son-in-law.”  After descending his destrier, he peered left and then right, as the yard was eerily quiet and empty, which worried him.  “Is Lord Rochester in residence?”

“Nay, my lord.”  Hervisse whispered to the woman, and she curtseyed and then scurried into the house.  “Wilt thou not come inside and take thy ease?”

“Thank ye.”  He was in no mood to partake of the earl’s hospitality, but he cooperated.  To Demetrius, Arucard said, “Search the garrison, the stables, and any other structures.  Report what ye dost find.”

“Aye, brother.” Demetrius signaled the Brethren.

When Arucard strolled into the grand residence, which opened into a massive gallery, he noted numerous paintings of what he presumed were de Tyreswelles past and present, but he failed to locate any portrait of his wife.  While he recognized the earl, the heir, and what he would have guessed was the countess, in light of her resemblance to Isolde, thither were no images of his lady.

“Hither she is not, my lord.”  The bespectacled woman wiped a stray tear from her cheek.  “The earl of Rochester commissioned no renderings of his daughter, the Lady Isolde, God bless her kind spirit.”  Then she drew a handkerchief from her fitchet and daubed her nose.  “If I might infringe on thy generosity, mayest I prevail upon thee to convey my lady’s personal belongings to her?  The earl commanded I destroy Lady Isolde’s things, but I had not the heart to abide his order.”

“Of course, I will transport them to her.”  When she indicated a very small trunk, he frowned.  “Is that all of it?”

“Yea, my lord.”  She bent, unlatched the lock, and lifted the lid.  “My lady never had much, but she never complained.”

Tattered garb bespoke a pauper’s life, not the daughter of a wealthy nobleman, and telltale stains to the chemises betrayed the hardship she suffered long before they married.  A broken comb, a well-worn brush, a bundle of lace-edged squares, and a frayed Bartholomew baby, which inspired a smile, constituted the whole of her existence, and he counted it a precious treasure.  “I will see to it my wife receives the items.”

“My lord, if I may inquire after her health and happiness.”  The old woman clutched her throat.  “And art thou pleased with thy union?”

“Infe, thou must not ask such questions.”  Hervisse grabbed her arm.  “Remain in the kitchen, if thou cannot show proper respect and hold thy tongue.  I apologize, your lordship.”

“Wait, as I am not offended.”  Arucard understood the servant’s concern.  Just as Isolde had won Margery’s loyalty, along with everyone else’s in the castle, she had charmed her former attendants, and he sought to allay their fears.  “My wife was very unhappy with me, when last I saw her, as I departed Chichester without her.  But Isolde counts our steward a friend, as the woman once worked for the earl, so she is not alone.  Mayhap thou art familiar with Margery.”

Infe gave vent to a startling shriek, and Hervisse flinched and then hugged her.  With a watery gaze, the majordomo opened and then closed his mouth.  “Forgive us, Lord Sussex, but Margery is our daughter, and we have had no word of her, since the earl dismissed her from employ.  We knew naught of her fate and feared the worst.”

“Then permit me to reassure thee of Margery’s continued well-being, and she seems a vast deal more than content.”  And after swiping a linen kerchief, he pressed it to his nose and inhaled Isolde’s scent.  “As for my nuptials, I count myself quite fortunate, as I love my bride.”

“Oh, my lord.”  Again, Infe sobbed.  “Thou hast given us a most treasured gift, and we art in thy debt.”

“How can we serve thee?”  Hervisse patted Infe’s cheek and set her aside.  “Wherefore art thou hither?”

“Whither hath Lord Rochester gone?”  Naught seemed as it should, as the home was all but deserted, and he could not shake the unease nestled atop his shoulders.  “Dost thou know of his plans, as it is important that I speak with him?”

“I apologize, my lord.  But the earl never discusses his schedule with us.”  The majordomo closed and refastened Isolde’s trunk.  “However, his lordship’s pursuivant remains in the garrison, as he is young, and Lord Rochester hath no patience for the boy.”

Just then, Demetrius and Aristide charged into the residence, and the expression on Demetrius’s face bespoke trouble.  “Arucard, we know whither the earl hath gone.”

“The news is dreadful, brother.”  Aristide shook his head.  “The earl rides for Chichester.”

Arucard’s gut clenched, his ears rang, and terror struck his heart.  “Isolde.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At the end of another day, Isolde presided over supper, although she had yielded her place of honor at the dais, as her father and his friend de Mravec claimed the positions of prominence.  Yet she would not object to such minor insults, as her father was capable of much worse than what she deemed a mere slight.

“Unhand me.”  Nearby, a maid struggled with an intoxicated and amorous soldier from the Rochester garrison, and the guards of Chichester took note.

“Let go of my servant.”  Before war broke out in the great hall, Isolde addressed the offender.  “Prithee, in this great household, we treat our workers with respect and kindness.  If thou cannot obey our directives, thou canst take thy meals in the stable, with the other animals.”

A full compliment of troops jumped to their feet, but she stood her ground.  To her relief, Grimbaud and the remaining lancers positioned themselves behind her.  Just as it appeared the opposing sides would clash, the Rochesters retreated.  To diffuse the situation, she signaled the minstrel, but before he could commence recitation of his poem, a loud pounding snared the attention of the crowd, and a lull fell on the sea of revelers.

“How dare thee reprimand my men?  In thy husband’s absence, I am the lord of Chichester Castle, and thou wilt obey my commands.”  Her father scowled and then nodded to his sergeant.  “Finish thy sup, and gather thy belongings, as we depart tonight for Winchester under cover of darkness.”

With a sigh of gratitude, Isolde pondered his words, as she had prayed for his departure since he arrived, and she could have shouted her joy from the top of the northwest tower.  To garner the regard of her staff, she clapped once.  “Quickly, we must assist Lord Rochester.  Prepare provisions, pack their things, and saddle their horses”

For the next hour or so, she organized and supervised the activities, as she could not remove the enemy from her home fast enough.  After stowing Father’s trunk, she followed a servant into the courtyard.  With the final items secured, she located Margery.  “Make a thorough search of the premises, as I would leave them no reason to return.”  Then Isolde flagged Grimbaud.  “Ensure the bridges art drawn as soon as the earl’s men have cleared the castle.”

“Yea, my lady.”  The lancer signaled a collective.  “Guard the gates.”

The cold December wind cut through her wool cloak, as she studied the full moon, which cast shadows framed in silvery light on the grounds.  Clutching the folds about her, she whisked aside a stray tendril and tucked it behind her ear.  As always, her thoughts turned to Arucard.  So many nights, she enjoyed the view with her husband after they made love, but nature’s beauty inspired naught more than sorrow, as she yearned for him.

Juraj de Mravec gained his saddle, as did her father, and she mustered a smile.  Beneath the weight of his stare, unusual in its intensity, she shivered.  When he dipped his chin, she made to bid him farewell—just as two soldiers grabbed her.

“What art thou doing?  Release me.”  Kicking and flailing against her would-be captors, she fought hard, dragging her feet in the dirt.  “I order thee to set me free, as I am Lady Isolde of Chichester Castle.”

“Turn loose my lady, thou villain.”  Margery scratched an assaulter, but he struck her in the mouth, and she dropped, unmoving, on her face.

“Bind her,” Father shouted.

“Prithee, no.”  As the soldier wound rope about her wrists, Isolde wrestled with her assailant.  “And what hast thou done to Margery?”

Then the Chichester garrison responded with full weaponry, and the Rochester guards squared off, in a show of hostility.  When Grimbaud advanced, two foes struck him down, but they did not kill him.  Isotta screamed and ran to her beau, and the Chichesters responded with unveiled anger.  The situation rapidly spun out of control, especially when her father issued a dire request.

“Light the torches.”  The earl raised his right hand.  “Once we have evacuated, we shall set fire to the castle and burn its inhabitants herein.”

“Wait.”  After her attacker shoved her atop a horse, Isolde realized resistance constituted an exercise in futility, and she would not allow her people to sacrifice themselves, in vain.  “If I promise to go with thee willingly, and make no attempt at escape, wilt thou spare Chichester Castle and its occupants?”

“Thou dost bargain on behalf of thy citizenry?”  Her father sneered and motioned to his soldiers.  “Thou hast more fortitude than I anticipated, though thou should expend thy worry for thy fate.  Mayhap thou art of my loins, after all.”

“Pray, Father.”  Tasked with the safety of those left in her care, she would not surrender without ensuring their protection.  “Let them live, as they art innocent, and I will cause thee no trouble.  I will do as thou dost ask, and they will not hinder thee.”  She scanned the crowd to impress upon them her pact with the devil.  “Thou hast my word, as chatelaine.”

With a clenched fist pressed to their chest, and sober expressions, the Chichester men nodded their assent, as the women wept.  Slowly, her guards retreated, and two maids rushed to help Margery.

“Very well.”  Father turned his mount, and the dragoons steered for the barbican.  “Rochesters, let us ride.”

With a final survey of her home, which she vowed to see again, Isolde heeled the flanks of her horse and charged into the indigo blanket of night and equally dark uncertainty.

#

The road manifested a lethal combination of muddy ruts and furrows, which slowed the trip to Chichester.  But Arucard pushed hard, leaving behind His Majesty and the royal troops, as the caravan traveled at a snail’s pace.  As a wicked December storm dumped snow on the terrain, the treacherous conditions forced him to break his journey at night, or risk a lame horse, much to his frustration.

A howling gale battered his tent, as he sat upright in his makeshift bed.  Light from a single brazier cast a saffron glow about the small accommodation, and he stretched.  On the other side of the temporary dwelling, Demetrius propped on an elbow.

“Canst thou not sleep, either?”  Arucard rubbed the back of his neck.

“Nay.”  Demetrius fluffed and resituated his pillow.  “I am hungry, as the boiled chicken scarcely dented my empty belly.”

“Wherefore am I not surprised?”  He might have laughed, were he not so worried.  It was an awesome responsibility to care for another, and the sacrament tasked him with Isolde’s welfare.  Yet he could not shake the feeling that he had failed her, and he would not yield until he held her in his arms.  “Would that the sky was clear and the moon high, as I would wake our brothers and drive to Sussex, without stopping.”

“Ah, how I miss Lady Isolde’s brewets.”  Even in the dimness, Arucard noted Demetrius’s flinch.  “Sorry, brother.  I should have said naught.”

“Never should I have left her.”  All manner of torment haunted his conscience, as his nightmares taunted him with images of Isolde in her father’s evil clutch.  No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the unease that had settled as a lead ball in belly.  And a singular refrain played a disturbing melody, as she invoked his name, again and again, as a plea for salvation, which he vowed to answer.  “Never should I have abandoned her, after she begged me to take her with me.”

“At the peril of my own hide, might I suggest thou art weaving unsustainable conclusions based on irrational fears motivated by thy passionate attachment, as thou didst not abandon her?  Thou didst act in her best interest; given the battlefield is no place for a woman, which thou didst correctly assert.  We have no idea what Rochester plans, and our information regarding his land thefts is vague.  Thither is no reason to believe he intends to harm his daughter.”  Demetrius arched a brow.  “Mayhap I will try to rest.”

“Nay, my friend.”  He needed to talk to someone, needed to share the burden he carried; else he might devolve into insanity.  “Something is not right, and I cannot explain my logic, as I understand it not.  But a deep sense of foreboding chills me to the bone, and I know Isolde is in trouble as sure as I know my name.  Do not ask me how I can be certain, as I cannot interpret my instincts—but thou canst attest to the fact that in such instances I am never wrong.”

For a long while, Demetrius said naught, and Arucard presumed his brother slept.

“Arucard, we should get an early start in the morrow.”  With that, Demetrius rolled onto his side.

“A rider approaches.”  The call came from outside, as Morgan stood watch.

In seconds, Arucard leaped from his straw-stuffed mattress, tugged on his boots, grabbed his cloak, and plunged into the tempest, followed by Demetrius.

“Thither who goes?”  He shielded his eyes and just made out the profile of a horse.  “Art thou sure the saddle is occupied, as I see no one.”

“I am not sure.”  Morgan tried but failed to relight his torch in the dwindling campfire.  “But I would rather be safe than sorry.”

The poor beast, with an accumulation of froth about its mouth, trotted into their midst, and it was then Arucard spied the slumped body.  As Geoffrey grabbed the reins, Aristide and Demetrius retrieved the unknown person.  Together, they carried their uninvited guest into Arucard’s tent, whither they put him in Demetrius’s bed.

When they removed the traveler’s hat, Arucard’s gut clenched.  “God’s bones, it is Pellier.”

“Fetch some water.”  Demetrius stripped off the soaked cloak and tunic.  “Arucard, give me thy blanket.”

“Of course.”  As he tucked the cover about his marshalsea, Arucard studied Pellier’s face.

Gaunt in appearance, his flesh showed signs of severe weathering, and his lips were cracked and bleeding.  Arucard wet a cloth and wiped Pellier’s forehead and cheeks, and the marshalsea groaned.

For the next few hours, Arucard anchored at his friend’s side, and Pellier’s incoherent babble interspersed with a mention of Isolde stimulated intense anxiety and endless queries for which Arucard had no answer.  Why had his friend abandoned his post and left Chichester?  What manner of distress sent Pellier in pursuit of Arucard?  As the first hint of dawn streaked the sky in pale yellow, Pellier choked and sputtered.

“Easy, sirrah.”  Supporting his friend’s head, Arucard held a cup of water to Pellier’s mouth.  “Sip slowly.”

“Christ’s blood, art thou trying to kill me?”  With a grimace, Pellier coughed and opened his eyes.  “That is Adam’s ale.  Have ye no beer?”

“I would say he is fine.”  Demetrius chuckled.

After a few minutes, Pellier eased upright and scratched his chin.  As he made to speak, he sneezed and blew his nose on his tunic.  “Sir, I have searched for ye, high and low.”

“To what purpose?”  Arucard braced himself.  “Is it Isolde?”

“Aye, sir.  Her ladyship asks me to tell ye that she needs ye.”  Pellier met Arucard’s stare.  “Lord Rochester hath taken Chichester Castle.”

#

When Father forced her to journey with him, Isolde wondered about his motives, as thither remained no love lost between them, and he had made no secret of his utter disdain for her.  But the answer to her quandary became evident, when he proclaimed his plan to prosecute her for crimes against the citizenry.  In short, she was to shoulder the blame for her sire’s conspiracy, thereby positioning him as Winchester’s savior.

The hasty trial, a mockery of justice, had lasted two days in Winchester, with her father acting as judge and jury.  Pronounced guilty of conspiring with her husband to steal lands, using the counterfeit burgage plots, Isolde was sentenced to a public lashing.  Given she had endured and survived countless such whippings, she accepted the decision with calm confidence.  But what irritated her was Father’s outright refusal to grant her the opportunity to plead her innocence before a crowd that viewed her as the enemy.  And neither was she permitted to defend Arucard.

As she knelt in the corner of her small room, which featured a single bed, a table, a matched set of chairs, and a washstand, she leaned against the wall.  A seemingly harmless drain functioned as a herald, of sorts, as it carried her father’s voice, along with that of Juraj de Mravec, from the chamber below, revealing the details of their nefarious plans.

“Dost thou verily intend to beat thy daughter?” Juraj inquired.  “As I would be willing to enter into a marriage contract to solidify our connections.  Thither is no need for violence.”

The very suggestion struck terror in her heart, as she had a husband she dearly loved.

“Hast thou lost thy mind?”  Father scoffed.  “She must be punished for our ruse to succeed.  If we art to place blame on the Crown, undermine the King’s authority, and win the support of the citizenry, we must sacrifice Isolde on the altar of rebellion.  Trust me, the people want blood, and blood we will give them.”

She expected no less from her father.

“How wilt thou defend against Sir Arucard?”

“Given our most recent communication from thy spies reports he is currently imprisoned by the King, thanks to our fortuitous letter, which inflamed His Majesty’s temper, we need not fear de Villiers.”

In that moment, Isolde bowed her head, bit her lip, shivered, and let the tears flow.  First, she wept for Arucard, as she loved him, yet she had not told him so.  Second, while Father’s intense dislike was naught new, never had she imagined he would subject her husband to such brutality, in his illegitimate quest for power.  In short, thither was no limit to his degeneracy.

“And what of the Lancasters?”

“They will support my son’s ascendance to the throne, and William rallies the troops.  Which begs the question, whither art thy men?”

So Father had involved her brother in the dastardly plot.  Was there no end to his depravity?  Would he not be satisfied until he destroyed their entire family?

“Given the weather hath turned, their departure was delayed.  If thou wilt but wait another day or two, my soldiers should arrive to reinforce thy position.”

“Thou hast thy requisite postponement but no more, as I am anxious to secure Winchester for our mighty cause and celebrate my son’s ascendance to the throne.”

The remainder of their conversation degenerated into a vulgar discussion of women, so Isolde moved to stand by the window, which overlooked the town square.  At center, a platform held a large stake, and she shuddered, as she envisioned what her father intended.  Then she studied the night sky and hugged herself.

Nay, she would not yield, and Arucard would not fall.  He was a good man, and the King would see that.  His Majesty had to see that.

“Oh, Arucard, whither art thou?”  She sniffed and then vowed to fight.  “Thou wilt come for me.  I believe in thee, and I will do so until I die.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

All was not as he had anticipated, and something was most definitely wrong as he soared over the verge.  Evidence of the recent occupation surrounded Chichester Castle, as Arucard noted the remnants of numerous campfires dotting the meadow.  That he expected.  What surprised him was the absence of Lord Rochester’s troops, as it was obvious the earl had departed.

Was it as Demetrius claimed?  Had Arucard worried for naught?  But when both drawbridges lowered before he could offer the secret phrase, which his lady had suggested, permitting a hasty entrance, and the head of the guard rushed forth, Arucard feared the worst.

As he drew rein in the courtyard, he searched for the one person he most wanted to welcome him home, but his wife remained conspicuously absent.  When he spied Margery, and noted the black bruise to her left eye, his anxiety grew by leaps and bounds.

“Whither is Isolde?”  He jumped from the saddle, grabbed Margery, and shook her.  “Whither is my wife?”

“Gone, sir.”  With tears welling, Margery peered over his shoulder and shrieked.  “Pellier.”

“Woman, what happened to thy face?”  The marshalsea dismounted and ran to the steward.  “Who injured thee, as I will slit the bastard’s throat?”

“Oh, thou art my funny little man, and I have missed thy wit.  I am grateful thou art well.”  Then, to his surprise, Margery kissed Pellier, and Arucard envied their reunion.  “Come inside, and I will tell thee everything.”

While his staff celebrated the Brethren’s return, Arucard navigated the crowd gathered to receive him and walked to his chambers, as he was in no mood to socialize.  In the solar, the sitting room had been tidied, but the psalter he gifted his bride on their wedding night sat on the table near the windows, whither she often read.  As he opened the double-door portal to the inner sanctum, he found Isolde’s robe draped across the foot of the bed they shared.

Perched at the edge of the mattress, he caressed the linen garment and then held it to his nose.  Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes and invoked her sweet face, framed by her shimmering smile.  Then her pleas to journey with him filled his ears, as a morbid refrain, and his heart broke.  Never should he have abandoned her.

“Lord Rochester took my lady almost a sennight ago, sir.  He declared an intent to journey to Winchester, but that is all I know, and we have had no word of her, since.”  With an expression of sorrow, Margery loomed in the entry, and Pellier stood to her right.  “The earl threatened to burn the castle, so Lady Isolde made a pact with the devil, himself, to spare us.”

“Of course, she did.”  Oh, he could just imagine his valorous heroine, with her blazing green gaze, her fists clenched at her sides, and her adorable chin thrust high.  With care, he spread her robe whither she left it, as she would want it when he brought her back.  He would not permit himself to think otherwise.  “Pellier, have fresh horses saddled for the Brethren, and pack our armor.”

Pellier clenched his fists.  “Sir, I would go with ye, as—”

“Thou wilt remain hither, and guard this castle with thy life.”  Arucard flipped through his belongings and located a clean tunic.  After washing his face, he shaved.  “How is Grimbaud?”

“Better, sir.  But he blames himself for what happened.”  Margery collected his soiled garment.  “Shall I bring thy meal hither?  Or wilt thou dine in the great hall?”

“I want no food.”  He tossed aside the towel and strode into the narrow passage.  “And it is not his fault, as Rochester would have found a way to invade Chichester Castle, which might have resulted in costly damage to the curtain walls and rendered us vulnerable to additional attacks.”

Various torments plagued his thoughts, as he pondered the tortures the earl might inflict on Isolde.  Of course, naught would have happened to her, had he abided her pleas and taken her with him.  While he had sought to protect her, he had, in fact, delivered her unto the earl and very real danger.  That was a grave mistake he would never repeat.

“Brother, Pellier tells me thou dost intend to ride for Winchester, now.”  With hands on hips, Demetrius frowned.  “We have been traveling for weeks, and thou art not thyself.  Rest and eat.  Can we not take the day to recover, else thou mayest not be fit to rescue Lady Isolde?”

In the vast meeting room, his fellow knights gathered around a large table.  For a hairsbreadth, he considered Demetrius’s suggestion, as the men looked to Arucard for guidance.  But then he recalled her scarred flesh, and he shook his head.  “Isolde may not have another day.”

#

A multitude of angry Winchester citizens lined the street and filled the square, bombarding her with all manner of spoiled food and calling for her death, as Isolde marched to the platform, and the miserable journey seemed never-ending.  With her wrists bound, she lost her balance, as a soldier shoved her up the steps, and she tripped and fell to her knees.

“Beat her.”

“Make her pay.”

“Burn her.”

Clothed only in her linen chemise, hose, and leather calf boots, she shivered as the icy December wind chilled her to the marrow, and her teeth chattered.  In truth, she also shuddered in stark fear.  While she refused to cry, terror struck at her heart, as never had she suffered the unrelenting hatred, however displaced, of so many.

An irate man hit her in the forehead with a rotten egg, and she gagged, bent, and vomited.  In a flash, she wrenched free and lurched to the edge of the morbid stage, of sorts.  “Prithee, people of Winchester, I am innocent of the charges for which I stand accused and convicted.  Thou must believe me.  And Lord Sussex works to restore thy lands—”

A screaming woman launched a gourd, which smashed into Isolde’s nose, knocking her backwards.  The world spun on end, and she teetered but did not fall.

“I will hear no more of thy lies, as thou hast shown by thy disgraceful offenses that thou art without shame.”  Father lorded over her, she spat in his face, and he punched her in the cheek.  For a second, she thought she might faint.  With a scowl, he shoved a rag between her teeth, muting her protests.  Holding a book of prayer, he stretched tall.  “Friends, we art come hither today to dispense justice well deserved for crimes committed by Lady Isolde de Villiers, countess of Sussex, who hath been judged guilty for conspiring with her husband, Arucard de Villiers, earl of Sussex, to deprive the honest and forthright servants of His Majesty of their fortune and legacy.”

Cheers echoed on the shop edifices.

Father nodded, the guards turned her to face the stake, and a soldier lifted her arms to hook the binding at her wrists on a pike that jutted on high.  Raw terror enveloped her, swallowing her whole, and she pledged not to scream.  Father wanted a spectacle, and she would deny him that.  To add to her humiliation, her father used a dagger to cut open the chemise and bare her back.  “Acting as the Crown’s faithful attendant, I sentence Isolde de Villiers to forty lashes.”

Another deafening roar filled her ears.

Focusing on the sky, Isolde uttered a silent prayer for strength, clasped her hands, and braced for the first blow, which always seemed the worst.  For a moment, time stood still, and she held her breath.  Then with the leather whip he thrashed her flesh, and the searing agony, so painfully familiar, invested her.  Again and again, Father scourged her, and adrift in misery she lost count of the blows.  Slowly, her knees failed her, and she faltered, until a blissful chasm of darkness blanketed her in an abyss of oblivion.

#

The main gate heralding the modest town of Winchester sat open and unmanned, as the Brethren of the Coast arrived.  As they navigated the narrow streets, dusted with new fallen snow, the shops, with their windows festooned in holly and evergreen, appeared closed, and their doors were shut, which struck Arucard as odd, given the time of day.  It should have been the most profitable hours for exchange.  And every now and then, a strange cheer erupted ahead, but they moved slow and steady, as they traversed the city.

“I do not like this, brother.”  Aristide assessed a farm stand, which displayed various fall crop yields.  Yet no trader staffed the tiny market.  “Whither hath everyone gone?”

“I know not what to make of this place.”  Again the eerie cheer echoed, and Demetrius drew his sword.  “What inspires the commotion?”

“Mayhap thither is an early festival, of some sort, in celebration of Christmastide.”  Morgan peered left and then right.  “Although the holiday is not for a fortnight.”

The hair on the back of Arucard’s neck stood, as another sinister clamor hung in the air, but he advanced.  At a quaint tavern with its door ajar, he signaled his brothers, and they drew rein.  After tying his horse, he pulled off his gloves and strolled into the dark establishment, from which the distinct aroma of roasted goose wafted.  An attendant acknowledged their entrance, as they occupied a table and two benches near the hearth.

“Welcome to the Goat in Boots.”  A red-haired character with a noticeable limp tossed a cloth over his shoulder.  “I am Orthaeus, the owner.  What can I serve ye?”

So many responses filled Arucard’s brain that he could not form a coherent response.  Sharing polite pleasantries while Isolde lingered in the earl’s grip struck him as offensive.

“How is thy wassail?” Geoffrey inquired, as Morgan blanched.

“Like me.”  The jolly server laughed, and his round belly shook.  “Spicy and spirited, as I use an ancient family mixture of special ingredients, so I highly recommend it.”

“Sounds delicious.”  Geoffrey smiled.  “We will take five flagons, good sirrah.”

“An excellent choice.”  Their host ladled the portions and hobbled back.  “Wilt thou care for any food, as my wife cooks a savory pourcelet farci.”

“Perchance, we may consider thy fare.”  Arucard glanced over his shoulder and then gazed at the tavern keep.  “I journeyed to Winchester in search of a gift—a new comb, for my bride, but the merchandry is closed.  Mayhap thou dost know the location of thy townspeople, as the streets art deserted?”

“Ah, it is a foul affair and quite unusual.”  Sitting at the next table, Orthaeus grimaced.  “Methinks the citizenry attends the public flaying of a noblewoman judged a traitor for stealing lands, using counterfeit burgage plots.”  He scratched his cheek and snorted.  “I chose to forgo the spectacle, because I have no stomach for it, and the lady hath done naught to me.”

Without doubt, Orthaeus referenced Isolde, and Arucard prepared to charge, but Aristide stayed him.

“How unfortunate but fascinating, all the same.”  Demetrius elbowed Arucard, and he realized he had crushed the handle of his mug.  “Dost thou know her name?”

“I believe she is known as the countess of Sussex.”  Orthaeus narrowed his stare.  “Isolde—that is what she is called, and I suspect the judge plans to execute her.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Small merchandries dealing in various goods and trades lined the square, and a large crowd occupied the sidewalks.  Christmastide garlands of evergreen, ivy, and holly draped the shop windows, in peculiar contradiction to the violence enacted at the heart of the city.  As Arucard emerged from a side street, a gut-wrenching scene came into view, and for a moment he paused, in shock from the vicious sight he confronted.

At the center of the action, and surrounded by the earl’s guards, loomed a platform, which bore a huge stake.  Tied to the post, and hanging eerily limp, was Isolde.  Clothed only in her chemise and leather shoes, her slip had been torn from the waist up, and her back presented a bloody mass of abused flesh, such as he had never seen.  Not even the beating she suffered the night before their wedding could rival her current wounds.  At random, the throng pelted his wife with rotting food, and he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.  When he made to attack, a hand covered his mouth, and he found himself set upon by his brothers.

“Hold him,” Demetrius whispered, and his fellow knights grappled with Arucard’s limbs as he fought.  “Calm thyself, Arucard.  I understand thy anger, but look about thee.  We art outnumbered, and thy lady is badly injured.  Wilt thou enact a battle we cannot win and thy lady could not possibly survive in her condition?  In thy haste to act, wilt thou sign her death warrant?”

Pure unadulterated rage churned in his gut, and he languished in fury, burning white hot, as it distracted him from the desire to assault his friends.  But he wanted to maim.  He wanted to behead.  He wanted to kill.  Never before had he craved death, but in that moment he hungered for revenge on anyone who had hurt Isolde.  And chief on that list of offenders was the earl of Rochester.

“Thou art a master of strategy, but thou art verily outraged.”  Aristide pinned Arucard’s left shoulder to a wall.  “Use thy righteous indignation and plot our attack, as we will rescue thy wife.”

“Good people of Winchester, I have dispensed thy justice, and the criminal fainted, cheating thee of thy reward.”  The earl quieted the throng, and the Brethren peered at the stage.  “Juraj de Mravec and I have attempted to compensate thee for thy loss.  Art thou appeased?”

Arucard noted the second gentlemen previously identified by Aeduuard de Cadby as the earl’s co-conspirator.  And the earl’s letters and His Majesty’s report also named the same villain, which Arucard counted as another enemy.

“Nay.”  A chorus of witnesses shouted their objection.

“What more doth the bastard want from her?”  Arucard glanced at Demetrius, who shrugged.

“While I understand thy displeasure, as I cannot restore thy pilfered acres, and thy injury remains, what more wilt thou ask of thy humble servant?”  With an expression of sympathy, which did not fool Arucard for a second, Rochester splayed his hands.  “If thou dost command it, I would sacrifice myself for thee, but who would protect thee from the King’s greedy minions?”

“Burn her,” bellowed an old man.

“Hang her,” screamed a woman.

“God’s bones.”  Arucard swallowed hard.  “He doth intend to kill her.”

Now he comprehended the full extent of Lord Rochester’s plans.  The earl stole their property and fixed the blame on Isolde, with the Crown as her leader.  And in so doing, her father posited himself as Winchester’s champion.  It was a wily scheme, as naught incited revolution like the theft of land, and Arucard swore under his breath.

A monstrous refrain played in the town, as the earl fed their lust for savagery on an innocent.  “Hang, hang, hang, hang…”

“Hear me.”  The earl waved to silence the throng.  “Though Lady Isolde is my kin, I am prepared to forfeit her life, in reparation for her heinous actions that have hurt so many, as I am ashamed to call her family.”

“I would argue the reverse is true.”  Arucard vowed vengeance on his in-law.

“But we have no gallows.”  As de Mravec signaled soldiers to cut down Isolde, he whispered to the earl and then nodded.  “Citizens, let us build a proper support this eventide, that we might fulfill thy demands in the morrow, as we would not be cruel.”

That had to be the understatement of the century.

So Arucard had the night to prevail, but he had an insufficient tally of collaborators, given de Mravec and the earl’s combined forces.  In that instant, Arucard seized on an idea, and a plan of action took shape.  Retreating to an alley, he assessed the time needed to gather the various elements and then assembled his knights.  “Brothers, the earl hath won the first battle, but he knows not with whom he fights, and we shall take the war, as we will save Isolde.”

#

It took a while for Isolde to recognize that she had been returned to her tiny temporary prison.  As she sat upright in bed, she gritted her teeth and sobbed.  The pitcher on the table seemed so far away, as she thirsted for a measure of relief from her dry throat.  Rolling onto her side, she winced and slid to the floor.  On her hands and knees, she crawled across the rug and used a chair to gain her feet.

Memories and bits of time assaulted her, the angry crowd, the platform with the stake, the sting of the lash, and she swayed.  With a tight grip on the ewer, she poured a glass of water, which she gulped.  How long she had slept she knew not, but the shadows on the floor suggested sunset grew nigh.  When the door to her room opened to reveal a stranger, she retreated to the large window.  “Who art thou, and wherefore art thou hither?”

“Relax, Lady Isolde, as I am not thy enemy.  I am Paganus, the physic.”  After setting his bag of medics and potions on the table, he removed his spectacles, wiped them clean, and then resituated them on his nose.  “I have come to treat thy wounds, at the behest of Juraj de Mravec, that thou wilt stand for thy punishment in the morrow.”

“How kind of him.”  Then she snapped to attention.  “Wait—what?  I endured my father’s dispensation and thought I might be returned to my home.  What hath changed?  Of what dost thou speak?”

“Hath no one told thee?”  With a countenance of sadness, he flicked his fingers.  “Come hither, my lady, as I will not hurt thee.”

As she needed his kindness just then, she obeyed.  Perched at one end of a bench, she hissed, as he cleaned her torn flesh.  But he was gentle, much like Margery, and Isolde tried but failed to stifle tears.  “Though I am innocent of the charges, I have come to discover truth matters not to evil men.  Good Paganus, what am I to face?  What hath my father decreed?”

“Allow me to smooth some salve on thy rent skin.”  When she whimpered, he paused.  “Sorry, my lady.  The earl condemns thee to hang at dawn.”

Grim acceptance enveloped her, when she should have pilloried her father.  Whither previously she would have panicked, now she remained calm.  While the situation looked hopeless, she hoped.  While she could have lost faith, she believed.  And although her fate seemed sealed against her, she clung to the unexplainable prescience of a future with Arucard.  “All right.”

“Lady Isolde, thither is not much I can do for thee in so little time, as it will take a fortnight, at least, for the worst of thy damage to heal.”  Then he sighed and tapped her shoulder.  “But I have something I can offer thee.  It is quick and painless, and thou wilt feel naught.”

“Thou would have me take my own life?”  Of course, she realized he only wanted to help her.  “I thank ye, for thy charity, Paganus.  But I would save my soul, despite my father’s judgment, as I have committed no crimes, and my maker knows that.”

“Well then, I will leave thee to thy reflection.”  After collecting his remedies, he studied her and then cupped her cheek.  “May God have mercy on thee.”

Alone, so very alone, Isolde simply stared at the pattern on the thick rug.  Smiling, she recalled her wedding night and Arucard’s attempt to sleep on the floor.  Their first real kiss elicited a snicker, as it was quite clumsy on both parts.  The eventide when he claimed her maidenhead had her giggling, especially when she remembered her husband’s hearty bellow of passion after he achieved completion on the second thrust of his hips.  Then she savored the sweet visions of that glorious afternoon on the hillside, when he suckled the flesh between her legs and took her to new heights of pleasure she never knew existed.  Anon, he took her atop a barrel in the undercroft.  And thither was the fierce warrior who fought the bandits and de Cadby, yet he showed compassion and heard their complaints.

Yea, Arucard could be kind and gentle, but he could also be ruthless, and it was the latter incarnation she prayed would come for her.

ARUCARD

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As the workmen labored to build the platform from which she would hang, the steady beat of the hammer kept Isolde awake all night, not that she could have rested, given the agony of her injuries and constant visions of Arucard.  By first light, she gazed at the clear sky, uttered a silent prayer, and made her peace.  Yet she hoped for the rescue that still eluded her.

Clinging to the promise her husband made, she remained entrenched in the belief that Arucard would save her.  He would not let her die at Father’s hands.  All she had to do was survive, and her champion would free her.  So despite the fact that she was not hungry, she ate the sop, grapes, and bread a servant delivered, to maintain her strength.

When the rasp of the lock signaled an arrival, she stood and folded her arms.  To her amazement, a bishop entered her makeshift prison and smiled.

“Good morrow, Lady Isolde.”  Garbed in the traditional robe, he bowed.  “I have come to hear thy confession, that ye might find absolution and salvation.”

“I beg thy pardon?”  The world seemed to spin beyond control, her ears rang, and she clutched the edge of the table for support, as she feared she might faint.  “What have I to confess, as I am innocent of the allegations leveled against me?”

“My child, I am told thy father shall be lenient, show compassion, and offer thee a quick death, if thou wilt but admit thy guilt before the citizens of Winchester.”  The book in his grasp only highlighted the hypocrisy of his statement, given no one associated with her father’s foul deeds evaded accountability.  “Declare thy sins, and I shall grant thee dispensation for thy transgressions.”

“I am not thy child, and if thou dost conspire with my father, thou art not without crimes against Our Lord.”  Drawing herself up with noble refinement, she stared down her nose.  “Hear me well.  I have met pious men, and thou art not one.  If my father intends to deflect blame for his actions, he will not do so with my assistance.  And while he may take my life, the truth of his involvement remains very much alive, and he will atone for his misdeeds in this world or the next.”

With a scowl, the bishop gestured with his hand.  “May the Almighty have mercy on thee.”

“No.”  She clenched her fists and stood proud.  “May God have mercy on thee, as thou wilt, no doubt, need it.”

It was not until the so-called religious man exited that she faltered, as the pain of her wounds weakened her.  And then voices echoed from the drain.  Hugging the corner, she bent and laughed, as her father cursed her.

“Then let her swing, if she is so intent,” he yelled.  “I will be glad to be rid of her.”

The revelation that her father desired her death should have hurt her, but she suspected he would kill her, with or without a confession.  Instead, his hatred did naught but kindle her longing for Arucard.  Returning to the window, she conjured her husband’s image, fierce in battle against young de Cadby.  If possible, her knight would come for her—she would believe that until she drew her last breath.

And so she braided her hair and tugged on her leather calf boots.  Just as she tied the lace, Juraj de Mravec appeared, along with a compliment of soldiers.  “Lady Isolde, it is time.”

#

With her wrists bound in front of her, and a gag tied about her head, Isolde stood proud and strong on the gallows.  And while on the outside she portrayed an image of calm, inside she screamed her husband’s name.  Disgusted, she glared at the crowd that had gathered to see her executed for crimes she did not commit.

“Good citizens of Winchester, thou hast been wronged by my own kin.”  Father should have been a thespian, as he belonged on a stage, and his ability to fool the masses impressed her.  With a hand pressed to his chest, he sighed.  “Would that I had known the evil she would mete upon thee, with her husband, the earl of Sussex, as I might have prevented it.”

The throng hissed.

“But I will no longer be silent on the evil all but sanctioned by the Crown.”  Her father strolled to one end of the platform.  “Thou hast been abandoned by he who hath been tasked with thy protection.  Thou hast been betrayed.  No one defends thee.”

The crowd jeered and pelted Isolde with rotting refuse.  Yet she persisted, refusing to embarrass herself with a public display of terror, as they craved that.

“I have failed ye.”  Father sobbed.  “I should offer myself on the block for thy judgment.”

The people composed a malevolent chorale.

“Nay.”

“Thou art benevolent.”

“Thou art honorable.”

“We will follow thee.”

How smoothly he lured them, feeding their desires and fears, and she pitied them when she should have hated them.

“Alas, I am old and feeble, though my mind is sharp.”  He had the poor, unsuspecting dupes in his grasp, and she admired his persuasive skills.  “Yet my son is young and robust.  If thou wilt but swear allegiance to the same, William would lead thee into prosperity and return thy stolen lands and legacy.”

A piercing roar demonstrated the flock’s assent, and a tear coursed Isolde’s cheek, as the horror played out before her.

“Then let us punish the traitor.”  In that instant, Father cast her a vicious scowl.  “As she hath earned her just reward.”

The escort shoved her forward, and the noose slapped her face.  The rush of her breath filled her ears, and her heart pounded, as a soldier slipped the rope about her neck.

Then a driverless wagon charged into the square, crashing into various merchant carts, and a wave of panic struck the multitude of subjects assembled to witness her death.  Screams reverberated, and de Mravec scrambled to the fore.

“Protect the earl.”  The eloquent villain wrenched a guard.  “Surround Lord Rochester.”

Unattended, Isolde flinched, when an unknown attacker swept her from the platform and threw her to a hooded figure.  Quick as a flash, the mysterious assailant yanked the gag from her mouth and lifted his head.

“Aeduuard.”  She rejoiced, and then he grabbed her bound wrists, and they fled.  “Whither is Arucard?”

“Hurry, my lady.”  Signaling his friends, he veered toward an alley but pulled her left to avoid a mountain of casks.  “We must reach the main gate before thy father’s men capture us.”

Together, they bolted down a side street and charged an unfortunate peddler, who shouted a warning.  Soon the guard sounded the alarm, and thunderous hoofbeats declared their pursuit.  They dashed into the front of a store and exited the rear, but they confronted her father’s men at every turn.  At one point, de Cadby ducked into a small tavern, until the soldiers passed, and then he retraced their steps and navigated another passage.  When two guards challenged them, Aeduuard kicked an enemy into an applecart and then struck the other with a fist.

A slew of townspeople swamped the thoroughfares, and some recognized her.  But the sheer confusion provided shelter, as she disappeared into the throng as quickly as she was identified.  And all the while she sought Arucard, yet he remained absent.

As they negotiated a maze of lanes, she lost her direction, but her liberator pushed her faster and faster.  Nauseated, as her lungs burned for air, she huffed and puffed but refused to yield.  Her pulse raced, and at times she thought she might faint, but she launched herself forward and swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat.

In what seemed as several hours, but was in reality only a few minutes, Isolde clung to her rescuer, as they winded and wended their way through the town, with Father’s guards in their wake.  At last, the decorated egress loomed, and Aeduuard waved a piece of red cloth.  With the troops nipping at her heels, she tasted freedom and permitted herself a glimmer of hope.

The weighty wooden panels, a very real obstacle to her liberation, opened and spread wide before her, and Isolde ran straight into a royal patrol.  “No.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dressed in the signature black garb of his trade, including the menacing hood, the largest executioner Isolde had ever seen heeled his horse, advanced on her even as she retreated, bent, and scooped her up in one fail swoop.  Sitting astride in the lap of a creature every bit as imposing as her husband, she struck his chest with her bound fists.  “Brute.”  Then she glanced at the King’s guard and helmeted knights in impressive armor.  “Prithee, good sirrah.  Sir Arucard is innocent of the baseless charges levied against him, and thou cannot condemn him without a trial.  If thou wilt permit me to plead my true and righteous cause before the Crown, I would—”

“His Majesty is aware of the extent of his servant’s involvement in the crimes against the Realm and has taken swift and appropriate action.”  To her father and de Mravec, who had pushed to the front of the crowd, he said, “We will take the culpable parties into custody, and deliver unto them their just punishment.”  Without hesitation, the guard directed the soldiers, who surrounded her would-be rescuers, and then addressed the executioner with a nod.  “Deal with her.”

“Wait.  Pray, do not harm my people, as they only wanted to help me.”  Desperate, she peered from side to side, searching for the escape that evaded her.  It was in that moment she feared the end of her life, not because she dreaded death but because never again would she look on Arucard’s face.  That exceptional understanding was enough to send terror into her heart, which she had ruthlessly fortified, so she inhaled a calming gulp of air and resolved to meet her fate on her terms.  Locating de Cadby, she mustered a smile.  “Thank ye, for trying to save me.  And if thou dost not think me ungrateful, I would ask a favor.  If thou dost see him, tell my lord Arucard that I love him, and with my last breath his name shall pass my lips.”

“My lady.”  Young Aeduuard opened his mouth, gritted his teeth, and then huffed in apparent frustration.  “Believe me, Sir Arucard hears thy plea.”

The man who would dispatch her to her maker stretched an arm about her belly, gripped her hip, which mercifully avoided her injuries, and held her tight, as his mount broke into a gallop, taking her from her friends and the possibility of the prayed-for reprieve.  With the troops in their wake, they coursed the lane to the outlying and sparsely populated areas of Winchester, whither she surmised he would do the deed.

When her captor discovered her attempting to free her wrists, which had rendered her flesh raw and bloody, he drew rein.  As he produced a small dagger, she suspected she had hastened her demise, and so she prepared herself.  After a final survey of the surrounding countryside, Isolde focused on the clear cerulean sky and commenced her farewell.  “Arucard, I love thee.  Arucard.  Arucard—”

“Honey flower, I love thee, too.”

The cherished declaration had come to her once, in a dream.  It had blanketed her in soothing heat.  But in that instant she imagined naught, as he cut the ties that bound her.  In shock, she shrieked and gazed at the executioner.  Grasping his shoulders, she met his stare, and she would know his blue eyes anywhere.  “Arucard.”

“Easy, Isolde.”  Wrenching the heavy mask that shrouded his head, she yanked and pulled.  “Woman, wilt thou send us tumbling to the ground, whither we might break our necks?”

“Take off thy disguise.”  While he untied the laces, she twisted, situated her legs at either side of his hips, and scooted ever closer.  When he revealed the familiar visage she so treasured, she sobbed in relief, framed his cheeks, and kissed him.

Even though the guard had joined them, she refused to relinquish her knight.  It had been too long since she tasted her husband, and she savored the warmth of his flesh, the reassuring strength of his embrace, and the spicy scent that was uniquely his, as it all but surrounded her.

“Isolde, let go, as we must ride, and I have a fresh horse for thee.”  As Arucard attempted to loosen her grip, she fought him.  “Pray, we must return to Chichester, as the King’s men march on Winchester to confront thy father, and I would protect thee, yet I expect no confidence, given I have failed ye so miserably.”

“How hast thou failed me, and wherefore didst thou not reveal thyself?”  Every time he tried to break free, she shifted and gained a better position.  “I am alive and in thy arms, whither I belong, and whither I shall stay.  Tell me how thou hast foundered?”

“Pray, I could not betray my identity so close to town, as thy father’s spies are everywhere.  And never should I have parted from thee, as thou didst beg me not to leave thee, and thy father took thee whilst I was away, thus I am to blame for thy suffering.”  At last, he must have realized the futility of his endeavor, signaled by a sigh of exasperation she knew well, as he tucked his cloak about her, draped a blanket over her legs, cupped her bottom, and cradled her head.  “Canst thou ever forgive me?”

“But thou didst come for me, as thou didst promise.”  Burying her face in his leather tunic, she yawned as the bone-wearying exhaustion took its toll, yet she rejoiced.  “And if thou wilt but swear thou wilt keep me at thy side for the remains of thy days, thou art pardoned of thy unfounded transgression.”

As blissful sleep beckoned, he proclaimed, “By my troth, thou wilt never be separated from me again.”

#

The journey to Chichester Castle seemed never-ending, as Arucard, with Isolde tucked safe in his lap, drove his stallion harder and faster than ever before.  Only once would he stop to relieve himself and doff the leather tunic, that he might warm his wife with his body.  To his relief, she never stirred, not even when he handed her to Demetrius.  It was then he glimpsed the bloodstained chemise, torn and tattered, as he wrapped her in a borrowed blanket, regained his saddle, and claimed her from his friend.

In a familiar formation, the Brethren of the Coast rode, constructing a protective barrier about Isolde, which each Nautionnier knight would defend to his death.  Whereas on previous occasions they often engaged in spirited discourse, that day they remained hushed, and Arucard embraced the silence.

The sun sat low on the horizon when he broke from the King’s guard, along with the Brethren, and cut through the meadow of rolling hills.  As the Nautionnier knights charged the last embankment, a familiar and welcoming silhouette, precious because it was whither he had first made love to his bride, came into view, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

At the west bank of the moat, Arucard cupped his mouth.  “Thither, ho.”

“Whither thou dost go?”  The call came from the outer gatehouse.

“So go I,” Arucard replied.  The simple phrase, stark in its clarity as it symbolized the depth of their union, had been Isolde’s idea.

In what seemed an eternity, the drawbridge lowered, and he navigated to the tiny island.  As per his commands, the secondary traverse descended only after the first was raised.  When he rode into the courtyard, Margery and Pellier emerged.

“Bring thy medicines, as well as the physic, to my chambers.”  With Isolde in his clutch, he slid from the saddle and carried her into the castle.  In seconds, he ran up the stairs and swept her into the solar, just as she woke.

“My lord, we art home.”  A feminine smile graced her lips, as she gazed at him.  But soon he wished she had remained blissfully unaware of her surroundings, as Margery attempted to remove the chemise, which had dried and stuck to the wounds on his wife’s back.

Initially, the steward tried to peel off the fabric, as Arucard sat on the bench in the solar, with Isolde facing him and astride in his lap.  Resting her chin on his shoulder, his valiant bride flinched and tried but failed to stifle her cries of agony, but he felt every one as a mortal blow, and he suffered each successive whimper as a stain on his heart and mind.  At last, mercifully, she fainted and fell limp in his hold.

“Mayhap we should wet the material.”  Wiping her tears, Margery summoned the servants, who prepared the ancere for Isolde’s bath.  “Ease her into the water, my lord.  But thou must be careful to support her.”

“Do what must needs.”  Kneeling at one end of the tub, he braced Isolde beneath her arms and kissed her, when her head rolled to the side.  “Perchance the physic should assist thee.”

“Nay, my lord.”  The steward frowned.  “I have nursed my lady since she was but a child.  Trust my skills, as she will heal.”

Little by little, Margery inched the garment from Isolde’s injuries, and then the steward washed away the grime and blood, revealing a foul sight he would never forget, as he almost vomited to contemplate what his wife endured.  Words could not describe the evidence of the earl’s barbarity, and neither could they adequately encompass the depth of Arucard’s rage.

“Oh, my lady.”  At that moment, Margery pressed a clenched fist to her mouth and sniffed.  “Look what her father hath wrought upon her.”

“Prithee, finish thy work.”  It began then—the lust for revenge.  The festering hatred.  In opposition to the gentle purity of his wife, a malevolent sickness infested his senses.  Unfurling slow and steady, as the velvety petals of a delicate spring rose, a foreign but insatiable hunger grew in his belly and spread, investing every fiber of his being until he could taste the repulsive malignance.  Given his faith and his oath, he should have repressed such dark inclinations, but he resisted not.  Instead, he reveled in the bitterness.  As an old friend, he welcomed the plague on his soul.  He embraced the malice.  Despite his long held beliefs, he would violate his convictions and avenge Isolde.

“My lord, I am done.”  With a strange expression, Margery shook him.  “If thou wilt set Lady Isolde on the bed, on her belly, I can treat her.”

Lost in a haze of confusion, Arucard blinked and assessed the situation, as he would not risk rousing his wife.  “Summon Demetrius.”

“Aye, sir.”  Margery strolled into the hall but returned minutes later.

“How can I help thee?”  Demetrius glanced at Isolde’s condition, compressed his lips, and swallowed hard.  “By God’s bones, Arucard.  How could any man visit such violence on a woman, much less his daughter?”

That was a question Arucard no longer asked, as thither was no adequate answer.

“Take her feet, brother.”  Arucard stood upright, lifting her with him, and she moaned, as Margery dried his wife with a towel.  “Have care,” he whispered, “as I would not wake her.”

“Of course,” Demetrius replied in a low voice.

Together, they conveyed Isolde to the bed, and with caution they turned her facedown and lowered her to the mattress.  Margery pulled a sheet to Isolde’s hips.  After situating a chair, the steward began the difficult task of smoothing salve to his wife’s back.

“This will require some time, my lord.”  Margery began her work at the left shoulder.  “Mayhap thou might use the boar’s hair brush to remove the tangles from thy wife’s locks, as they will dry faster, and I will braid them.”

“Arucard, if thou dost need me, I will be in the great hall.”  Shuffling his feet, Demetrius gazed at Isolde and rubbed his neck.  “I am more sorry than I can say, as she is a very fine, kind-hearted lady.”

“Thank ye, brother.”  On the outside, all appeared calm as Arucard retrieved Isolde’s simple appurtenance, which he had seen her use on countless nights, before they retired.  But inside a tempest of unutterable contempt waged war for his soul, and Lord Rochester would rue Arucard’s wrath.  Yet he perched on the opposite side and drew the brush through Isolde’s hair, in slow and repetitive movements.  The simple occupation should have soothed his ire, but it only fueled it.

Molten fury poured through his veins and festered in his senses, in stark contrast to his wife’s motionless form.  As the minutes ticked past, the rage smoldered and gathered strength.  And while he toiled in silence, a primitive howl echoed in his brain.

“Thither, it is done.”  With her job complete, Margery draped strips of boiled linen over Isolde’s back and then drew the sheet and blankets to his wife’s neck.  “When she wakes, I will give her some hops and thyme in her tea, to make her sleep, as she needs to heal and recover.”

“Canst thou keep her unaware of my temporary absence?”  A plot formed, a means of securing retribution took shape, as he pondered the King’s plans, but he would abandon his scheme if it caused Isolde added trauma.  “I must join His Majesty’s guard, but I will return in a matter of days, a sennight at most.”

“Aye, sir.”  For a while, Margery studied him.  Then she sobered and nodded once.  “Thou mayest rely on me, as Pellier and I will guard the Lady Isolde with our lives.”

“Thank ye.”  With steely determination as a shield, he bent and kissed his brave heroine.  In her ear, he whispered, “Rest easy, honey flower.  I am with thee always.”

Then he stood, strode from his chambers, and marched into the great hall.  The center of activity in the grand castle usually reverberated with mirth and cheer, but not on that eventide.  Palpable sadness as thick as London fog hung over the cavernous room.  Evidence of Isolde’s benevolence surrounded him, visible in the faces of those for whom she cared and nurtured.

“Arucard, thither is food and drink.”  Aristide offered a tankard of ale, but Arucard refused it.

“Fill thy belly, as duty calls.”  To Pellier, Arucard said, “Saddle fresh horses and pack our armor, as we would travel light with all due haste.”  Then he pounded a table, and a hush fell on the crowd.  “Hear me well.  Thy Lady Isolde hath returned, and thou art to defend these walls at any expense.  Whosoever permits anyone to breach our home shall pay with his life, as thy last mistake almost cost my wife hers.  Now make ready, as tonight the Brethren ride into battle.”  Thrusting his fist into the air, Arucard proclaimed, “For King, for Chichester, and for Isolde.”

#

The battle for control of Winchester commenced the following morrow.  Side by side, in an impressive display of military might, the Nautionnier Knights of the Brethren of the Coast rode into the storm, wearing the unique ailette with the wind-star design.  Yet Arucard fought not for His Majesty, his faith, or his honor.

As he charged into the fray, unconcerned for his own being, he suspected he had left the noblest part of himself in Chichester, with Isolde, to shield her whilst she recovered, as he owed her that much.  That bit of himself, unspoiled and unsullied, belonged to her.  What remained was the beast inside him, and the animal was hungry on that fateful day.

Killing indiscriminately, he maimed, beheaded, impaled, and slaughtered untold numbers, ignoring their cries for mercy, as no one had spared his wife.  Whereas before he always struggled with guilt when taking a life, in those miserable hours he suffered no such compunction and, therefore, tempered not his rage.

Given no one had pardoned her, he would extend no reprieve.  Every enemy combatant he struck down he counted as right and good retribution for Isolde, as none of them had defended her, and no matter how many souls he claimed it was not enough.  It would never be enough.  Not until he came face to face with the person responsible for her suffering—the earl of Rochester.

“Tyreswelle.”  Arucard urged his destrier into a gallop.  “Thou art mine.”

Metal clashed with metal, as they waged war amid the stench of damp earth mixed with blood, and sunlight flickered on the flat of the blades, but it was no contest, given the villain posed no real threat to a man unafraid of death.  With a single swing of his sword, Arucard knocked Isolde’s father from his horse.  As Arucard could have predicted, the pathetic bastard surrendered without so much as a single challenge.

“I yield.”  The earl tossed down his weapon and splayed his palms.  “And I demand thee deliver me unto His Majesty.”

“Thou art in no position to make demands.”  Arucard leaped from his saddle and assumed a provocative stance.  “Now pick up thy sword.”

“Nay.”  The bastard spat at Arucard’s feet.  “I am the earl of Rochester, Reinfrid de Tyreswelle, and head of one of England’s oldest noble families.  Whither art thou from, and who art thy connections, de Villiers?”

“The Sovereign is my connection.”  Arucard lowered his chin and bared his teeth.  “And I ride straight from hell to claim recompense for thy daughter.”  Then he lunged.

“Sir Arucard, wait.”  Briarus drove his horse between Arucard and his prey.  “Prithee, good sirrah.  Remember, His Majesty commands we take the earl alive.”

“Am I not allowed to touch him?  Am I granted no measure of retribution?”  Gripping the hilt of his sword, he threw off his helmet.  “What of his treachery?  And what of de Mravec?  Will the Crown pardon their evil deeds?  Thither is no justice in this land?”

“While I understand thy anger, and I share thy views, I must obey the King’s orders.”  The sergeant drew a section of rope from his sack and tossed it to Arucard.  “If thou wilt bind his wrists, that I may transport Rochester to His Majesty’s encampment.”

“I told thee.”  With a sneer, the earl presented his arms.  “We art a civilized people, Sir Arucard.  And I am far too valuable to kill like some commoner.”

It would have been so easy to slide the blade of his sword into the small indention at the base of his father-in-law’s neck.  With a simple twist and tug, he could separate Rochester’s head from his body, and never again could the villain harm Isolde.  That was Arucard’s goal, to protect his wife from the one person who should have been her most fervent champion.

“Mayhap that is true.”  With purpose, Arucard wound one end of the twine and tied it tight, until the earl flinched.  “But if thou dost come near thy daughter again, I will slit thy noble throat.”  Then he tossed the rope to Briarus.

“Thank ye.”  The guard dipped his chin.  “As the battle is won, His Majesty requests thy presence in his tent.”  Clucking his tongue, Briarus snickered.  “And I shall join thee anon, as the earl shall walk to camp.”

With Rochester’s complaints echoing above the din of conflict, Arucard retrieved his helmet, jumped to the saddle of his stallion, and steered for the northern territory.  Along the way, he counted his friends and sighed with relief, as the Brethren remained bloody but unscathed.  As his mount soared up the embankment, he thought of Isolde, his lady, his love.

Given her father had been arrested but had cheated the Dark Angel, Arucard wondered what to tell her.  As long as the earl lived, he would present a very real danger to her.  Somehow, Arucard needed to scare the man.  That was his primary goal when he entered the King’s tent.

But rage surged anew when he discovered Juraj de Mravec kneeling before the Crown.  Without hesitation, Arucard lunged, grabbed de Mravec by the neck, and struck him.  As the co-conspirator slumped on the ground, Arucard drew his sword and leveled the pointed end just beneath the man’s chin.  “Say thy prayers.”

“Sir Arucard, we demand thee halt thy attack.”  Waving, His Majesty summoned his guards, and Arucard found himself grossly outnumbered, but it mattered not.  When the Sovereign rested a hand to Arucard’s shoulder, he lowered his weapon.  “We understand thy anger, but we cannot permit thee to kill our appointed servant when he hath performed to our expectations.”

In that moment, naught made sense.

Confused, Arucard stumbled back and landed in a fortuitously placed chair.  Leaning forward, with his elbows propped on his thighs, he stared at the intricate pattern on the rug and struggled to breathe.  “Forgive me, Majesty, but de Mravec schemed with the earl to undermine thy authority and seize control of Winchester.”

“And so he was directed.”  The King perched on his temporary throne.  “The previous earl of Sussex initiated the original plan with an unknown collaborator who eluded our attempts at discovery.  We dispatched our agent to investigate, befriend, and collude with the mysterious conniver.”

“So he is to go free, along with de Tyreswelle?”  Huffing in frustration, Arucard stood and paced.  “Is no one to pay for their crimes against the Crown, if not my wife?  Does the rule of law mean naught in this country?”

Rubbing his jaw, de Mravec scrambled to his feet.  “Arucard—”

“Sir Arucard to thee, as we art not now nor shall we ever be friends.”  If not for the soldiers present, he would have dispatched the earl’s partner in heinous deeds, despite the King’s directives.  “Thou art without honor, given what thou didst allow to happen to Isolde.”

“Upon my word, I tried to spare her, as I am not thy enemy.”  As he emerged from behind the guards, de Mravec extended his hand but retreated as Arucard shook his head.  “Her father is an animal, and he would have killed her when he beat her in the square, had I not interceded.”

“By recommending he hang her on the following morrow.”  Quick as a flash, he swooped and grasped fistfuls of de Mravec’s tunic.  “And thou dost consider that sparing my wife?”  He wrenched hard on his adversary.  “Hear me well, His Majesty may call thee an associate, but if thou dost ever show thy face in Chichester, I will kill thee on sight, consequences be damned.”

“Thy anger is legitimate, thus I take no offense.  But thy rescue triumphed because I assisted in thy plan, and thou should think on that.”  Casting a mock salute, de Mravec glanced at the King.  “By thy leave, Majesty.”  As de Mravec exited, Briarus entered.

“Didst thou know of his involvement?”  Of course, he asked the question with grave trepidation, as he could abide no betrayal.  “Art thou in collusion with de Mravec?”

“Nay.”  With a mighty scowl, Briarus narrowed his stare.  “I knew naught of his affiliation until last eventide, when his messenger arrived with detailed reports regarding the number and location of Rochester’s forces.”

“Is our guest comfortable?”  The King poured three goblets of wine.  “Shall we toast to a victorious enterprise?”

“In light of Isolde’s condition, I do not consider our maneuvers successful.”  Despite inclinations otherwise, Arucard accepted the drink.  “And if His Majesty hath no further duties, I would journey to Chichester and remain at my wife’s side, as she recovers.”

“How long until her health improves?” Briarus inquired.  “And Lord Rochester objects to the size of his accommodation, which he claims, quite vociferously, he will take up with His Majesty.”

“The bastard almost beat his daughter to death and would have executed her had we not rescued her, and he grouses about his quarters?”  In no mood for drink, Arucard set down the still full goblet.  “He is lucky to draw breath.  And Margery estimates it will take a fortnight, at minimum, for the worst injuries to heal.”

“Perchance it will ease her worries to know her father will not survive to see her restored.”  His Majesty met Arucard’s gaze and smiled.  “We have always intended to execute those responsible for the illegal burgage plots, but we required proof of culpability to mete justice, as we art not cruel.”  The Sovereign arched a brow.  “As thou dost lead thy men, thou dost know the difficulties of rule, and a king confronts all manner of insurrection, which only increases with time, from the moment he takes the throne.  We must not act in haste or without reason.  On that note, we would have thy promise to protect and defend our heir, should we meet our fate.  Swear thy allegiance to our newborn son, and thou canst discuss with Briarus a way to secure a measure of reprisal for Lady Isolde’s injuries.  But have care, and do not mark Lord Rochester’s face, as we would have him pretty when we display his head on a pike outside White Tower.”

ARUCARD

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was late when the earl of Rochester finished his bath and stepped from the ancere.  After drying himself with a towel, he searched for his robe, muttered something about the dismal conditions of his tent, and speared his fingers through his wet hair.  Naked, he scowled as he continued to comb through his belongings, presumably in quest for the garment Arucard held in his grasp.

From the shadows, Arucard emerged.  “Looking for something?”

“What art thou doing hither?”  Sneering, the villain narrowed his stare.  “Get thee gone, before I summon the King’s guard and have thee arrested.”

So many rebukes filled his ears, as thither Arucard stood, facing down his sworn enemy.  Never in his life had he thirsted for blood—craved it, but in that moment he desired the earl’s death.  Yet His Majesty forbade Arucard from killing his father-in-law.  But thither were other ways to make the bastard pay for his crimes against Isolde.

Quick as a wink, Arucard charged his adversary.  Using the robe as a gag, he shoved the material into the man’s mouth, muffling his protests.  While the earl flailed and scratched, he was no match for a Nautionnier knight almost twice his size.  With a discarded tunic and a towel, Arucard tied the earl’s wrists to either end of the bed frame.  Then he kicked the man’s feet from beneath him, so he knelt on the ground.

“Thy back is pristine, so unlike thy daughter’s.”  Trailing his fingers down the unmarred flesh, Arucard fought the urge to slit Rochester’s throat.  “But I wonder how thee would suffer the punishment thou hast meted without mercy upon her.”

As it dawned on the earl what Arucard intended, the coward struggled against his bindings to no avail, pissed himself, and emitted a series of pathetic mewling and whimpering that only inflamed Arucard’s fury.  Recalling that night after he found the letter from her father, when she displayed incomparable bravery in advance of the discipline she anticipated, he resolved to complete his task.  Slow and steady, he unhooked and removed his belt.

For a scarce second, he hesitated.  According to his long held beliefs, vengeance was not his to dispatch, yet visions of his wife flashed before him.  In his mind he conjured images of her raven hair, her shy smile, her rosy cheeks as he bathed her, and her green eyes so vivid in the early morrow sunlight.  Then the memory of her limp and abused body, tied to a stake and pelted with rotting food, intruded on his thoughts and girded his resolve.

Standing at attention, he inhaled a deep breath and swung wide.  Brandishing the thick leather strap, moving back and forth, again and again, he whipped the earl, dispensing the justice so righteously deserved.  At last, he let go the rage, unleashed the hellfire, and purged the molten ire simmering within him.  And as the sad excuse for a nobleman wept and lost his bowels, Arucard counted the tears as an insult to his wife, who bore the brutality as a valiant heroine.

Without compunction, Arucard beat his heartless foe until he could wield no more retribution.  Satisfied, he stumbled back, exhausted from overexertion, and threw his belt to the ground as he studied the bloody welts that streaked the earl’s skin.

Moaning and whining, the earl flinched when Arucard grasped a fistful of the milksop’s hair.  Whispering into Tyreswelle’s ear, Arucard said, “My sweet Isolde, for all her feminine attributes, is more a man than thou wilt ever be.”  With that, he stormed from the tent.  Outside, he located Briarus.  “Gramercy, good sirrah.”

“Shall I presume his lordship prefers not to be disturbed?”  The King’s guard cast a lop-sided grin and snickered.  “Or should I send for the physic?”

“Let him stew in his own mire, as it will do him well, given His Majesty’s plans.”  Rubbing the back of his neck, he glanced at the full moon peeking through the thinning clouds and exhaled.  “Now, I shall decamp for Chichester, as thither I would be when my wife wakes.”

And never again would he part from her.

“I understand.”  As if sensing the urgency, Briarus led Arucard to his destrier.  “Sir Demetrius packed thy armor with his, that ye might enjoy a faster ride.  The roads art passable but dangerous in the dark.”  He grabbed a torch.  “Take this to light the way.”

“Thank ye.”  After securing his cloak against the wind and new fallen snow, Arucard leaped into his saddle.  “Fare thee well, Briarus.”

“And the same to thee, my lord.”  The guard saluted.  “And I wish improved health and a quick recovery for the Lady Isolde.  Prithee, convey my deepest felicitations.”

“I will give her thy regard.”  Heeling the flanks of his stallion, Arucard rode from the encampment and veered to the south, keeping to the verge to avoid ruts, and he struggled with an emotional tempest waging battle within him as he spurred his mount.  How far he had traveled he knew not, when he reached the top of a hill, reined in, and stretched.  Wrestling with sorrow he could ill contain, he dismounted and strolled to the precipice of a seemingly bottomless drop.  Finally, he knelt and gazed at the sky.

Countless stars flickered amid a blanket of indigo, as the earlier storm dissipated, and he bowed his head and wept.  In silent reflection, he closed his eyes and made his confession, but never would he regret his actions.  Unburdening his sins, he yielded to the anguish investing his frame, as thither were no winners in the day’s events.  “Forgive me, My Lord, if thy servant hath disappointed thee.  Alas, I am but a man in love with his wife.”

Braced for swift judgment and ensuing punishment, he relaxed, as a gentle breeze buffeted him, and yet time ticked past with nary a lightning strike.  In that moment, he smiled and nodded once.  And so Arucard regained his horse and steered for home and Isolde.

#

Her world had been consumed by a series of dreams and nightmares, some vivid in detail and others less so, which haunted Isolde’s seemingly endless sleep.  How many days had she languished, as she knew not whether it was morrow or night?  “Arucard.”  Beneath the covers, she shifted on her belly and reached for him.  “Arucard.  Whither art thou, Arucard?”

“Shh.”  His voice came to her through a haze of confusion brought about by Margery’s special tea.  “Rest easy, honey flower.  As I guard thy slumber with my life.”

In an instant, she awakened, as only her husband called her by the telltale pet name she cherished.  To her surprise, she met his stare, as he sat on the floor beside their bed.  “Hither art thou, when I have called thee, time and again, and thou hast not answered.  Wherefore hast thou not responded, when I need thee?”

“His Majesty summoned me into action, but Pellier and Margery never left thee alone.”  Brushing a lock of hair from her face, he smiled and kissed her.  “But I am returned to defend thee, sweet Isolde.  And as our Heavenly Father is my witness, never again shall I part from thee.”

“Thou art unusually dramatic, my champion.”  It was then she realized he kept a blanket, and an awful reality, which had tormented her dreams, dawned.  “Wherefore art thou on the stone?”

“I would not disturb thee.”  He pressed his lips to her forehead, but the display of affection did nothing to dispel her worries.  “And I would not risk injuring thee, so hither I shall remain.”

“Verily, is it so?”  Burying her face in her pillow, Isolde sobbed.  “Or dost thou no longer desire me, as I am beaten, and my cheek is bruised?”

“Nay, honey flower.”  Arucard tried to address her, but desolation and despair encased her heart, and she wept, as she feared she had lost him.  “Prithee, Isolde.  Do not cry, as my concern is thy comfort.”

“How can I find comfort if thou wilt not share our bed or thy body?”  The mattress dipped as he joined her, and she peered at him and sniffed.  “Tell me the truth.  I am ugly, and thou dost find me unappealing.  I knew it would happen, and Father was right.  I am chitty-faced.”

“Never, and I forbid thee to make such outrageous statements in my presence, as the mere suggestion is a vile abomination.”  With care, he reclined, lifted her atop him, and drew the covers to her chin.  “Isolde, thou hast never been more beauteous than thou art now, as thou art alive, and that is my sole requirement of thee.”

“Then lie with me.”  Naked but for the strips of boiled linen shielding her wounds, she sat upright.  “Pray, take pity, as I need thee.”

“Nay, Isolde.”  Grasping her wrists, he just stopped her from untying his garb.  “Thou art weak and vulnerable, and I would not take thee in that condition, as I might cause thee pain.”

“Prithee, thy rejection hurts far worse, my lord, as I love thee, and I require thy strength.”  At her declaration, he eased his hold, and she discovered him hard and ready for her, which somewhat belied her fears but did naught to quell the hunger for his touch.  For Isolde, it was too much.  To her shame, she broke.  Slumping, she shed tears of relief, as her husband cupped her bottom with one hand and hugged her tenderly with the other.  “It is true.  Thou dost want me, when I thought otherwise.”

“Aye, I ache for thee, as it hath been too long since I stirred thy sweet waters.”  Then he shuffled her in his embrace, doffing his tunic, breeches, and braies in an awkward and clumsy dance.  “And never doubt my devotion to thee, as thou hast my heart, for two lifetimes.  Yet, when today is but a memory, the whispering wind no longer kisses thy cheeks, and time ceases to exist for us, I will love thee still.  Never forget that.  Now scoot forward, honey flower, and let me show thee the depth of my regard.”

Abiding his request, she tilted her hips, joining their bodies, and it was as if she had, at long last, come home.  As Arucard stretched her flesh and filled her, he rose to support her, and she hugged him about his shoulders.  Familiar heat beckoned as an old friend, spreading from the pit of her belly, fanning the flames of desire that supplanted her pain and the horrors of the past.  Gaining speed, she rocked, even as he grunted and groaned in completion, but she rode him faster still.  And then reality fractured and time suspended, as she clung to her husband and screamed.

After the rapturous moment passed, she sighed, as he cradled her to his chest.  For a while, they simply sat thither, enjoying comfort bestowed by their tender reunion.  “Margery and Pellier art to wed.”

“Aye, he told me.”  He rubbed her scalp in a soothing rhythm.  “I had thought, mayhap, Margery might write her kin and have them live hither, with us, given their current employment is ended.”

“She would adore that.”  Then Isolde seized upon his meaning.  “What news of my father?”

“He is for the ax.”  Shuffling her in his embrace, Arucard caressed her cheek.  “I am sorry, my love, but thither is naught I can do to redeem him, thus he is condemned.”

“Do not be, as his outcome is of his making.”  Despite what her father did to her, she did not welcome his death.  “And my brother?”

“I suspect the same, as he conspired with the Lancasters to take the throne, and His Majesty is unforgiving, in that respect.”  He tipped her chin, brushed his lips to hers, and frowned.  “But thou must have no fear, as the King knows of thy innocence.”

“But I am not worried, my champion, when I am in thy arms, and hither I shall stay.”  Without thought, she tensed her thighs, and he hissed.  Smiling, she kissed his chest and thrust her hips, and he groaned.  “Thou art hungry again, and I am in a mood to feed thee thy most favored fare.”

“Aye, I always want thee, but I would sooner cut my throat than risk injuring thee.”  As she began the delicate dance, he closed his eyes, set his forehead to hers, and gritted his teeth.  “Isolde, how I love thee.  And I would give thee everything thy heart desires, if thou would but share thy hopes and aspirations, that I might fulfill them.”

“But thou hast already given me so much.  In truth, I indulged in few fantasies, as a young girl, given my father treated me with cruelty, I knew naught of love, and I was always alone.  I never conjured images of a handsome knight, riding to my rescue, but it seems fate had other plans and gifted ye.”  She increased her pace, and together they soared.  “And with thee as my teacher, I am learning to dream.”

#

Sound asleep, Isolde draped across Arucard, with their bodies still joined.  It had taken two additional rounds of lovemaking, after the first brief but fiery coupling, to satisfy her, yet she refused to disengage him, as she would prolong their affinity, and he had not the strength to deny her.  With a grimace, he stretched to reach the edge of the blanket but halted when his wife murmured incoherently.  When a charming smiled graced her lush lips, which tempted him even now, she sighed and then quieted, he pulled the covers over them, mindful of her injured back, and tucked the bedclothes beneath her chin.

Just as he shielded them, Margery entered the chamber.  With a start, she averted her stare.  “I beg thy pardon, my lord.  But thou didst ask me to check my lady, in the event thou didst sleep.”

“It is all right,” he responded in a low voice, as he set a palm to his wife’s ear, that she might doze, undisturbed.  “Have a light meal delivered to the solar in the morrow, and I will feed my lady when she wakes.  Prepare a bath at noon, and I shall wash her.  Afterward, I shall summon thee to tend her wounds.  And continue to brew thy special tea, until the worst of Isolde’s pain has passed, as I would spare her additional needless suffering.”

“Yea, my lord.”  The steward curtseyed and gave him her back.  “Wilt thou require anything else?”

“Aye.”  He snorted as the servant fidgeted, but then he checked to ensure he bared naught unintended.  “I commission thee to write thy parents and bid them to live hither, at Chichester Castle, as an early wedding gift from Lord and Lady Sussex.”

“God be praised.”  With a hand over her mouth, Margery smothered a sob, but her surprise was evident as she shook.  “Thank ye, my lord.  Thou art most kind.”

“Thou art most welcome, and thou art excused.”  Drawing an extra pillow beneath his head, he adjusted his hold on his wife.  “And close the inner doors, as I would ensure Isolde’s uninterrupted rest.”

Peaceful quiet fell on the private quarter he shared with his lady.  Staring at the flames in the hearth, a sweet refrain echoed in his brain, as he revisited her boisterous exultations of pleasure, and with his finger he drew tiny circles on her bare bottom, which never failed to fascinate him.  In response, she wiggled her hips and clenched her muscles, hugging him in an intimate embrace, and he wanted her again, but he would not rouse her.

Instead, he savored the obsessive desire, the constant beat of her heart, and the subtle rush of her breath to his flesh, proof that she remained very much a part of his world.  It was a peculiar feeling—love.  Crafty and furtive, the singular emotion seeped into his veins, simmered in his blood, and pervaded every aspect of his being, and he was powerless to stop it, not that he would.  When they stood before the archbishop and made their vows, he did not anticipate the powerful commitment that now overwhelmed him.  Rather, he had hoped for abiding friendship, an allegiance he deemed reasonable, in light of their arranged marriage and utter unfamiliarity.  But thither was naught reasonable about the all-consuming devotion he coveted for her.

“Arucard.”  Gasping, Isolde shivered violently, flailed her legs, and whimpered, and her distress tore at his heart.  “Whither art thou, Arucard?”

“Shh, honey flower.”  With his thumb, he caressed her cheek until she relaxed.  “Hither am I, and hither shall I remain.”

The truth of his proclamation, invested with steely resolution he would defend to his death, supplanted the most important oath he had ever sworn, excepting his nuptials.  While his brothers might frown on Arucard’s priorities, he owed Isolde his very existence, as she manifested his center, and he would have it no other way.  So the next time he undertook the Brethren oath, in his mind he would alter the last sentence: For love and Isolde he lived.

ARUCARD

EPILOGUE

“Admit it, thou art trying to kill me with pleasure.”  Arucard pinched Isolde’s bottom, and she shrieked.  “But what a way to meet my fate.”

“Thou art free to reject my advances, my lusty lord.”  Sprawled atop her husband, she placed a kiss on his chest and then sighed.  “But keep thy voice down, as thy daughter sleeps.  If thou dost wake her, thou must deal with her.”

“When dost thou expect Margery to collect our child?”  When he hugged her tight, she cuddled close.  “As I would have thee to myself, once the deed is done.  And I intend to suckle thy sumptuous petals and make thee scream, this eventide.”

Ah, yea.  The deed.

An official proclamation arrived only yesterday, and her husband dreaded apprising Demetrius of impending events, which would forever change his life.  How odd it was that Arucard would deliver the news on the first anniversary of their wedding.

“I suppose we should rise and garb ourselves for the singular occasion.”  Yet Isolde shifted beneath the warm blankets.  “My lord, I do love our lazy days spent in private, especially when the weather turns unseasonably cold.”

“As do I.”  To her surprise, he sat upright and carried her with him.  “Let us have done with it, that we might commence the celebration of our nuptials, to which I look forward.”

“Very well.”  Naked, she crossed her arms and strolled to the washbasin, while he tended the fire in the hearth.  As she soaped her face, he hugged her from behind and kissed the back of her neck.  Rinsing the suds from her eyes, she giggled.  “My insatiable lord, thou dost tempt me, and I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

“Isolde, dost thou remember when I said thou dost hold my heart?”  In play, he nipped the crest of her ear.

“Aye.”  When he cupped her breasts, she moaned, reached and grasped his thighs.  “It is one of my most cherished memories.”

“I was wrong.”  At his declaration, she turned in his grasp, preparing to protest, and he rubbed his nose to hers.  “Thou art my heart.”

With a cry of delight, she jumped on him, and they fell into bed.

Anon, as she again collapsed atop him, spent and sated, she started when someone knocked at the door.  “My lord, I do not think I can move.”

“Prithee, a moment.”  In one fail swoop, Arucard rolled her over, kissed her with a loud smack, and then leaped from the mattress.  After retrieving his robe, he belted it tight.  “Honey flower, I love thee.  Now don thy attire, as thou hast promised to help me with Demetrius, and I believe he will take it better with thee in his presence.”

As he stepped into the outer room, he closed the door to their inner chamber, and she reluctantly repeated her earlier grooming.

Seconds later, he reappeared and whispered, “It is Margery, come to take little Roswitha.”

It warmed her that he took such tender care, as he bent and scooped their daughter into his arms, along with Isolde’s cherished Bartholomew baby.  When their child cooed, he smiled and kissed her forehead.  Then he rocked gently, as he carried her into the solar.

With her hose in place, Isolde pulled on a chemise, just as Arucard re-entered their sanctuary.  “So, it is done?”

“Aye.”  As she anticipated, he made straight for her.  “We art alone until the morrow, when Margery will return Roswitha to us, my lady.”

“And now we must tend Sir Demetrius.”  She expelled a breath, as he suckled her bottom lip and then chuckled.  “And, between the two, I believe Margery hath the easier task.”  Then something occurred to her.  “My lord, how didst thee react to the revelation, when it was thy turn?”

“I should clothe myself.”  In a flash, he whirled about and all but dove into his trunk.  “I need fresh braies and hose.  And I would wear my burgundy tunic, which thou didst sew with thy own sweet fingers.”

“Arucard?”  With hands on hips, she tapped her foot on the stone floor.  “Answer me.”

“In truth, I vomited before the King.”  Rotating until he faced her, he cast a charming pout.  “It was humiliating.  But, in fairness, I knew not the bounty that awaited, and never have I regretted fulfilling my duty and taking thee to wife.”

“Given our union was arranged, I shared thy trepidation, though not in such spectacular fashion.”  After pulling a gown over her head, she gave him her back.  Without prompting, he tied her laces.  “Am I still thy duty?”

All activity ceased.

Biting her tongue, she turned and peered at her husband, and the pain in his visage was evident.

“Isolde, I love thee.”  He trailed a finger along the curve of her cheek.  “And while I admit I harbored more than a little apprehension as we took our vows, that changed when I lifted thy veil and glimpsed thee, as thou art no duty such as I have ever known.  But the love and devotion came anon, when thou didst kneel on the ground and bare thy marked flesh, in preparation to receive thy punishment after I found the letter from thy father.  Thou didst win me with thy bravery.”

“Thou were so angry.”  When he flicked his fingers, she wrapped her arms about his waist, and he cradled her close.  “I thought thou would never desire me, if thou didst know of my scars.”

“On the contrary.”  Shifting her in his grasp, Arucard bent and kissed her.  “Thou art glorious, and thy wounds bear testament to thy strength and courage.  If I could have spared thee the torment, I would have done so.  But as I cannot change what hath already happened, I would have thee no other way.  And thou art not my duty.  Thou art my life.”

Noises in the solar signaled their meal had been delivered.

“My champion, let us impart the joyous report, that Sir Demetrius may enjoy similar good fortune.”  Then Isolde rubbed his crotch.  “As I would savor thy company, unreservedly, for the remains of the day and night, and I want thee naked for every minute of it.”

“Honey flower, I will make thee pay in coin of thy supple flesh for thy enticement.”  He squeezed her bottom and thrust his hips.  “But now we must host my friend, and thou must play thy part.”

“It will not be difficult, given I love thee.”  With a wink, she eased into her slippers and then set wide the doors.

At the table, an alluring feast had been served to her exacting specification, which included the burly knight’s favorite dishes.  Just as she poured the tankards of ale, the guest of honor arrived.

“Am I late?”  Although Sir Demetrius was not as large in stature as Arucard, he was nonetheless imposing, especially in light of his unique coloring.  Whereas Arucard boasted dark brown hair and deep baby blues, Demetrius was known for his raven locks and pale, almost silver eyes, which often unnerved her in their clarity, as he appeared possessed by some foul demon.

“Nay, brother.”  Arucard slapped Demetrius on the shoulder.  “Come in and sup with my bride and I, on our special day.”

“I wish ye merry and must confess I was surprised to receive thy invitation.”  Chuckling, Demetrius straddled the bench, and Arucard followed suit.  “Rest assured, I will not linger.”

While the men talked of various interests, Isolde dished ample portions.  As she made to sit beside her husband, he grabbed her by the hips and lifted her to his lap.

“No worries, old friend.”  As a show of affection, Arucard broke off a large piece of cameline meat brewet, shoved it into her mouth, and she choked.  “Ah, it is good to be a husband.”

“My lord, if I may, perchance thou might offer a smaller bite?”  With her napkin, she wiped her chin and coughed.  “And I am more than capable of feeding myself.”

“My lady, is that a sambocade cheesecake?”  Demetrius licked his lips.

“Indeed.”  She glanced at Arucard and winked.  “I dried the elderflowers, myself.”

“Only a wife would think of such simple pleasures,” Arucard added.

“Thou art too kind, gentlewoman.”  Wolfing down an impressive amount of buttered wortes, Demetrius narrowed his stare.  “But what need have I of such a creature, when Lady Isolde doth indulge my preferences so well?”

Arucard gazed at Isolde, and together they blinked.

“Well, have I shown thee my new tunic?”  With unmasked pride, Arucard stretched upright.  “My wife created this for me.”

“Ah, yea.”  Demetrius tugged at his collar.  “She made mine, and it is a perfect fit.”

When Arucard frowned at her, she shrugged.

“God’s bones, brother.”  At last, Arucard propped his elbow on the table and groaned.  Then he drew the King’s letter from beneath his napkin and tossed it to Demetrius.  “Soon, thou wilt have no need of my wife’s skills as a cook and a tailor.”

“I do not understand.”  Demetrius scratched his temple and peered at the missive.

“Read it.”  Arucard nodded once.

As Demetrius unfolded the note, Arucard caressed her bottom and pulled her closer.  For some strange reason, Isolde held her breath as the tension grew.

Then Demetrius jerked, toppled his tankard, and blanched.  “Great abyss of misery, I am to marry.”

ABOUT BARBARA DEVLIN

Bestselling author Barbara Devlin was born a storyteller. A Texan, through and through, Barbara hasn't been without a book in her possession since she was in kindergarten. She wrote her first short story, a really cheesy murder-mystery, in high school, but it was a Christmas gift, a lovely little diary with a bronze lock, given to her in the fifth grade that truly inspired her love of writing.

After completing part of her undergraduate studies at the University of London, where she developed a love of all things British, Barbara returned home and began a career in banking. But the late 80s weren't too promising for the financial industry, and every bank that hired Barbara soon folded. So she searched for a stable occupation, and the local police department offered the perfect solution.

And then one uncharacteristically cold and icy day in December 1998, Barbara was struck by a car and pinned against a guardrail while working an accident on a major highway. Permanently disabled, she retired from the police department and devoted her time and energy to physical therapy.

Once Barbara got back on her feet, she focused on a new career in academia. She earned an MA in English and continued a course of study for a Doctorate in Literature and Rhetoric. She happily considered herself an exceedingly eccentric English professor, until success in Indie publishing lured her into writing, full-time, featuring her fictional knighthood, the Brethren of the Coast.

Connect with Barbara Devlin at BarbaraDevlin.com, where you can sign up for her newsletter, The Knightly News.

Twitter: @barbara_devlin

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BarbaraDevlinAuthor

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER

TITLES BY

SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER

RETURN TO KINTAIL SERIES

The Taming of Mairi MacKenzie

Winter Fire

RAVENSCRAIG LEGACY SERIES

Highlander in Her Bed

Highlander in Her Dreams

Tall, Dark, and Kilted

Some Like It Kilted

The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance

HIGHLAND GHOSTBUSTER SERIES

Haunted Warrior

ANTHOLOGIES

The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance

Highlander’s Sweet Promises

Lords, Lairds, and Legends: Magical Tales of Timeless Passion

Gentlemen Always Play Fair

Echoes of Destiny

Highland Seduction

A Kiss and a Promise

Knight Winds

Knights of Passion

Tantalizing Teasers

Only a Duke or Laird Will Do

NOVELLAS

A Man, a Woman, and Haggis (Tails of Love Anthology w/ Lori Foster)

Falling in Time

The Seventh Sister

Once Upon A Highland Christmas

THE BANSHEE OF THE GLEN OF WINDS

Deep in the most remote bounds of the Western Highlands, keen-eyed wayfarers might notice fissures in the cold, bare rock of the wild, soaring mountains.  Dark and forbidding, these crevices only beckon to those of stout heart and steely will, for many tales are spun about what might dwell within such ancient, forgotten places.

Some say the openings lead to the far edge of the world.  Others argue that these hills are part of Kintail, territory of the great Clan MacKenzie, reminding folk that the clan’s leader, Duncan, the Black Stag of Kintail, would cut down any man who’d dare cast a slur against the land he’s known to love and guard so passionately.  Only the bravest souls then note that even the legendary MacKenzie chieftain rarely passes this way, and that he warns his people to tread gently if ever they must cross these savage and rock-strewn peaks.

For somewhere in their midst, lies the Glen of Winds, a steep-sided abyss of crags, knolls, and heather, where the ever-racing wind carries the lost souls of the damned, leaving them there to wallow in loneliness and solitude.

No one can say for sure.

And few wish to seek answers.

It’s enough to know that the wind does wail and moan here, blowing cold, dark, and endlessly.

Mist often swirls and eddies in the tiny Glen of Winds, and some have sworn earlier times can be glimpsed if one peers hard enough into the half-light.  The truth is a centuries-old broch stands hidden in the glen.  Known by the MacKenzies as Dunwynde, it’s rumored to be the dwelling place of a fearsome, wild-eyed banshee.

Indeed, her cries have been heard echoing off the cliffs.

Souls unfortunate enough to have seen her, claim she has hair and eyes of fire, and that her face is so bleak that if one looks upon her too long, madness descends.  The banshee then celebrates, watching in satisfaction as the doomed wander away, forever lost in the glen’s sea of huge, granite boulders and whirling mist.

The banshee’s presence keeps visitors from setting foot in the Glen of Winds.

Only a fool would risk encountering her.

Or perhaps a desperate man.

For if one is tireless in the quest to learn the glen’s secrets, other fascinating tales are sometimes revealed.  Stories of a beautiful, reclusive woman, bold, tempestuous, and just as wild-eyed as the banshee she’s reputed to be.  She’s said to possess a strange and powerful gift, the astonishing ability to bring the dead back to life.

Her name is Mairi MacKenzie.

And she sees her talent as a curse.

Dunwynde is her refuge; the glen her secret, well-guarded home.  Many are her reasons for hiding from the world.  Clan MacKenzie makes certain she isn’t disturbed, protecting her as one of their dearest treasures.  Only Mairi knows how unworthy she is of her clan’s devotion.

A shame one man is so determined to meet her.

And that he’s one of Scotland’s greatest warriors, even if circumstance has kept him from lifting a sword in years.  Men still remember him and bards sing his praises.  Women adore him, but he’s shunned them with a vengeance more fierce than his refusal to wield a blade.

All that is really left to him is his love for his clan and his home.

Now he stands to lose them as well.

Unless the Glen of Winds banshee will help him.

Knowing he must save everything he holds dear, he uses his warrior skills to find her.  But dangers of the past are lurking and if Mairi gives the warrior what he needs, she will doom herself forevermore.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

PROLOGUE

Eilean Creag Castle

The Western Highlands, Autumn 1351

“There’s a dark wind blowing through your lands, that I say you.”  Devorgilla of Doon, Scotland’s most revered cailleach, stood importantly before the solar’s hearth fire, and peered at her host, the equally far-famed Duncan MacKenzie, Black Stag of Kintail.  “Blood will soon flow, a great evil that would smite innocents.”

A tiny, black-garbed woman with a wizened face, a whir of white-gray hair, and bright blue eyes, what truly set her apart were the red plaid laces she used to tie her black boots.  And, perhaps, how spry she was, considering her formidable age.  Years, possibly even centuries, that no wise man would risk mentioning.

Often referred to as simply Herself, Devorgilla commanded respect.

Here, in the heart of the Black Stag’s lair, Duncan’s own privy solar in his beloved loch-girt stronghold, Eilean Creag, that posed a problem.

Duncan ruled his territory with an iron hand.

Just now, he didn’t care for how the orange-red glow from his peat fire edged the cailleach.  The lurid, flickering light gave her an otherworldly air that didn’t sit at all well with him.  It also displeased him that he was certain she knew and had taken advantage.

Hadn’t she hobbled right to the hearth upon entering the room?

So Duncan frowned, something he did well.

If she thought to bedevil him with her witchy ways, he’d treat her to his infamous scowls.

In careful measure, of course.

“You have journeyed here in vain, great lady.”  He used the title he knew she expected, not wishing to grieve her more than was necessary.  “My lands are at peace.”

“That they are, indeed,” came a deep Sassunach voice from across the room.  “Nor have there been any troublesome stirrings at my own Balkenzie Castle.  I keep southern Kintail secured for you.”

“As well you should.”  His mood worsening, Duncan looked sharply at the tall, scar-faced knight who’d claimed the solar’s best chair.

It was Duncan’s own, crafted of heavy black oak and richly carved.  Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, Duncan’s longtime friend and brother-in-law by marriage, sprawled there now, his long legs stretched before him, his usual air of imperturbability so annoying that Duncan’s head began to ache.  How typical that the lout would choose the same afternoon as Devorgilla to darken his door.

Duncan almost believed his friend also possessed crafty powers.

He just hoped Sir Marmaduke wouldn’t mention his patrols along a certain glen.

“I’ve seen no cause for concern up near the Glen of Winds either,” the fiend said, doing just that.  “Even so, we should heed Devorgilla’s warning.”

Duncan glared at him.

Sir Marmaduke lifted his wine cup, sipped with irritating deliberation.

“He is a wise man, your friend.”  The crone preened, sounding smug.

“No man would dare set foot in the Glen of Winds.”  Duncan was certain.  He made sure his mien and stance said so.  Having positioned himself at one of the solar’s window embrasures, he kept his legs braced apart, his arms folded, as he met the crone’s piercing blue gaze.

He also took care not to glance at his lady wife, Linnet.  She’d been silent until now, setting the room’s only table with platters of oatcakes and cheese, a few ewers of fine Rhenish wine.  He knew without looking that Linnet believed the crone.

He did, too, though he wasn’t of a mind to say so.

He’d learned long ago that wherever Devorgilla appeared, trouble soon followed.  Sometimes he suspected she conjured the mayhem, taking pleasure in spreading mischief.  He wouldn’t put anything past her.

He also appreciated the peace that had settled over Kintail in recent years.

Quiet days he meant to maintain.

For sure, a dark wind was coming.  But it wasn’t a war-band or a horde of unholy ghoulies.  He made certain that every man, woman, and child, in his territory slept safely.  The blackness descending was his temper and only his grudging respect for the cailleach kept it at bay.

“‘Twas the Glen of Winds I saw in my cauldron’s steam.”  The crone swelled her chest, her thin shoulders squaring.  “It rose before me clear as day, a narrow, steep-sided defile with jumbles of broken rock, thick heather, gorse, and bog myrtle.  It was a wild and inaccessible place, unmistakable.  The dark winds came from everywhere, black mists whirling about me, my ears aching from the screams and howls-”

“To be sure, you heard wailing.”  He had her now.  “A banshee dwells there, as all men know.  Nothing stirs in that benighted place except her cries and the souls of the doomed.”  He didn’t say his clan spread the rumors.  If she was as wise as she loved to boast, she knew.

If his Sassunach friend or his lady wife revealed the glen’s secret, there’d be hell to pay.

He flashed a look at them both.

Sir Marmaduke had helped himself to a handful of oatcakes and was calmly enjoying one, not at all looking as if the greatest cailleach in the land had just proclaimed doom and destruction was about to befall their beloved Kintail.

His lovely wife, still so desirable with her thick braid of glossy red-gold hair, and the fine heathery scent that aye wafted about her, was just stepping back into the solar, carrying a jeweled flagon of Duncan’s best uisge beatha.  Fiery Highland spirits he agreed would be most welcome before Devorgilla took her leave.

What wasn’t welcome was catching the look Linnet cast at the crone.

“Did you see aught else?” his wife wanted to know, speaking in a way Duncan didn’t like.

He knew the tone well.

It meant she, too, had seen something.

As the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, she was gifted – or cursed – with the second sight; a talent that still had the power to rattle him to the bones, however long they’d been married.

She poured a small cup of uisge beatha and took it to the cailleach.  “Anything at all?”

“There do be more, aye.”  Devorgilla accepted the libation, slid another pointed look at Duncan as she sipped.  “Your men patrol the hills about the glen,” she said, proving as always that she knew things she shouldn’t.  “You’d best have a word with them.  They should be aware that a ne’er before wickedness approaches.”

“I will strengthen their number.”  Duncan nodded, agreeing to keep the peace, secretly resenting an old woman telling him what to do.

Any foulness that thought to enter Kintail was aye met with the sharp edge of a sword, the drawn steel of many blades, all of them expertly wielded.

Such was enough.

“The men who watch that area are my best warriors.”  Duncan unfolded his arms and reached to rub the back of his neck, which was beginning to pain him.

He turned slightly, glancing out the embrasure’s arched window.  It was a fine afternoon and Loch Duich shone like blue glass in the cold autumn sun.  Beyond, for Eilean Creag claimed an island in the loch, the great hills of Kintail stretched on and on, dressed now in shades of burnished red and gold.  But a thick mist was gathering on the higher peaks and the swirling blue-gray mass gave him a chill.  The Glen of Winds was hidden deep inside those rugged, trackless heights.  And on such days, especially so close to gloaming, the wee defile would disappear beneath the fog.

No man would know the glen existed.

And that was why it’d been chosen as the refuge of one of his most precious kinswomen.

Duncan’s scowl returned, along with a cold, unpleasant tightness in his gut.  Turning away from the window, he hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and addressed the tiny, black-garbed cailleach.

“Sir Marmaduke often rides with the men who guard the Glen of Winds.”  He glanced at the Sassunach, letting a curt nod acknowledge his friend’s renown and experience.  “Only a fool would challenge such a patrol.  Nor will they allow any man to cross into the glen.”

“So I knew!”  Devorgilla wagged a finger.  “See you, there is one man they must give entry, a great warrior whose fame is almost as great as your own.

“And his,” she added, giving Sir Marmaduke a bright, twinkly-eyed smile.

Duncan waited, not swayed by her flattery.

“Who is this paragon?”  He didn’t know why he asked, for Devorgilla ever answered in riddles.

“He is the man who will repel the dark winds,” she returned, proving him right.

Duncan glared back at her, his anger rising.  “There is a treasure in that glen.”  He wasn’t about to say more.  “If I dinnae ken who to trust, no stranger will enter the Glen of Winds.”

“He won’t be a stranger when your men see him.”  The crone persisted in speaking riddles.

“If he’s not known to me, he’s an outsider.”  Duncan wouldn’t risk his kin.  “My men will have orders to run him through with a spear.”

“I believe I know who he is.”  Linnet appeared at his side, slid her arm gently through his.  “I have seen him,” she admitted, leaning into him softly as she always did, calming him as no one else could.  “It happened in my herbarium, only moments before Devorgilla arrived.

“There wasn’t time to tell you.”  She looked up at him, the truth in her eyes.  A rich brown, but flecked with gold, they were still the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.  They were also expressive, and never ever lied.  She used them now to hold his gaze.  “I have never before seen this man and I cannot say his name, but a fine silvery light edged him, letting me know he is good.”

“That be him!”  Devorgilla beamed.  “Had silver shining all round him, he did.”

“Saints, Maria, and Joseph!”  Duncan stepped away from his wife, roared his favorite curse.  Scowling at Devorgilla, he shoved his hands through his hair.  “You would have me tell my guards to look for a man who is good and walks about wreathed in silver?”

Sure his men would hold him for addled, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.  He drew a long breath, hoped that when he looked again, he’d find himself in his bed, this entire misbegotten day naught but an unpleasant dream.

“Perhaps the man is a knight?”  Sir Marmaduke’s voice rose from across the solar, shattering the possibility.  “Knights wear mail, could appear to shine like silver.”

“Is that so?”  Duncan glowered at him.

Devorgilla smiled at the Sassunach, bobbed her grizzled head.  “He surely is a knight, and a much honored one,” she trilled, her eyes lighting.  “But the silver ringing him is his goodness, no’ a coat of mail.”

“Then he’d best don one because my men will fall upon him when he appears.”  Duncan strode over to the table and snatched up the uisge beatha flagon, pouring himself a large measure and tossing it down in one long swig.

Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he turned back to the others.  “Your champion is a dead man, Devorgilla.  Lest you-”

“Aye, that he may be.”  She threw a glance at Linnet, then looked again at Duncan.  “Whether he’s dead or no’, isn’t how your men will recognize him.”

Duncan spoke through gritted teeth.  “Then how will they?”

Devorgilla jutted her chin.  “He carries a broken sword.”

“Then he can be no great warrior.”  That Duncan knew.

“Ah, but he once was,” Devorgilla informed him, again wagging her finger.  “The rent blade is his penance.  He seeks the Glen of Winds to cast off his shame.”  She lowered her hand, glancing round at them all.  “Regrettably, he isn’t the only soul heading there.

“But he is the one who shall save your treasure,” she finished, looking pleased.

“I see.”  Duncan did, leastways he hoped so.

He might have a temper, but he wasn’t a fool.

He understood something of broken warriors.  Great men who’d made poor choices and sought redemption.  Once, many long moons ago, he’d belonged to their number.  If Devorgilla and his lady wife were sure this faceless fighter was worthy, he wouldn’t harass him.

As for the rest…

He’d take measures to safeguard kith and kin, as always.

Satisfied, he smoothed his proud MacKenzie plaid and gave the cailleach his word.  “My men will be instructed to allow this warrior passage across our lands, even into the Glen of Winds.”

He glanced at Sir Marmaduke, satisfied when his friend inclined his head.

“It is agreed, the man with a broken sword is welcome in Kintail.”  Duncan waited for any final arguments.

When none came, he nodded.  “So be it.”

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER ONE

Dunwynde Broch

The Glen of Winds

Mairi MacKenzie knew the moment a stranger entered the glen.  She felt a shifting in the air, a ripple down her spine.  So she stilled before the broch’s central fire, and quietly set aside the long wooden ladle she’d just lifted off her table.  Tending her cook-pot could wait, her dinner mattered less than her safety.  She might not possess the gift so many believed she had, an ability to bring the dead back to life, but she was fond of living.

Necessity had taught her caution, honing her senses.

She’d heard the telltale crunch of a horse’s hooves on pebbled stone.  She’d also caught the creak of saddle leather, the jingle of a harness.  Her fine-tuned ears picked up the sounds through chinks in the walls of the half-ruinous broch that served as her home.

A rough shelter, to be sure.  Even so, Dunwynde guarded her well, its age-smoothed stones protecting her through the long, endless-seeming moons since she’d left everything she’d known to become the banshee of this fearsome defile.

A mythic terror few would risk troubling.

Now…

Someone had breached her sanctuary, and the knowledge alarmed her greatly.

She shivered, the cold coming from within.  Then she stepped away from her cauldron of thick, simmering stew, and crossed the broch’s circular main room to the low lintelled entry.  A heavy length of hide hung there, as good a door as needed in this benighted place, so shunned by men.  Behind her, peat haze hung in the air, the earthy-sweet scent not soothing her as on most days.  For the first time she could remember, the chill wind that aye raced through the glen, struck ill-ease into her heart, even prickling her skin.

There could be no reason for anyone to visit Dunwynde.

For someone to seek her was even more unsettling.

She didn’t want to seek a new hideaway.

She’d been so grateful to have found succor here, regaining the calm and quietude that had been stolen from her when she’d been chased from her cottage at Drumbell village.  Branded the devil’s own mistress, she’d fled to her clan chieftain, Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail.  A good and strong leader, he’d settled her at Dunwynde, vowing that no harm would come to her within its ancient embrace.  She even felt a bond to the broch’s earliest dwellers, sensing they’d welcomed her to the strange, tower-like structure they’d built so long ago.  She also liked the glen’s wildness, its rugged splendor a balm to her soul.

She didn’t care if folk thought her a banshee.

Not if such a guise kept her peace.

Hoping it wasn’t about to be broken, she gripped the edge of the door-flap, easing the leather aside.  The glen stretched long and narrow before her, its sides tall and sheer, the ground rock-strewn and hemmed with birches.  Mist rolled everywhere, making it difficult to see the track that twisted down from the windswept pass so high above her.  If anyone rode there, spray from several plunging cataracts and the mist hid the intruder from view.

Even so, she reached for the short sword propped by the door.  She raised it defensively, her heart thumping hard in her chest at the rustling of autumn-brittle leaves, the snap of a twig.

She saw no one.

Yet she knew someone approached.

Mairi bit her lip, wary.  She hadn’t imagined the noise.  As if the gods wished to send another warning, the crunch of footsteps on stone came again.  Not a horse’s step this time, but the unmistakable tread of a man.  He was closer now, coming through the mist-drenched glen, and making for Dunwynde.

Tightening her grip on the sword, Mairi prepared to swing if she must.

She hoped she needn’t.

Her heart thundered, disbelief warring with her dread.

The Black Stag, as her chieftain was known, sent frequent patrols along the perimeters of her tiny, rockbound refuge.  His men were hand-picked, fierce, and battle-hardened.  One of them, her chieftain’s captain of the guard, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, had once been hailed as one of the realm’s greatest swordsmen.  He was still revered, his fame undimmed.  Such champions would never allow anyone to disturb her.  Whoever approached, must’ve gained entry by stealth.  Like as not, a poor misguided soul hoping she could cast miracles.

Or her enemy had found her, a threat she couldn’t ignore.

Hatred and envy were powerful emotions and she’d roused both in a truly formidable foe.

Sorcha Bell’s face flashed across her mind, the healer’s angry, twisted mien letting Mairi’s courage swell, her own fury steeling her backbone.  Her heart still pounded, and her mouth had gone dry, but she stood taller.  Unafraid, she hooked back the door’s leather curtain and stepped outside, into the half-light.

She saw the sword before she saw the man.

Shining brightly in the gloom, the weapon’s blade revealed that no one need fear its swing.

The sword was broken, more than half of its proud length missing.

Before she could wonder why, the mist parted and the man wearing the rent sword strode into view.  He was tall, powerfully built, and clearly a warrior, though his proud features were merely grim-set, not aggressive.  Mist whirled around him and Mairi would’ve sworn each tendril sparkled, but it was only the sheen of his mail shirt, and perhaps the glint of the silver Thor’s hammer hanging at his neck.  His arm rings also shone brightly, the number of them indicating his status as a fighting man of great skill.

The plaid slung boldly over his shoulder told her he was a Highlander, while his dark good looks would’ve trapped her breath in her chest if she still allowed herself to acknowledge the passion that once ran so hotly in her blood.  Even so, she couldn’t deny the jolt of awareness that hit her when his gaze locked on hers.

Once, long ago, she’d have embraced such a powerful attraction, the natural urge to touch, taste, and melt into his warrior body, the intimacy exciting not just her flesh but searing her soul.

Mairi took a deep breath, steadying herself against the wild beating of her heart, the racing of her blood.  The warrior was almost upon her, his strides purposeful.  Whoever he was, his eyes were deeply shadowed, their grimness leaving no doubt that he came as a miracle seeker.

Like so many before him.

All that set him apart from the others was the huge dog at his side.  A massive brute, the beast could’ve been a wolf-or-deerhound, though a strain of something more savage gave him the look of a war-dog capable of tearing out a man’s throat at a single command.

Mairi felt only a surge of love for him.

He could have been her own beloved Clyde, her much-missed companion who had indeed once been a war-dog, until she’d found and nursed him back to health.  Clyde’s years with her had been far too short, but he’d taught her that the softest heart could beat beneath the fiercest exterior, so she didn’t fear the stranger’s dog.

She was wary of the warrior.

So she straightened her shoulders and started forward, not wanting him to reach her door.  She didn’t brandish her sword at him.  Like as not, he’d flick it aside as easily if brushing lint from his sleeve.  But it didn’t hurt for him to see that she was prepared to defend herself.

She just chose to do so with a casual tone and an unconcerned mien.

“Are you lost, sir?”  She knew he wasn’t.  “Not many wayfarers come this way.”

“I am no’ a traveler, my lady, nor have I erred direction.”  He stopped before her, fixing her with his intense, dark eyes.  “I am Sir Gare MacTaggert of Blackrock Castle on the other side of this fair realm, and I came to your Glen of Winds to seek the aid of its banshee.”

That I knew, good sir, and you can leave now.

The glen’s banshee cannot help you.

“There is no such being here.”  Mairi gave him a third version of the truth.  “You have journeyed for naught.  I dwell in this glen with my husband,” she allowed herself the lie.  “He will return anon-”

“Lady Mairi.”  A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth.  “I was told you’d attempt to send me away, and I ken you aren’t married.”  He glanced down at his dog, then back at her, his smile now gone.  “Troll and I come in peace and mean you no harm.  Your chieftain’s captain of the guard, Sir Marmaduke, and his men, granted us passage across their lands and into this glen.

“I spoke with them only a short while ago.”  He glanced up at the cliff-tops, now thick with lowering mist and clouds.  “They were good enough to take my horse back to your chief’s Eilean Creag Castle for stabling and care while I am in the Glen of Winds.”

“You cannot think to stay here.”  Mairi tried to look away from him, but couldn’t.  His gaze was too compelling.  “I dwell alone, my broch too small for a guest.”  She waited as the dog rubbed against her, bumping his great head at her hand.  “Besides, you’ve truly come in vain.  There isn’t a banshee to aid you or anyone.

“The banshee is me.”  Mairi stood straighter, ignoring his dog.  “She is a tall tale spun to keep intruders from disturbing my peace.  No more, no less, see you?”

“So I was told, my lady.”  He inclined his head in acknowledgment, another slight smile curving his lips.  A sad one this time.  “In truth, it was you who drew me here, no’ a myth.  Your reputation as a healer is great, reaching even to my lands in Scotland’s distant northeastern bounds.  I believe you can help me, leastways I have prayed to the gods that is so.  If you will but give me your ear, I swear to depart at first light should you decide against aiding me.”

Mairi frowned, her heart beating wildly again.

The dog, Troll, was leaning into her, staring up at her with friendly, hopeful eyes.  His master, Sir Gare, towered over her, a terribly appealing flicker of hope in his own gaze chipping away at her resistance.

Mairi folded her arms, every protective instinct she had screaming caution.

She didn’t want to find any man appealing.

For sure, not one who would turn on her as soon as it became clear that she couldn’t restore life to his loved one.

“I must ask you to leave.”  There, she’d said what she must.

Go before my heart yearns for you as fiercely as my woman’s body already does.

Dear heavens, he smelled of sandalwood, clean wool, leather, cold air and man, and the heady blend was fuzzing her wits, making her vulnerable.  Worse, he had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if he’d actually touched her, and in intimate, sensual ways!

Mairi’s pulse quickened, a tingling, long-forgotten warmth pooling low by her thighs.

No virgin, she’d once loved well and had never denied herself passion.  She recognized the danger of this man, with his alluring scent and potent virility.  His tall, well-muscled body, surely hard as iron.  His strong, beautiful hands that reminded her of the pleasures a skilled lover’s questing fingers could give a woman.

Joys she hadn’t known in so long.

“See here, I can do nothing for you,” she started again, sure she was glowering.  “Nor can you sleep here.”  She indicated the rock-sided glen, the boulder-strewn ground.  “Even if I wished you to stay, there isn’t enough bracken to make the thinnest pallet.”

His gaze locked with hers, and something in his expression told her she was losing.  “Troll and I can sleep on the ground.”  He spoke as if everything was settled.  “We have done so most nights of our journey.  I need no more than my plaid, and Troll is well-furred enough to no’ feel the rocks beneath him.”

“Very well.”  Mairi nodded, sure resistance was futile.  “But you’ll leave on the morrow.”

“If you say you cannae help me, aye.”

“I’m telling you that now.”

“It is said you have brought back the breath of life to the coldest of the damned.”  His words pierced her heart, making her soul ache.  “Your fame is on every bard’s tongue, the wonders you have wrought, the miracles-”

“The tales are untrue.”  Mairi tucked her hair behind an ear, kept her chin raised.  “No one can bring the dead back to life.”

“Yet you have done so.”

“Aye, but-”

He stepped closer and gripped her arm, his touch sending ripples of awareness through her.  “I wouldn’t be here if my request wasn’t dire, my lady.  All I ask is that you restore-”

“I regret you’ve lost someone.”  She did, especially that she couldn’t do what he wanted.

She knew the pain of heartache.

So before she could think better of it, she lifted her hand to his face and touched his cheek, slid her fingers along his beard.  “I do wish I could help you, but all I can offer is my sympathy.”

“You misunderstand.”  He caught her hand, lacing their fingers, squeezing tight.  Determination burned in his eyes.  “The dead I want you to revive is a man who hasn’t truly died.  He stands before you.”

“You?”  Mairi blinked.  “Now I am quite confused.”

“You willnae be.” He glanced aside, drew a deep breath.  “My lady, I have lost all feeling inside me.  I would that you use your skill to rekindle my will to live.”

Mairi didn’t know what to say.

“I would be whole again.”  He turned back to her, the look on his face making it impossible to refuse him.  “Dinnae deny me.”

“I won’t.” Mairi couldn’t believe her consent.  “I’ll do what I can,” she added, making it worse.

She didn’t know where to begin to help him.

She just knew she must.

***

About the same time, but high on the windswept peaks above the glen, a tiny black-garbed woman stood as close to the cliff edge as she dared, and peered down at the ill-starred pair beneath her.

She was Devorgilla of Doon, the Highlands’ most far-famed cailleach and wise woman, and she’d plied her formidable skills since before time was.  She worked tirelessly for the greater good, and rarely had two souls needed her more than her latest charges: The tall warrior with his broken sword and the lass who shouldn’t sleep alone, only the wind to say her goodnight.

Such loneliness was unnatural.

And the man should have a warm and loving woman at his side, not cold, sundered steel.

Tsk’ing, Devorgilla hitched her skirts and inched a bit closer to the drop-off.  She swatted at the whirling mist, mumbled a few words to dispel enough for her to see more clearly.  Satisfied, she set her hands on her hips and leaned forward, studying the couple.

Theirs was a hard path, she knew.

Gare MacTaggert, for he’d lost so much.  Mairi MacKenzie because she’d never had a lot to begin with.  Such misfortune had drawn her to them for she was a born matchmaker, though some called her a meddler.

Either way, she did as she pleased.

Few could deny she was aye right in the end.

Hoping to keep it that way, she slid a glance at her companion and helpmate, Somerled, a little red fox standing close beside her.

“I do believe the lass saw our warding sparkles,” she mused, certain of it.  She’d seen Mairi narrow her gaze on the silvery glitter in the air about the warrior; the sparkles all that remained of the goodwill charm she’d cast over him.  A caution, no more; a quiet way to make certain that the Black Stag’s men not only allowed him entry into the Glen of Winds, but also received him as a friend.

Someone they could trust, the wards letting them see him as he truly was.

A good and valiant man.

“By all the fates, she saw.”  Devorgilla nodded sagely.  “Do you no’ agree, laddie?”

Somerled blinked in response, his gaze earnest.

“She is more gifted than she knows, eh?”  Devorgilla reached down to stroke her friend’s silky red fur.  “Thought it was the gleam of his mail, she did!  No bother.  The last bits will be gone anon,” she added, pushing back her sleeves and cracking her knotty knuckles.

“Now look closely,” she urged the fox.  “Show me any lingering sparkles.”

It pinched her pride to need such aid, but given her years, her eyes weren’t what they’d once been.

Understanding, Somerled again fixed his attention on the warrior.  He eyed him carefully, and then raised his foot, pawing the air and pointing at each wayward glint of floating silver.

Devorgilla responded in kind, wriggling a gnarled finger at each sparkle.  She only had to will it so, for the charm residue to vanish.

She counted twenty glitter-dots.  Then they were gone, nary a shiver of magick remaining.

“Our work is done, laddie.”  Mightily pleased, she stepped away from the cliff edge and gave a little cackle of glee.  “They are on their own now.  We have only given them a wee nudge.  Whether they do aught about it is up to them.”

That Devorgilla knew with all the wisdom in her grizzled head.

Somerled apparently agreed, for he was already sending expectant glances at the plaid-covered basket packed with their dinner – a fine roasted gannet, the succulent seabird one of the crone’s favorites, green cheese, oatcakes, two cooked eggs, and a flagon of heather ale.

“They be good victuals, eh?”  Devorgilla hobbled over to the basket, rewarding her friend with a tasty gannet tidbit.  “Lady Linnet aye treats us well.”

Somerled angled his head and tapped the basket with his paw, in clear accord.

Before Devorgilla could give him another piece of gannet, the little fox looked aside to peer at the greatest of Kintail’s hills, massive, rock-bound heights as mist-cloaked as the cliffs above the Glen of Winds.  The intensity of his gaze and his perked ears warned that he saw more than the blowing mist.

“So we’re yet needed, are we?”  Devorgilla glanced at the rugged peaks, wariness spreading through her ancient bones.

As always, her wee friend was right to be concerned.

Trouble brewed on the horizon, and its darkness was drifting near, making its way to the Glen of Winds, its purpose pure and deadly evil.

“Ach, laddie, you’d best tell me what you ken.”  She bent to tighten her red plaid bootlaces, flashing a look at the fox as she did so.  “I ken fine ye see more than I do,” she admitted, somewhat grudgingly.

Somerled blinked and twitched his tail, a nod to his own pride.

When Devorgilla straightened, he did as she’d bid him, fixing her with his deep and piercing gaze.  Ever her talebearer, he used their special bond to rely what he’d gleaned on recent roamings.  He also shared what he’d learned just now, peering into the distance.

Grateful, Devorgilla pressed a hand against her hip, giving him her fullest attention, listening not with her ears, but her heart.

What she heard worried her.

Yet fate was inexorable, all things happening for a reason.  Nudges and the dash of a charm here and there were fine, harming no one and aiding many.

But every man had to walk his own path, choosing well or otherwise.

Bad things happened to those who sought to bend that rule.

And she hadn’t reached her impressive number of years by behaving imprudently.

So she dusted her hands, brushed down her skirts, and adjusted her new black woolen cloak, Duncan MacKenzie’s parting gift to her; the proud chieftain’s thanks for telling him about the man with the broken sword.

“Come, laddie, we have done all we can here.”  Devorgilla retrieved their food basket, hooking it on her arm.  “It is time for us to return to Doon, for thon pair down in the glen must fight their dragons alone.”

Somerled, wise soul that he was, agreed.

But he also cast one last meaningful glance at the cliff edge, now almost hidden by thick, curtaining mist.

Devorgilla understood.

“The gloom willnae help them, my little one,” she told him, shaking her head.  “No glen is hidden enough, no fog so dense, that wickedness willnae find a way.

“So will goodness if certain ill-starred souls trust their hearts.”

But for the first time in her long and illustrious career, Devorgilla had doubts.

Gare’s heart truly was as dead as he claimed.

Mairi’s had been broken beyond repair.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER TWO

Gare ducked his head to enter Dunwynde’s low-set doorway, astonished that Lady Mairi allowed him the privilege.  He’d expected her to walk away, leaving him and Troll in the glen’s cold, inhospitable gloaming.  Instead, she’d cast a glance at his dog, her face softening before she’d turned back to him with the invitation.

“You’re fond of dogs?”  He stopped inside the door, allowing his eyes adjust to the broch’s dimness.

“I care for all animals.”  Mairi MacKenzie went to a small table, poured water from a jug into an earthen bowl.  “But, aye, I have a special liking for dogs.”

“Yet you dinnae have one?”  Gare glanced about the humble room, seeing no sign of a pet.

What he did see, hit him like a fist in the gut.

Dunwynde was spotlessly clean, the hard-packed dirt floor, well-swept, while the walls appeared scrubbed and free of moss and cobwebs.  But there, all hints of comfort ended.  The smoldering peat fire and a few sputtering torches illuminated the circular, windowless room, while a pallet of furs was clearly where Mairi slept.

Gare frowned, rubbing the back of his neck as he took in even more.  He doubted the makeshift roof of branches, scraped hides, and heather would keep out a hard rain.  Blessedly, the blackened cook-pot on its chain over the fire, and a string of dried herring stretched across the far wall, indicated the lass wasn’t hungry.  She needn’t freeze either, for a woolen cloak hung from a peg near the door.  He hoped a lidded basket nearby held more clothes.  Even so, a broch was what it was, a centuries-old, long-crumbling stone tower so grim it shouldn’t be occupied by more than damp, mice, and the wind-blown scattering of dead leaves.

His mood worsening, Gare felt his hands clench, his chest tighten.

Images of Blackrock Castle flashed across his mind, the sumptuousness of his well-appointed home so at odds to the broch’s desolation.

No woman should dwell so sparsely.

That many did, grieved him.

Seeing this one in such straits outraged him, though he couldn’t say why her plight affected him so gravely.  There was just something about her.

He’d felt it the moment their gazes had met.

“No, I do not have a dog,” she said then, setting the water bowl against the far wall.  She placed a second dish beside it, a delicious-smelling stew that Troll was already devouring as if Gare never fed him.

“The Glen of Winds is no place for an animal.”  She turned to face him at last.  “There may not be a banshee here, but the souls of the damned do pass this way.  Their wails would distress a dog.”

Across the room, Troll finished eating, seemingly unaffected by the threat of troubled spirits.  Far from it, he went to the low-burning fire, circled three times, and dropped into a deep sleep, his immediate snores proving his ease.

“Troll is no’ bothered by your ghosties.”  Gare frowned at his dog, surprised that he could rest in such a dank, dreary place.

Mairi came over to him, her long raven hair shining in the torchlight.  He watched her with interest for he’d heard of the great beauty of MacKenzie women and she proved the truth of their fame.  Rarely had he seen such glossy tresses and he surprised himself by feeling a powerful urge to reach out and touch her braid.  The thick plait reached to her hips and he was stunned to find he wanted to undo it, see her gleaming hair spill free about her shoulders, an image that stirred him in ways that weren’t good for either of them.

She glanced at Troll, then back to him.  “Your dog is brave to feel at ease here.  I do not fear bogles either, though I do notice oddities.  You, sir, are no common journeyer.”  Her chin came up, her tone challenging.  “Why do you carry a broken sword?”

“The rent blade is my penance.”  Gare told her true.  “This sword,” – he patted the offensive steel –“is aye at my side, reminding me of deeds that should ne’er have happened, the wrong caused by my hand.”

She angled her head, her eyes narrowing slightly.  “So that’s the reason you’re here?  You hoped the Glen of Winds banshee could undo an old regret?

“If so I must again disappoint you.”  She looked at him from beneath thick, sooty lashes.  “Just as I cannot restore life to the dead, nor can I change the past.  I have no access to the power of the gods, no charms to aid you.”

She stood straighter, flipped her braid behind her back.  “You shouldn’t have listened to the tales.”

“I am no fool.”  Gare leaned toward her.  “It was more than that, my lady.”

“Such as?”

“A gut feeling.  The same instinct that served me well in many a battle.  A wise man knows to heed it.  Your fame has reached far beyond Kintail.  Something compelled me to seek you.  I can say no more.”

“If you do not, you will not be here past the morrow’s dawn.”  She folded her arms, her spirit intriguing him.

Wishing that weren’t so, Gare schooled his features, not wanting her to guess that he found her attractive.  More damning, that he’d just imagined her naked, adorned only by her gleaming, unbound hair.

He was beginning to think he’d run mad to come here.

For sure, he wasn’t about to tell her of the tiny, black-garbed woman who’d called at his castle gate, pleading weariness and begging a night’s lodging.  Once she’d supped well and enjoyed her ale, she’d regaled his hall with praise of Mairi MacKenzie.  She was a healer of men, a weaver of wonders, the crone had claimed, fixing her gaze so intently on him that he’d believed she’d called at Blackrock for the sole reason of telling him of Mairi.

He half suspected the cailleach had spelled him.

Each time she’d said Mairi Mackenzie’s name that night, he’d felt a mighty jolt to the core.

He’d known he had to find Mairi.  His surety that she could help him grew with each passing day, every hour.  Now that he was here, with her standing before him, he was no longer so certain.  Indeed, he had a strong inkling that seeking her had complicated his life in ways he’d never dreamed.

He’d tossed fat onto the fire.

And the flames lured him irresistibly.

Furious at himself, he went to her door and drew back the leather curtain.  He looked out into the now-dark night.  A thin rain fell and cold mist blew past the broch, the gloom suiting his mood.  He let the hanging fall shut again and then rubbed his arms, grateful for Troll, at least, that the lass was giving them a sheltered bed for the night, if only on the cold earthen floor before her hearth stone.

“If you remain silent, you may take your leave now.”  She appeared at his elbow, a thread of steel in her tone.  “Your dog can stay until the rain stops.  If you are too far gone by then, I will have one of Sir Marmaduke’s men bring him to you.  Until then, he shall be kept dry and well-fed.

“If you wish to remain together, you’d best speak plainly.”  She stepped back then, as if she couldn’t bear to stand so close to him.

“Lady Mairi, I lie to no woman.”  Gare was affronted she’d think so.  “I’ll no’ begin such a despicable trait with you, howe’er you try my patience.”

“I am the one awaiting an answer.”  She crossed her arms, clearly annoyed.  “Nor am I a lady.  I cannot claim the title, nor do I mind.”  Her chin came up again, pride glinting in her eyes.  “I am simply Mairi MacKenzie.  My clan name carries all the honor I need.”

“So it does.”  Gare gave her that.

“You shall have your answers.”  He moved away from the leather-covered door, feeling as if the night’s chill had seeped into his bones, icing his innards, and freezing the words he had to say.  It was so hard to push them past his lips.  “I am no’ here just for myself.  My quest serves the weal of every man, woman, and child, of my clan.”  He paused, closing his eyes for a moment as his gut clenched on the rest.  “My journey was also made in the interest of the Scottish crown.”

“The crown?”  Her eyes widened.

“Better said, the King’s Lieutenant, Robert Stewart.”  Gare’s head was beginning to ache.  “These are troublesome times, with King David locked away in the Tower of London all these years.”  He glanced at her, could tell that even sheltered as she was in this wild and remote glen, she’d heard of the sorrowful capture and plight of David de Brus after the disastrous defeat of the Scots at Neville’s Cross in northern England, some years before.  “Lady,” he started again, giving her the courtesy title whether she wished it or not, “my lands, my holding of Blackrock Castle, claim a strategic location on Scotland’s northeastern coast.”

“Aye?”  She lifted a brow.

Gare pulled a hand down over his beard, drew a tight, uncomfortable breath.  “I’ve been served the crown’s wish to see me wed.  Robert Stewart wants my region secured through an alliance with a neighboring family.  The joined might of such a union will strengthen the realm, while the sons born of the marriage will guarantee stability in years to come.  If I dinnae comply-”

“Your lands and castle are at risk,” she finished for him, sparing him the bile that would’ve accompanied the words had he said them himself.

“That is the way of it, aye.”  The admission tasted like cold ash all the same.

He didn’t want a wife.

Leastways not Lady Katherine Sinclair, the heiress Robert Stewart’s writ suggested he consider.  He’d met her but once, at Beltane revels near Aberdeen, finding her shrewish, with a sharp, peppered tongue, and small dark eyes that glinted with malice whenever a fairer, more fetching, maid happened to walk past her, drawing eyes and attention.

Such a woman as a wife would turn a man’s life into a misery.

Nae, the Sinclair woman wasn’t for him.

But for the sake of his people, he had to find someone suitable.  Beatrice Burnett hovered in his mind, being a quiet, unassuming daughter of good house.  She’d make any man a biddable bride.  Sadly, she’d also bore him into an early grave.  There were a few others, though he had no great wish to tie himself to any of them.

By the gods, his inclination was to run from the lot of them.

But that he couldn’t do.

So he took another long, deep breath and exhaled slowly, wishing he could rid himself of his woes as easily.  That wasn’t possible, so he hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and prepared to make his request.

“Fair maid,” he spoke true, for she was the most appealing female he’d ever seen, “if not for me, then for my people, I ask your aid.  I was told you can weave wonders, even making stones weep and rivers change their courses.

“I ken fine such miracles were bards’ embellishments, but no myth or legend is without a seed a truth.”  He saw her expression changing, becoming shuttered.  “I mean no offense, lass.  But in all that is said about you, there must be deeds to support your reputation.”

She held his gaze, a frown marring her brow.  “There are none.”

“I dinnae believe you.”  He went over to her and set his hands on her shoulders, looked down into her great blue eyes.  “Mairi MacKenzie, I ask you but one more time.  Can you no’ find it in your heart to help me?”

She bit her lip as a shiver rippled through her, as if his touch chilled her.  “How?  To find you a worthy bride?  I can promise there aren’t any hiding in the rocks and mist of the Glen of Winds.”

“I ken the maid I must marry.”  Gare saw no need to mention Beatrice Burnett’s name.  “What I need from you is a charm to make me desire her.”

***

“Have you gone addled?”

His fury loosed, Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail, glanced round the high table of Eilean Creag Castle’s great hall, expecting his men to agree.  Sir Marmaduke, the flat-footed, ring-tailed recipient of his wrath, merely took another long sip of ale, wholly untroubled.

Everyone else did the same.

Or they poked at their trenchers with their eating knives, cleared throats, and shifted in their seats.  Some fussed with nonexistent wrinkles in the table linen.  Anything to avoid their laird’s eye.

Duncan frowned at them.

No one, not even his own beloved lady wife, Linnet, seemed bothered by the Sassenach’s lack of judgment; an error that endangered their clan’s dearest, most unfairly maligned cousin, Mairi of the Glen of Winds.

“Sakes!”  Duncan turned again to Sir Marmaduke, a man who should’ve known better, given his long years in the Highlands.  As Duncan’s friend and brother-in-law, he’d seen how easily treachery could sneak into the most unexpected corners.  Mairi’s glen was already benighted, ripe for perfidy if not well guarded.

“Your leniency could have dire consequences, English.”  Duncan set down his ale cup, slapped his hand on the table.  “Mairi is alone, trusting us to protect her.”

Sir Marmaduke lowered his own cup.  “Sir Gare MacTaggert will not harm her.”  He met Duncan’s glare, his battle-scarred face clear and calm as a spring morn.  “He carried a broken sword as just Devorgilla foretold.  And he came in peace, a good and worthy man.”

Duncan harrumphed.  “How can you know that?”

“I just did.”  Sir Marmaduke slid a glance at Linnet.  “You above all men should know that there are times when a soul simply knows something.  I felt a strange kinship with MacTaggert, my gut telling me it was safe to let him enter the glen unescorted, to seek the maid on his own.”

“Say you?”  Duncan snatched a flagon of uisge beatha, pouring himself a hefty measure, then quaffing the fiery Highland spirits in one throat-burning swig.  “I say if any harm comes to her, I will send you back to your bluidy England, minus your addled head.”

“Duncan.”  Linnet placed a hand on his arm, squeezing lightly.  “I, too, believe Sir Gare needed to call on Mairi alone.”

“You aye side with the Sassenach!”  Duncan swiveled about to scowl at his wife.  “Or is there something the two of you are no’ telling me?”

He cocked a brow, waiting.

Sure enough, the two of them exchanged a look.

“I’m having none of this, be warned!”  Duncan gripped the edge of the table and leaned forward, first flashing a glare at his wife, then pinning his friend with another scowl.  “Now that Devorgilla’s man with a broken sword has a name, we ken he also has a dark past!”  He waited, knowing they couldn’t argue.  “It scarce matters if no man kens why, but he’s kept himself holed up in his stronghold these last five years, since the disaster of Neville’s Cross.  No man turns his back on the world without good reason.”

“My friend,” Sir Marmaduke spoke in the unruffled tone that aye sawed on Duncan’s nerves.  “Do you recall when I rode to meet my lady wife so many years ago?  You and your lady sent me to her, having arranged our union.  I went, and praise the gods I did.  On the journey, there wasn’t a moment I didn’t question if she’d accept me.

“I wasn’t just a scarred and ugly brute, but an Englishman, a former knight in service to this realm’s greatest foes.”  He leaned back in his chair, tapping his chin with steepled fingers.  “For some reason, Sir Gare struck me as a man suffering a similar plight.

“I cannot say why, but I just knew he needed to meet Mairi, unobserved and on his own.”  He paused, looking round the table.  “As well, I was sure that if danger befell her, he was well able to defend her.”

Duncan didn’t trust his ears.  He felt his face coloring, the flush of anger heating his neck.  “Gare MacTaggert left the field at Neville’s Cross in disgrace,” he reminded his friend.  “All Scotsmen there that day, the ones who survived the slaughter, rode away in shame.  To his credit, he is said to have stayed when his fellow nobles spurred away, fighting on with the lower ranks, but he’s also known to have ne’er raised a sword again, no’ since that ill-fated day.

“Why do you think he’d do so for Mairi?”  Duncan looked along the table again, not surprised when none of his men took MacTaggert’s side.

In the Scottish Highlands, a man who refused to wield a blade was no longer a man.

“I pray he’ll have no cause to defend Mairi.”  Sir Marmaduke took another annoyingly slow sip of ale.  “If so, I put my faith in him.”

“What you’ll do is keep a greater watch on that glen.”  Duncan stood, needing to pace to cool his temper.  “Double your men, hie yourselves out there twice as often, and dinnae hesitate to sweep in if aught appears amiss.”

His orders given, Duncan strode from the table.  Without a further word or a greeting to anyone else in the hall, he made for an unshuttered window, the one that offered his favorite view, a vista that always soothed him.  But this evening, he glared at the shining waters of Loch Duich, the rugged, mist-drenched hills of his beloved Kintail.  The gloaming had an eerie cast, causing a strange purplish light to glint off the rocks and water, while the cliffs and headlands on the far side of the loch seemed to stare at him, almost reproachfully.

Duncan rested his hands on the broad window ledge, splaying his fingers across the cold, damp stone.  His hills ought to scold the Sassenach, not him.

He only wanted Mairi safe.

He’d sworn to protect her.

“She needs a good man,” came a soft voice behind him.

Duncan kept his gaze on the loch.  “She needs to live without fear,” he answered his wife.  Wind wailed past the window then, reminding him of Mairi’s glen, and he turned to face Linnet, wishing he hadn’t when he saw how the gloaming’s odd light made her hair shine and her skin glow, almost as if she were a faery queen.

She was still that alluring, even after so many years.

He desired her fiercely, as a stirring at his groin proved.

Worse, he felt his frown fading, knew a look of total capitulation was stealing across his features.  She did that to him, held him aye in thrall.  He was helpless to resist her, especially when, as now, she leaned into him, her soft, womanly warmth pressing against him, fuzzing his wits, beguiling him.

“Have done, woman.”  He heard the roughness in his voice, knew he was lost to her spell.  “I only want what’s best for the maid.”

“That I know, my love.”  Linnet rose on her toes, kissed his cheek.  “I also know that Mairi is not an innocent.  You know it, too.  Perhaps-”

“Dinnae say you’ve had another vision?”  Duncan hoped not.

“Would that I had.”  Linnet shook her head, her denial relieving him.  “I sense with a woman’s kenning” – she stepped back and placed her hand on her heart – “that Mairi is lonely.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she lowered her voice.  “Her heart has been broken not once, but twice.  From what we can guess, Sir Gare has an equally troubled past.  I am thinking that mayhap the two-”

“He might lie with her, aye.”  Duncan could imagine it.  Mairi MacKenzie was a beauty, and a passionate woman.  “But he’ll leave her in sorrow if he does,” he added, knowing better than his wife how often landed men bed village women.  How easily they walk away.

“I am sure he will not hurt her.”  Linnet stepped close again, wrapping her arms around him.  “Tell Sir Marmaduke to watch the glen, for sure.  But make certain the guardsmen stay on the cliffs and do not go down into the glen.  No one should disturb Dunwynde.”

“You have seen something!”  Duncan caught her chin, lifting her face to peer down at her.

“I have not,” she denied, the truth in her eyes.  “It is only a feeling.”

Duncan frowned, certain feelings of his own pushing his lovely, ill-starred cousin from his mind.

“I will think on it,” he agreed, pulling Linnet close, lowering his head to crush his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply before she could argue.

When she lifted her hands to grip his face, returning his kiss with equal fervor, he scooped her up against his chest and made for a little-used stairwell to the upper floors and their bedchamber.

He’d worry about Mairi and Sir Gare MacTaggert on the morrow.

This night he’d show his lady how much he still desired her.  Indeed, he might even take her on one of the landings, so great was his need.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER THREE

“A love charm?”  Mairi was sure she’d misheard Gare.  She also wished his nearness didn’t make her feel so startlingly overheated, much warmer than should be possible on such a chill, damp night.

Needing distance, she went to the door curtain, pretending to adjust its ties against the cold, gusting wind.  When she turned back to him, she clasped her hands before her.  “Is she so onerous then?  This woman you will marry?”

“She is no’ the problem.”  He joined her, his long strides easy and commanding, as if he owned the peat-hazed broch.  “I have no wish to wed any woman.  I haven’t for some years.”

Mairi blinked.

She needed a moment to grasp the portent of his words.  His voice had a deep, richness that made her belly flutter.  Her skin tingled beneath his gaze, so she had to struggle to think clearly.  When she did, her surprise was great.

“All men wed, especially landed ones of rank.”  This she knew well.

It was a truth every woman of lesser birth could never forget.

“That may be.”  He didn’t deny it.  “Still, a man who is aye away warring can lose interest in hearth and home.  His heart hardens.”

“You are such a man?”

He nodded.  “I am.”

Mairi knew color must be blooming on her cheeks.  They were so close they might as well be touching.  “I am not skilled at healing men’s hearts.”  I have not been able to protect my own.

And you have already begun siege.

“Yet I was drawn to your door.”  He leaned in, his big powerful body stirring her blood, his gaze locking on hers as if he knew.  “That cannae be without reason.  A man well traveled sees much.  He knows there is much in this world that cannae be explained.”

“I prefer to try.”  Mairi glanced at the broken sword he’d propped against the wall.  “Seeking answers that satisfy, I mean.”

“That’s why I am here.”  His intensity unsettled her, his dark good looks causing a flurry of turmoil inside her.  “I seek a way to resolve a problem I can no longer allow, now that the king has cast his eye on me.”

“Perhaps you should speak with your wife-to-be?”  Mairi tried not to notice how he dominated the broch, his broad shoulders and plaid-draped, mail-covered chest blocking the rest of the small, smoke-hazed room.  “She, more than anyone, can give you the succor one needs to ease a heart gone cold.  You should have ridden to her.”

Something flickered in his dark eyes, a glint she caught because of the torchlight.

He said nothing, his silence hinting that she’d breached a sensitive matter.

“You must be thirsty.”  She went to her table and poured two measures of ale.  His hand brushed hers as he took the cup, the brief touch rippling up her arm, igniting her senses.  “I can offer you stew as well.”  She glanced at the cook pot where her dinner still simmered, delicious steam rising to join the room’s peat haze.  “Fresh baked bannocks and cheese, a fine herring if that suits you better?”

She gestured to her low, three-legged stool, the only place to sit in the broch.  “You can eat there, rest yourself.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he took a long, slow sip of ale.  “Perhaps later.”

He said no more and within moments, excepting his dog’s snores, the night wind and the hiss of the fire were the only sounds in the room.  It was an uncomfortable quiet, rising to fill the dimness, even as his face shuttered.  Mairi knew dark secrets swirled beneath his calm exterior.  She sensed it so strongly her heart lurched.  Whatever grieved him was a great sorrow.

He was also too attractive, dangerously so.

Especially for her, as she’d been alone so long.

She wasn’t the witch the good folk of Drumbell had accused her of being.  But perhaps they were right in scolding her as a whore, a fallen woman unable to resist a man’s touch.  The gods pity her, for she already desired this one’s hands on her.  She didn’t dare look at his mouth too often.  As things stood, such hot, potent need crackled between them that she was surprised it wasn’t visible.

She was truly her mother’s daughter.  Born as she was to a too-young, too lusty, village lass who’d given her heart to the wrong man, losing not just her honor, but her life when she’d died birthing Mairi nine months later.

“I’ll no’ burden my chosen bride with my cares.”  Gare broke the silence, crossing to the table to help himself to a second cup of ale.  “It would no’ be fair to her, or any woman, to be tied to a man who’d rather spend his nights before the fire with his dog than entertain a lady wife.”

“You do not enjoy women?”  Mairi couldn’t believe it.

No, she was shocked.

Rarely had she seen a more virile man.  Just the way he moved spoke of caged passion, his dark, smoldering gaze marking him as a dangerously alluring man.  Leastways for females who appreciated such men.

Women like her, she knew, her quickening pulse proving her folly.

“I cannot believe you have such troubles.”  She spoke true, her gaze flicking over him from head to toe.  “You do not look like the sort of man who-”

“Nor am I.”  He set down his empty ale cup, started pacing.  “I am no’ plagued by the problem you mean.  No’ at all, my lady.”  He shot a look at her, his own gaze raking her, the heat in his eyes proving his words.  “I’ve simply pushed such matters from my mind these past years, in penance.  For the same reason I carry a broken sword.”

He stopped beside the rent blade, his great physical presence and his proud warrior’s bearing so at odds with the sundered weapon.

“There are some deeds that can ne’er be put to right, my lady.”  He closed his eyes for a moment, pulled a hand down over his face.  “When such a burden is heavy enough, all a man can do is quit his debt in other ways.  I chose to hermit myself at my home, Blackrock Castle, cutting myself off from pleasures and indulges I’d once enjoyed too greatly.”

“Including women, see you?”  He started pacing again, a slight flush at his cheekbones showing how difficult it was for him to admit his plight.  “My problem is no’ an inability to relish a woman, but the almighty guilt that I carry.  I am no’ sure I can set it aside.”

“I see only that you’ve suffered.”  Mairi went after him, stopping him with a hand on his arm.  “Surely nothing can be so bad to merit such a severe denial?”

He turned, his dark gaze studying her, every slant of his face grim.  “And I see why your fame as a miracle healer has spread across the land.  You look beyond words and deeds, using your heart to peer into a man’s soul.  Even so, you err with me, my lady.”

His mouth tightened to a hard line as something fierce and terrible flashed across his face.  Then he glanced at Troll, his sleeping dog, and his expression cleared.  Again, he pulled a hand down over his beard, drew a long, deep breath.  When he turned back to her, Mairi knew she was about to hear what truly plagued him.

“I dinnae deserve thon beast’s companionship either,” he said, the pain in his voice making her heart wince.  “But he belonged to someone I loved dearly and so I couldn’t abandon him when she died.”

“The dead woman is the reason you’ve monked yourself?”  Mairi hadn’t meant to speak so plainly.

The words had simply leapt from her tongue, his nearness again disturbing her, his troubles bothering her in ways that weren’t wise.

She had her own sorrows.

Caring for a man would only worsen them.

“I am sorry.”  She stepped back, brushed at her skirts, embarrassed.  “I should not pry.”

He didn’t look offended.  “How else can you help me?”

I am not sure that I can.  Mairi didn’t answer aloud, feeling too badly for him to take his last vestiges of hope.  She did go to the narrow wooden shelf on her wall, fetching two plain earthen bowls that she carefully began to fill with stew from her cook pot.  She wasn’t hungry, but needed to occupy herself, to do anything to keep from standing so closely before him, wanting to take his hand and lead him to her bed, soothing and welcoming him the only way she knew.

Making love to him was exactly what she shouldn’t do.

For sure, not when he’d just told her how deeply he mourned a former lover.

“I can help you, sir, by seeing you do not sleep on an empty stomach.”  She said the only thing she could, placing the bowls on her small somewhat rickety table.  “You will eat and then I will make a pallet for you.”

She went back over to him and gripped his elbow, leading him to the table where she picked up a spoon and pressed it into his hand.  “The stew is not much, but my bannocks are good.”  She set a basket of them beside his bowl, nodding when he reached for one and took a bite.

“Aye, they are.”  He finished the bannock quickly, dipping the last bit into his stew.  “My sister was fond of bannocks, aye eating more than she should,” he told her, helping himself to another.

“She was the woman I spoke of, my sister, Eleanor.”  He tucked into the stew, his gaze on hers.  “She had nothing to do with why I chose to withdraw to Blackrock, shutting myself away from the world.  She was simply a wonderful young woman I loved dearly and who left this life too soon.  A fever took her, Troll and I were at her side as she went.  So now he is mine, and he e’er shall be for I couldn’t bear to be parted from him.”

“Troll is an unusual name.”  It was all Mairi could think to say.  Mortification blazed inside her, shame that she’d spoken so bluntly, her guess so wrong.

“Why did she call him that?”  She ate a bit of stew, hoped the awkwardness would soon pass.

“She didn’t.  I named him.”

“You?  Didn’t you say he was her dog?”

“Aye, he was.”  He slid a look at the huge beast, still slumbering beside the fire.  “I was the one who found him and Troll seemed a good name for he was living beneath a bridge, snarling and frightening wayfarers, earning the name with his fierceness.”

Mairi glanced at the dog, not surprised to see him pushing to his feet and trundling toward them.  “He’s not fierce now.”

“Nor was he then.”  Gare’s face warmed at the dog’s approach.  “He was injured and starving.  The gods only know what happened to him.  Had anyone bothered to look, they’d have seen he was hurt and no ravening beast.”

Troll reached the table, leaning his bulk into Gare’s side.  His hopeful gaze and thumping tail left no doubt that he wanted a treat.

Or that he knew he’d receive one.

“He has you well trained.”  Mairi watched as Gare tore a bannock in two, dipping half into his stew and then offering the tidbit to Troll.

“He is a good friend.”  He rubbed the dog’s ears.  “I would have kept him from the start, but he took a liking to Eleanor and wouldn’t leave her side.  He was her greatest champion.  I was away often, so Troll’s size and his fearsome reputation kept her safe.  She was quite fetching and turned heads where’er she went.  She aye saw the good in folk, believing nothing bad of anyone, so it didn’t hurt for her to have him with her, always.  Troll kens if a soul is pure, or fouled.

“Many were the times he saved Eleanor from grief, his snarls and raised hackles warning if someone meant her harm.”  He dunked another bannock into his stew, this time giving Troll the entire treat.  “He misses her.  We all do.  She was mistress of Blackrock.”

“Ah, so there is another reason you want to marry.”  Mairi set down her spoon.  “It isn’t just about chipping the stone casing from your heart, or because the King’s Lieutenant has ordered you to take a bride, for the good of the realm.  You need someone to run your household.”

He raised a brow, his dark eyes narrowing.  “Can it be you dinnae like me?”

I am drawn to you in ways that aren’t wise.  “I do not even know you.”

“Be glad that is so.”  He patted Troll’s head, not looking at her.

“I cannot say why, and the fates know I shouldn’t care, but I do want to help you.”  The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them.

Indeed, they’d almost formed themselves.

As if some strange magic had worked a spell on her tongue, making her say things she ought not.

“I am glad.”  He was still petting his dog, his gaze not on her.

“Then you must tell me who the woman was that put such guilt on you.”  Mairi couldn’t say how she knew, she just did.  “If not your sister, then who hurt you so badly that you shun all other women since?”

“She didn’t hurt me.”  He straightened.  “I hurt her.  She’s the reason I broke my sword.  The last time I used it, its steel took her life.”

***

Drumbell Village

Later the same night.

“So you failed again?”  Sorcha Bell stood before her cottage door, her eyes narrowed on the man before her.  Once famed for her beauty and charm, and still a great healer, she didn’t suffer fools.

An inability to see her will done annoyed her even more.

She waved a hand at the nearby huddle of cottages, where a few cook fires glimmered through door openings and shuttered windows.  “I’m thinking you wouldn’t have found the wench if she strolled right through Drumbell!”

“My regrets, great lady.”  The man glanced aside, his gaze on the thin drizzle falling between the great Scots pines that protected the village’s far side.  When he turned back to Sorcha, he touched his sword hilt and made the sign against evil.  “If she was hiding in the cave as we thought, there was no sign of her.  No’ even cold ash from a cook fire.  Naught but some animal dwells there, I swear it.”

“Can it be you didn’t catch her because she is so pretty?”  Anger twisted in Sorcha’s gut and she clenched her hands, doubly annoyed because they were gnarled and held age spots.  “Men become fools around that one.”

“Not I, lady.”  Her minion shook his head.

“Humph!”  Sorcha gave him a fierce look, scarce believing he’d once again been unable to winkle out her arch-rival, the much younger, lust-crazed, and entirely unskilled Mairi MacKenzie.  The she-witch who’d been a thorn in her side ever since Mairi’s late aunt and uncle brought her to Drumbell as the orphaned get of a whore.

Righteous disdain swelled Sorcha’s breast, for she had sprung from much greater stock.

Her father had been a leader of men, captain of the guards to one of the King’s most favored nobles, while her mother was renowned for her graciousness and unstinting generosity, her soft-spoken voice said to have been so sweet even the songbirds envied her.

Sorcha hadn’t inherited any of her long-dead parents’ better qualities.

She did assume them.

Quietly pretending that she was just as illustrious, equally admired.  In younger days, men appreciated her brown eyes and hair, her small stature, and the soft, pleasing voice she’d learned to pitch like her mother’s.

But years had passed and they hadn’t been kind.

Even her herb-tending hands had betrayed her for her fingers were now oddly bent, appearing as claws.

It wasn’t fair.

Glory such as hers shouldn’t fade.

What remained were her healing skills.  A gift bestowed on her by the gods, and one that she didn’t share gladly.  Mairi MacKenzie had grown to be a pebble in Sorcha’s shoe.  Each time her arch-rival sneezed, a wonder unfolded, bringing her fame and glory.  If she blinked or turned her great blue eyes on a man, he fair fell over himself to please her.  Even children and dogs had followed her through the village, their gazes adoring.  And the elders – Sorcha resisted the urge to spit – they’d looked on her in awe, praising her skills.

It was more than Sorcha could bear.

So she’d taken measures.

To her glee and satisfaction, they’d worked.  The MacKenzie wench had been run from the village, barely escaping a fiery end on the stake.  A nice stoning beforehand, just to ripen her for the flames, if Sorcha’d had her way.

But someone had warned the chit, allowing her to flee.

No matter, Sorcha wasn’t through with her.  She had more resources than most knew.

One of them cowered before her now, the big man’s hands clutched clumsily, worry stamped hard into his broad, rough-hewn face.

He had reason to fear her.

Sorcha smoothed her skirts and smiled at him, then cast a sly glance at the half-opened door behind her.  “This drizzle chills to the bone, eh?  You’ve had a long journey and will be weary.  Come in and have a bit of oatcakes and cheese, a horn of warmed mead.”

She pushed the door open, letting him see her welcoming fire, the small table with victuals, the great drinking horn on its stand.

“I am hungry,” the man admitted, shuffling his feet.

Sorcha’s smile deepened, wreathing her aged face.  “I’ve a platter of fine roasted meats as well.  You’ll sleep with a full stomach.”

It was enough.

The man edged past her, ducking to enter the cottage’s low-cut door.  It was the last thing he did in this life for two of Sorcha’s better-trained henchmen fell upon him at once, leaping on him from the shadows on either side of the door.  They cut him down so swiftly he’d surely joined the gods before he knew he was dead.

Sorcha nodded appreciation as her men carried him away.  Then she made for the wet trees behind her cottage, preferring a walk in the wood to looking on when her minions returned to clean the blood.

She’d come back later, and enjoy her evening meal.

The fine mead she relished.

Then she’d sleep for she needed her rest.  On the morrow, she’d take the matter of Mairi MacKenzie in her own hands.  She’d had enough of sending fools after the bitch.

This time she’d go herself, and she’d take along men who would not fail her.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER FOUR

“So, my lady, you have heard the worst of me.”

Gare stood beside Mairi’s rough-hewn table and beheld a sight he’d hoped never again to see: The blood drain from a woman’s face, her eyes filled with horror, the shock of his deed rendering her speechless.  His sister Eleanor had reacted the same way, as had the other ladies in his household.  Had his mother yet lived, he suspected she would’ve fainted upon learning what he’d done.

Mairi appeared equally stunned.  She’d pressed a hand to her breast, her great blue eyes fixed on his face.  “Surely it was an accident,” she said, voicing Eleanor’s same opinion.  “You did not kill her in cold blood.”

“How can you know?”

“I just do.”

On her words, a gust of wind wailed past the door opening, shaking the leather hanging.  From somewhere came the sound of creaking wood and rattling leaves, the glen’s birches bending in the wind.  The shrieks grew louder, racing round and round the circular broch before they rushed on, having made their presence known.

Mairi glanced at the door curtain, seemingly untroubled by the night’s howling gusts.  “I feel it here,” she said, placing a fisted hand on her heart.  “Call it a woman’s kenning, whatever you will.  It has naught to do with miracle casting or spells.  My heart would tell me if you were a murderer.”

“The lady is dead, however I am called.”  Guilt and regret twisted in his gut, terrible memories rising from the blackest corner of his soul.  They ripped his heart, reminding him of the grief he’d caused, pain and sorrows that could never be undone.  “Her life was spent, cut short by my blade.  She bled out in my arms.”

“Was it a deed of passion?”  Mairi crossed the room to latch back the entry’s heavy leather curtain so that cold night air could cleanse the smoky room.  “A wife or lover, caught in the arms of another?  There are times when one can be so distraught that reason flees.”

“I had no such excuse.”  He didn’t lie.  “Though I did know her.  We’d even been lovers, but only once, many years before.”

“I will listen if you wish to speak.”  Mairi glanced at him from the door, her raven hair gleaming in the torchlight, her beautiful eyes holding no accusations.  “It might be good to unburden yourself, whatever happened.”

“It is no’ pretty tale.”

“I have some ugly ones myself.”  She stepped aside to make room for Troll as he pushed past her into the cold-misted night.  “As the banshee of the Glen of Winds, I have seen the worst of men, and some women, including myself, though I have never taken a life.”

“I have claimed many, but in war.  The exception was Lady Gwendolyn Berry.”

She blinked.  “A lady?”

“So she was, aye.”  He joined her at the door, welcoming the chill for the back of his neck felt on fire.  Something hard and tight had also lodged in his chest; remorse, guilt, and a wholly unexpected hunger that stirred in him, powerful and dangerous.  A fierce urge to yank her into his arms and kiss her long and deep, not stopping until he’d banished the raging ache and emptiness inside him.

“She was English,” he said, sure the recounting of the tale would shake him to soul, ridding him of the foolish wish to kiss Mairi MacKenzie.  “We met at a champion tournament in France.  She was there with her father and brothers.  They’d hoped to arrange a good marriage for her, either to a man of rank at the French court, or to one of the attending foreign or English noblemen.  I should ne’er have touched her, but she’d caught my eye and so when opportunity arose…”

He let the words trail away, knowing she knew what transpired.  “I never saw her again after that night.  Indeed, I even forgot her.”  Guilt stabbed him on that admission, but it was the truth.  “I was journeying round the tourney circuit, bold, brash, and full of swagger, enjoying all the attendant pleasures available to such young just-earned-their spurs knights.”

“Here, sir.”  Mairi pressed a cup of warm, spiced ale into his hand, closing his fingers around the offering, urging him to drink.

He hadn’t realized she’d left his side.

That she had, and to fetch him such a soothing brew, sent a crack tearing through whatever hard, tightness had settled so uncomfortably in his chest.  He could feel it breaking apart, threatening to split wide.

“What happened then?”  She watched as he raised the cup to his lips, took a grateful swallow.  “When did you see her again?  Was it at court?  Here in Scotland, or south in-”

“It was in England, aye.”  Gare tipped back his head, downing the ale.  “But we didn’t meet at court, and neither at any fine high table in an English stronghold.  We clashed at Neville’s Cross five years ago, coming face to face during that ill-starred battle.”

“She was at the battle, a spectator?”  Mairi took the ale cup from his hand, went to pour him another.  “I have heard some women travel round with their knightly husbands.  Had she wed and was riding with her-”

“She was fighting, in the affray.”  The horror of the memory rushed Gare, chilling his blood anew.  “She wore full armor, sat a caparisoned destrier, and couched a lance as good as any tournament knight.  When I first glimpsed her, she was barreling down on me, her spear aimed at my heart, her face and hair hidden beneath her helm.”

Mairi gasped, once again looking shocked.  “Why would she have been in the battle?”

“I’ll ne’er know, no’ truly.”  It was one of his greatest regrets.  “She was an excellent rider when I first met her.  She’d claimed to have mastered swordery and jousting, skills taught to her by her brothers.

“But I ne’er dreamt to face her in war.”  Gare shuddered, hoped Mairi hadn’t seen.  “I did learn that she’d lost a brother and it’d been his gear she’d donned, even his horse and spear.”

Mairi stepped closer to the door opening to peer out into the thick, cold mist.  Her gaze was on Troll who sat near her peat stack.  He’d cocked his head, seemingly entranced by the mist blowing past the broch, the birches at the glen’s edge.  They tossed in the wind, their silvery branches like raised, waving arms.

“Can it be she wished to avenge someone, her dead brother, a lover or husband?”  She turned back to Gare, her brow furrowed as if her next words were difficult.  “Or…”  She bit her lip, threw another quick look at Troll.  “Some women have a wildness in their hearts.  Perhaps she did and sought to quench hers by riding into an affray?”

Gare closed his eyes, drew a tight breath.

“There was talk.”  He wished it wasn’t so for he felt, in part, responsible.  “Men in taverns and inns spoke of her, a sad tale.”  He paused, braced a hand against the thick stone edge of the door opening.  “I wasnae the only young knight she dallied with at French jousting competitions.  Regrettably, she was caught, her name ruined, her family scandalized.  They left her there when their party sailed back to England and that was the last I’d heard of her until after Neville’s Cross when I made discreet enquiries.”

“You cannot blame yourself.”  Mairi slid an arm around him, leaning into him so that her warmth was a balm to his soul.  “Many women have met such fates, lost everything because they were too spirited, giving full rein to their passion.”

“That doesnae clear the guilt of the men who helped them into ruin.”  Gare bowed his head, a muscle jerking in jaw.  “A moment’s pleasure for a life ruined.  It is no good bargain, my lady, and my regrets are deep.

“At the battle, I’d lost my mount and was fighting afoot.  That we’d lost was clear, the Scots nobles and most of their captains and best knights had fled the field, but some skirmishes kept on, mostly at the field’s edge for too many fallen Scots warriors littered the main battleground.  I’d just cut my way out of one of the last smaller routs when a horsed knight charged me, coming at speed and lance couched, ready to run me through.  A knight grounded is no match for a mounted opponent – unless, as happened to me, the horse can be brought down and the knight toppled, evening the fight.

“So I grabbed a spear from a slain foot soldier and dropped to one knee, aiming the lance at the charging warhorse.”  He paused, stepping out into the night’s chill damp and tipping back his head to stare up at the dark, racing clouds.  “I only needed to wait, see you?  The horse couldn’t halt his forward rush.”

He turned to look at Mairi when she appeared beside him, resting a hand lightly on his arm.  “The destrier leapt over a pile of fallen men, then lost his footing, slipping on the blood-slicked ground.

“The beast went down, his rider sailing over his head, straight onto my waiting spearhead.”  Gare placed a hand over hers, squeezing her fingers before breaking free to pace deeper into the mist, away from the broch.  “The cheek pieces of the knight’s helm flew open at impact and Lady Gwendolyn’s shocked eyes stared into mine as she fell, slumping to the red ground, my lance piercing her through.

“She recognized me, I know.”  He stopped, reaching to rub the back of his neck, wishing it’d been him that had met such an end, not a young woman whose only sin had been her enthusiasm for life.

He waited as Mairi came up to him, the sympathy on her face making it worse.  “I saw the recognition flare in her eyes.  She couldn’t speak, but she stared at me as I eased the helm from her head, needing to be sure it was her - that I’d done the unthinkable and slain an innocent.”

“Are you sure it was her?”  Mairi’s voice was soft and gentle, a beckoning relief in the horror of his memories.  “You hadn’t seen her in years.”

“It was her, beyond doubt.”  Gare could see the nightmarish scene again now, as clearly as yesterday.  “She had unusually light green eyes and a heart-shaped birthmark on her cheek.  I knelt beside her, smoothing back her spilled hair to be sure I wasn’t mistaken.  Her gaze locked on mine, blood trickling from her mouth.  Then she was gone, the deed done.

“I broke my sword there and then, vowing to never lift it again.”  Gare clenched his fists, drew a deep shuddering breath.  “When I returned to Blackrock, I did more.  I knew I could ne’er again touch a woman.”

***

“You have touched this one.”  Mairi slid her arms around him, holding tight.  She could hardly speak for the thickness in her throat, scarce see his handsome face for the hot, unshed tears stinging her eyes.  “No man’s sorrow has ever moved me so deeply.  I do not have a love charm for you, or spelling words to ease your pain, but I can give you comfort and solace for however long it takes to heal your heart.”

“I am no’ sure I have one, lady.”  He looked down at her, his dark eyes glinting in the mist and moon-washed darkness.  “No’ since Neville’s Cross, anyway.”

“But you do.”  She rested her cheek on his plaid-and-mail covered chest, hearing his heart’s steady thumping.  “Everyone does, no matter what happens to us.  Yours is only sleeping, waiting for revival.”

“Then all will be well.”  He extracted himself from her embrace, stepping away from her.  “For the good people of Blackrock, and for Lady Beatrice Burnett, who shall soon be my bride.”

“I am glad.”  Your lady shall be the most blessed maid in the land.

And I shall be the most bereft.

Mairi turned aside, going over to where his dog had plopped down before a bench against the broch wall.  She didn’t want Gare to see the shimmer of tears in her eyes, to guess that his words had stilled her own heart, dashing ridiculous hopes that he’d kindled inside her.  A hot tide of jealousy gripped her, squeezing like an iron fist.  Feelings she had no right to, a fierce unjustified sense of possessiveness that was frightening in its intensity.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was falling in love with the man.

Yet she’d only just met him.

Her heart laughed at the argument, her soul – an old one, she was sure – only smiled, nodding silently, admonishing her for doubting what was true.

Hadn’t she known when their gazes first met, that theirs was a meeting unlike any before?

The jolt that had hit her then was proof enough.

But to what end?

He intended to wed another, had sought her aid for that very purpose.  She was even helping him, her words this night forging a path he was already following, moving away from her.  He’d leave Dunwynde and the Glen of Winds, and return to his own distant stronghold where he’d wed and resume his life with the faceless noblewoman, Lady Beatrice Burnett.

She would remain here, as always on her own with the wind, rocks, and loneliness of the glen.

Only now, unlike ever before, she’d yearn to be elsewhere.

Not at all liking that he’d slipped so easily past her defenses, Mairi dropped onto the little wooden bench beside her door and leaned back against the hard, cold stone of the broch wall.  She closed her eyes, furious when she was immediately assailed with images of herself and Gare naked and entwined on the furs of her sleeping pallet.  She saw them mad for each other, then flushed and sated from their passionate lovemaking, their hearts pounding with the newfound love neither had thought to find.

A chill ran through her, rippling down her nerves.  The pointlessness of her yearning split her heart, making it hard to even breathe.

Gare didn’t need help.

She did.

And she didn’t know how to begin to fix the ache building inside her.

She was about to push to her feet and go back inside the broch when she heard, “Lady, I have ne’er spoken so fully of that day.”

She stood quickly, turning to see Gare striding toward her, his mail and the Thor’s hammer amulet at his neck catching the moonlight.

“I still don’t understand about Lady Gwendolyn,” Mairi said when he stopped before her.  I cannot speak to you about the other one, Lady Beatrice.

He glanced aside, his gaze on a nearby burn, its surface shining silver through the mist.  “There is no’ much else to say.”

We have more to say than could fill a lifetime.  Mairi kept the words silent, waiting as Troll gave a great, noisy yawn.  He stretched and then pushed his face against her arm, kissing her hand, before leaving them to disappear into the warmth of the broch.

“He likes you.”  Gare looked after the dog as he vanished into the broch’s shadows.  “He aye gave my sister those nichtie-nicht kisses.  I have no’ seen him show such affection to anyone else.”

“He is a good dog.”  He is wonderful, and I could love him, too.

Mary drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, not willing to start down that road.  Too much pain and sorrow waited at its end, and each step she’d take along the journey would only break her heart the more.

So she brushed down her skirts, stood straighter, and met Gare’s eye, preparing to hear the last bits she needed to push his tragic tale from her mind.  “I understand Lady Gwendolyn’s fall from grace, as such matters are often called, but whatever made her don a knight’s armor and ride into battle, meeting a man’s war and risking a warrior’s death?

“It doesn’t make sense, and” – her heart clenched for the long-dead woman – “I am sorry for her.”

“As am I, lady.”  The bleak look returned to Gare’s eyes, his face once more a mask of numb misery.  “I meant to tell you.  She’d fallen on such hard times that she’d taken to bartering her life for the necks of those knights and soldiers who, for whatever reason, chose not to honor an overlord’s call to arms.  For coin, she went in their place.”

“Oh!”  Mairi’s eyes rounded.  She felt ill.

The poor woman’s plight was a worse fate than anything she’d endured.

Nor had she ever heard the like.

“There are men who pay others to fight for them?”  As a proud MacKenzie, hailing from a clan forged of Scotland’s most valiant and fierce warriors, she could scarce credit any man sinking so low, especially to employ a woman.  “You said she was a born horsewoman, had learned to joust like a champion.  These are the skills she sold?”

Gare nodded.  “I was told she claimed she’d rather die on the field, lance in hand, than in a whore’s bed because some lecher gave her the pox.”

“Oh, dear…”  Mairi’s eyed filled and she dashed at her cheeks, her throat thickening again.  “A thousand blessings and graces on her soul.”

“And on you, my lady.”  He reached for her hands, linking their fingers when she accepted his grasp.  “I thank whate’er powers led me to you.  My remorse will ne’er completely fade, nor would I wish it to, given the past.  But I now believe I can offer for Lady Beatrice with a clear conscience, certain I will make her a good husband.”

“I am glad,” Mairi said again, finding no other words.

Those three tasted like cold ash on her tongue, and so suited her mind beautifully.  He was squeezing her fingers now, the contact sending currents of sensation up her arms, across her skin and along her nerves.  Tingly liquid heat that rushed straight to her heart and poured into deeper, intimate places, damning her.

Her breath hitched and she’d swear the fine hairs on her nape were lifting from the shock.  It felt as if she’d snatched a lightning bolt from the sky, closing her fingers around its hot, sizzling core.

Never had a man’s touch affected her powerfully.

And he was only holding her hands!

She pulled free, half wondering if he wasn’t the one said to cast miracles.

She met his gaze, hoped her voice wouldn’t betray her.  “Then there is no further reason for you to stay on here.”  I wish you would leave now, so swiftly I cannot even draw another breath before the mist closes around you, hiding you from my sight.  “I will prepare a food hamper for you in the morning, enough provender to see you and Troll well beyond Kintail’s farthest boundaries.”

“You are kind.”  He was so tall, broad-shouldered, and well-muscled, so ruggedly handsome in the silvery light of so much swirling mist and moon glow.  “I will honor your secret here, telling no one that I met you.  But this, I promise,” he added, taking both her hands again and bringing them to his lips.  “I shall ne’er forget you.”

“You will leave at first light?”  She could hardly speak.

“Aye, you have my word.”  He nodded, breaking her heart.  “I shall pay your respects to your chieftain, Duncan, when I call at Eilean Creag Castle to collect my horse.  He should know what a fine kinswoman he has, that I am grateful-”

A great crash came from the broch, the unmistakable toppling of a table, the shattering of earthen cups and bowls, and the loud slurping of a dog eating spilled stew off the hard-packed dirt floor.

“Troll!” Gare sprinted into the broch, calling to his dog.

Mairi followed more slowly, needing to gather her wits.  She was almost glad the beast had made such a mess, knocking over the table to steal the remaining stew in their dinner bowls, the untouched cheese and her famed bannocks.  Cleaning up after him would keep her occupied, giving her something to do besides make a pallet for Gare.

She wasn’t sure she could bear that.

Not knowing that once he’d slept there, he’d leave her forever.

Dunwynde and the Glen of Winds banshee forgotten and wiped from his mind, no matter how much he swore that he would always remember her.

She knew better.

Much as she wished she didn’t.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER FIVE

“Troll!”  Gare skidded to a halt inside the broch’s devastated main room.  In truth, the ancient ruin’s only room.  He set his hands on his hips, frowned at his dog.  “Have you gone daft, laddie?  Did the lass no’ give you a well-filled stew bowl of your own?”

The dog looked back at him, licking his lips as he did so, his canine gaze unblinking.

Guileless, he dropped his huge haunches in the middle of the mess from Mairi’s toppled table.  One leg had broken.  The two earthen bowls that had held his and Mairi’s supper were cracked in halves, the useless shards cleaned of any stew that might have clung to their sides.  Nary a speck of food littered the well-swept floor, making clear that Troll had gobbled all evidence of his mischief, save the pool of spilled ale that was slowly spreading.  The ale cups were intact, but the jug was shattered beyond repair.

Blessedly, the night wind had extinguished the table candle when Mairi latched back the entry’s leather curtain or a worse disaster might have greeted them.

As things stood, Gare felt terrible.

“My apologies, ne’er has he done anything the like.”  He turned to her for she was still behind him, in the doorway.  He was stunned to see her smiling.

Troll barked and lumbered over to her, pressing his bulk into her legs.

The fiend’s tail swished, his lolling tongue almost making him look proud of his handiwork.

“It’s no bother.”  Mairi turned her smile on the dog, reaching down to ruffle his ears.  “He was hungry, no more.”

Gare rubbed the back of his neck, frowning.  “He broke your table,” he said, glancing at the rickety piece that was already a disgrace.

Stooping, he picked up the shattered leg and tossed it on the room’s central hearthstone.  It caught fire at once, the flames bright and blue-orange, crackling loudly as the wood quickly burned.

“I’ll repair the table before I leave,” he offered, wishing he could do more.  He turned back to Mairi, his scowl worsening to see that she’d dropped to her knees beside his dog and had wrapped one arm around Troll’s massive shoulders.  She appeared to whisper soft words into the beast’s ear.  “My regrets that doing so will delay our departure,” he added, noting Troll’s sly, one-eyed glance.

“It shouldn’t take long.”  He’d make certain.  “We can be away before gloaming.”

“As you wish.”  Mairi didn’t look at him, her attention on Troll who’d stretched out at her feet, freeing his furry belly for rubs.  “Perhaps we can roll in one of the larger rocks, jam it beneath the table?”

She looked at him then, her suggestion spearing his heart.  “Such would serve well.”

“Nae, it willnae.”  Gare was outraged.

“I wouldn’t mind.”  She stroked Troll’s chest, scratched beneath his chin.  “As long as the table doesn’t wobble, it will be fine.”

“You shouldnae be eating at such a crude table at all.”  His opinion came more harshly then he’d intended, but she unraveled his wits, made him think and behave in ways that were so unlike him he scarce knew himself since he’d entered her windy, rockbound glen.

“Truth is,” - he stalked over to tower above her and his dog – “I cannae believe a man like Duncan MacKenzie would allow his kinswoman to sit at such a poor excuse for a table.  Aye, he disappoints me.”

“He isn’t to blame.”  She spoke quietly, pushing to her feet and smoothing her skirts as she met his irritated gaze.  “My laird would’ve carted all the luxuries of Eilean Creag Castle to Dunwynde had I allowed him.  We even argued about it, but his lady wife took my side.”

Gare looked at her, more confounded than ever.  “She wished you to live so poorly?”

“Nae.”  She shook her head.  “She wished me to live.”

Moving away from Troll, she re-latched the door hanging, then dusted her hands.  “Lady Linnet agreed with me that a procession of comfortable furnishings being transported clear across Kintail would’ve drawn attention.  My reason for being in this glen was and remains that no one knows I am here.

“The goods in this broch,” - she gestured round at the meager household – “all came from a small shepherd’s hut in the next glen.  Everything you see was brought over the hills or along low-lying burn channels either at night or under cover of dark, fog-drenched days.”

“I see.”  Gare did, much as he didn’t care for her needing such precautions.

An equally great concern was why her plight troubled him so.

“I see you do like dogs.”  He sought a safer topic as he moved to help her straighten Troll’s mess, for she’d begun gathering the shards of her broken earthenware.  “Most ladies would no’ be so tolerant of such antics.”

“I told you I have a heart for dogs,” she said, dropping a bowl half into the small wicker basket she held.  “Troll reminds me of one I had at my home, Drumbell village.  I loved him dearly and ache for him still.”

She bent to pick up another bit of broken pottery.  “I lost him less than a year ago.  His name was Clyde, for he was found there as puppy, abandoned on the banks of the River Clyde, just outside the great city of Glasgow.  A wandering family of no clan ties passed through Drumbell, staying for a few nights, telling tales and playing pipes and fiddles in exchange for pallets, ale, and meals.

“When they left, they forgot Clyde.”  She paused, drew a deep breath, swiped at her cheek.  “I do miss him.”

“He looked like Troll?”

“He did, very much.”  She glanced at the dog, her eyes suspiciously bright, her voice catching.

Gare felt like an arse.

He wasn’t actually sure why, but he did.  He also felt other things and it was becoming harder and harder to ignore them.  Worse, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“I am sorry, lady.”  Closing the short space between them, he drew her into his arms, holding her close, wanting only to comfort her.

“So am I…”  She didn’t finish, leaning into him so that he felt a tremor ripple through her.

“I cannae think of losing Troll.”  He ran his hands up and down her sides, settling them on her shoulders, tightening his grip just enough to soothe her.  He hoped.  Unfortunately, feeling her warm softness pressed against him was a pleasure he hadn’t known in so long.  Even more disturbing, he didn’t just feel her lush, pliant body crushed to his, he had the oddest sense that she was somehow becoming a part of him.  As if her heart and soul were flowing into him, melding with his to leave an indelible imprint on him.

A branding, a claiming, he suspected would remain.  And not just for the duration of his journey home to Blackrock, but all his living days.

“It is hard to lose a good friend.”  He drew her closer, resting his cheek against the crown of her sleek, raven hair as he slid a glance at Troll.

The great hairy lump ignored him, his eyes tightly shut as he gave a loud, fluting snore.  It was a noise so painfully fake that Gare would’ve thrown back his head and roared with laughter under any other circumstances.

As things stood…

Sons of Odin, he was kissing Mairi’s brow!

Gare straightened at once, releasing her as if she’d turned into a grizzly-chinned, wart-nosed crone.  He hoped to the gods she hadn’t noticed the kiss.  It was bad enough that he had, the warm silk of her skin still haunting his lips, the fresh clean scent of her hair playing havoc with his senses, stirring his manhood.

Across the room, Troll rolled onto his side, craftily showing them his back and treating them to more phony snores, giving them privacy.

Gare shoved a hand through his hair, sure he’d run mad.

He was also doomed.

He’d sought Mairi MacKenzie hoping she would work her magick so that he could cast the shackles from his heart, so he’d make Lady Beatrice a good and worthy husband.

Now, gods help him, he had a new reason not to want to marry the Burnett heiress.

One he couldn’t consider.

***

“Clyde is the reason I am here.”  Mairi chose her words carefully, hoping her tone didn’t reveal that his unthinking kiss to her brow had unsettled her so greatly.

“Your dog?”  He’d started pacing, but stopped now, turning to look at her.  He sounded puzzled.

She wasn’t surprised.  “In a way he brought me to this place, aye.  Like as not, I’d still be at Drumbell if he hadn’t died.”

Uncomfortable beneath his gaze, she placed the basket of broken pottery beside the door and then took a heather broom from the shadows, proceeding to sweep her floor.  She needed to busy herself, a task to occupy her hands lest they reach for him, trying to claim what she had no right to desire so fiercely.

“It was Clyde’s loss that turned the villagers of Drumbell against me.”  She risked a glance at the big warrior, her breath catching to see he’d removed his plaid and was pulling off his mail shirt.

Praise the powers, he’d sought a darkened corner to do so, and that he’d turned his back.  She didn’t want to see his naked chest, hoped he’d not strip down beyond the tunic she knew he’d be wearing beneath the mail.

“It was known how much I loved the dog.”  She spoke quickly now, nerves making her rush.  “Some claimed that if I had the gift everyone believed I could’ve worked a wonder to keep my pet alive.

“But he was old, it was his time.”  She brushed along the wall’s edge, not really seeing what she was doing for the heat swimming in her eyes.  It’d been long since she’d spoken of Clyde.  It hurt to do so.  Yet for some reason, she wanted this man to know how things stood with her.  Why she’d come to this bleak, sequestered place.

She glanced at him again, found he was frowning at Troll.  He’d folded and placed his plaid atop one of the baskets that held her clothes, and his steel-linked hauberk glimmered on the floor beside the basket.

Blessedly, he still wore his tunic.

The linen shirt hugged his powerful muscles, showing her every hard-hewn muscle of his chest and arms.  She swallowed, wishing she hadn’t seen, but torchlight threw flickering shadows on the wall behind him, limning his strapping body, the pale light leaving no secrets.  His broken sword was propped nearby, the halved blade reminding her why he was here, and of fates worse than hers.

But the dance of light and shadow also spilled across her bed of furs, and seeing him standing so close to her sleeping place made her pulse quicken, despite the grim truths she meant to tell him.

She wanted him badly, gods help her.

She tore her gaze away before he caught her looking at him.  It was madness to do so.  Everything about him proved a danger for her.  She could even see a dusting of dark hair shadowed beneath the tunic’s cloth and her fingers ached to trace the arrowing pattern from his chest lower, straight down to his groin.  Her blood heated, her belly fluttering.  Determined to squelch such thoughts, she plied the broom with renewed vigor, whisking around the smooth rocks that circled her hearthstone, then moving on to poke the heather branches at the three legs of her stool.

If need be, she’d sweep all night, even cleaning the lower reaches of the broch’s circular walls.

“It was cruel for anyone to scold you for no’ saving a dog you loved.”  Gare’s voice came from across the room.  He sounded angry, which didn’t surprise her.

He was clearly a good man.

A landed noble, a chieftain and great warlord who cared about honor and believed that no one, whatever their station or what they may have done, should be treated unjustly.

Lady Beatrice Burnett was a lucky woman.

Mairi resented her greatly, which made her less goodly than her guest.

Sure her desire for him was earning her a place in hell, she raised the broom and took a few hefty swats at the leather door-curtain.

“I would have done anything to keep Clyde alive, given all I had, though the gods know it wasn’t much.”  She could hardly see now, took blind swipes at the hanging.  “My cottage at Drumbell was small, only slightly larger than this broch, though I’d taken care to make it a cozy and comfortable home.  It was mine, inherited from my late aunt and uncle who raised me.  Even loving my home as I did, especially my garden, I’d have surrendered it gladly to help Clyde.

“But there was nothing I could do.”  She felt chilled, hard memories making her heart pound wildly.  “I had no bat toes or newt’s eyes to mix into a potion for Clyde’s achy hips, no magical herb to restore his labored breathing.  No powers to cast a miracle.”  She paused, drew a long shaky breath.  “I’ve told you I am as ordinary as anyone else, certainly unable to bring the dead back to life, or keep an old and weary dog from dying.

“You will have done what you could.”  The rasp of a buckle warned that he was removing his sword belt.

“I did.”  She closed her eyes, willed them to stop leaking.

Behind her, a dull thunk on the floor proved she’d guessed correctly about his belt.  Her eyes snapped open, but she wasn’t about to turn around.

“Voices were raised against me, fingers pointed.”  She moved down the wall, gripping the broom tighter, swishing the heather branches at nothing.  “Many railed that I’d deceived them, that I’d boasted of powers I didn’t have.  Yet I’d always argued the opposite, insisting I was only a village lass, capable of no more than knowing the right herbs to brew a tisane for a sore throat, or a sleeping draught.

“I tended my garden for a love of green, growing things.  The feel of good, damp earth beneath my fingers, and the loamy richness I loved to breathe in.”  She blinked hard, not wanting to swipe at her eyes again.  “I enjoyed the harvest, sharing its bounty, helping those in need if I could.”  She pressed a hand to her breast, inhaled deep.  “Never did I use my garden to craft spells or harm folk.”

“That I know, lady.”  He spoke again from the other side of the broch, his voice tight, even roughened.

“They called me a witch, saying Clyde had been my helpmate and without him, I was nothing.  That I’d lost my powers with his death.”  She stopped, setting the broom against the wall so she could dab her eyes with the edge of her shawl.  “They wanted to stone and burn me.  They-”

“They were fools.”

Mairi swung around, surprised to find him right behind her.  How had he crossed the room so silently?  For such a big, tall man, he moved with the devil’s own stealth.  He also looked as dangerous.

“Lackwits the lot of them, and you, lady, are anything but ordinary.  You are a prize beyond telling.”  He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him as he rained a storm of kisses on her face and her throat.  Then he groaned and slanted his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue inside and kissing her almost savagely.

Mairi clung to him, sliding her arms up and around him, gripping his broad, strong shoulders as she welcomed the onslaught.  She twined her fingers in his hair, drawing him closer, her entire body melting when she felt the hard ridge of his arousal nudging her belly.  Even through their clothes, she could feel the heat of him, the corresponding warmth at the center of her crying out to know him intimately.

It was madness.

Yet she couldn’t stop kissing him, feared she’d die if he tore his lips from hers.

Some crazed, wild-hearted part of her wanted to beg him to choose her, to forget Lady Beatrice and be hers.  Staying with her at Dunwynde or taking her with him wherever he wished to go.  As long as they heeded the powerful pull between them, she didn’t care.

Never had she been so roused from a mere kiss.  Yet Gare kissed her unlike any other man she’d ever known.  He devoured and drank of her, branding his passion on her as surely as if he’d seared his name across her heart.  Her entire body quivered, the longing for more almost unbearable.  He kissed as she’d known he would the moment she first saw him, and worse, as if he’d already claimed her lips a thousand times or more, and was only coming home.

That rightness terrified her, knowing he’d leave on the morrow.

She started to pull back, but he broke away first, his breath coming hard and fast.  He shoved his hands through his hair, the look on his face a knife in her heart.

“By the powers, lass, I didnae mean for that to happen.”  He stared at her, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what had come over him.

“My apologies.”  He sounded sincere, but distant, as if he’d already pushed her from his heart.  “I cannae say what came o’er me.  There is just something about you.  My wits are scattered since entering this glen.  I am no’ myself here.”  He paused, once again shaking his head.  “It willnae happen again, you have my word.”

“It was only a kiss.”  You branded me for all my days, perhaps beyond.  “No harm came of it, and I enjoyed it, so you needn’t worry you shocked or tainted me.”  Lifting her chin, she met his gaze, her own as proud as she could make it.  “I’ve told you that I am not a lady.  What I am is a woman and I have known a man’s touch.  My blood runs thick and strong, and I am not shamed by passion.”

“You are a great lady, Mairi MacKenzie.”  His voice was deep, still roughened by their kiss.  “Any man would be proud to call you his own.”

I do not want any man.  I wanted you.

She bestowed her coolest smile on him, prayed to all the gods, those known to her and any she hadn’t yet heard of, that he couldn’t see how she was breaking inside, bleeding from the heart, her soul weeping.

She’d loved before, or thought she had.  Twice, if she counted her young husband-to-be, a fine farm lad taken from her by death before they could speak their vows.  And her more recent lover, a lying, conniving sixth son of an impoverished knight who’d abandoned her to wed the daughter of a well-pursed Inverness merchant.

Now she questioned how she’d felt about either.

For regardless of Gare not wanting her, no matter what the emotion inside her truly was, she’d never known such a powerful, all-consuming draw to someone.  It went beyond craving, yearning, and desire.

How foolish to think she could hold him so tightly that he wouldn’t be able to let go?

That he wouldn’t want to?

That their kiss had slammed into him with the same ferocity as it had her.

“You, sir, should be glad we kissed so heatedly.”  She flipped back her braid, silently thanking her every MacKenzie forebear for the steel in her backbone, the strength in her heart.  “There can now be no doubt that Lady Beatrice will be a most pleasured bride.”

“Lass…”  His voice held a note of sorrow, the anguish saying either how much he regretted kissing her, or that he longed to do so again, but wouldn’t.

She couldn’t tell.

When he didn’t move, made no attempt to reach for her, the answer was clear.

So be it.

Mairi hitched her skirts and brushed past him, going to a broad stone ledge on the wall where she kept a store of uisge beatha.  She poured two measures, knocking back her own with a swiftness that would’ve made her chieftain proud.  She carried Gare’s portion across the room, her chin high as she handed him the small cup.

“Drink, and then take your night’s rest,” she said, nodding as he tossed back the fiery spirits.  “I want you gone before the morning light burns away the last of the glen mist.”

Turning, she went to her three storage baskets and lifted the lid on the largest, retrieving several clean, neatly folded woolen blankets.  She placed two on another basket, and then shook out one, intending to spread it on the floor near the hearthstone.

But Gare was already at the door, his plaid draped over an arm.

“You needn’t make me a pallet, Mairi MacKenzie,” he said, guessing her intent.  “I’ll sleep outside your door, wrapped in my plaid.”

“Wait, it’s a cold night, and the mist is damp…”  She started forward, ridiculous guilt sluicing her.  But he’d already stepped out into the darkness, the door’s leather curtain falling shut behind him.

Mairi sank onto the floor, only realizing that she’d sat beside his dog when the great furry beast stirred, resting his head in her lap.

He resumed snoring at once, falling back into a deep canine sleep, and seeming so comfortable she couldn’t bear to disturb him.

Nor did she want to, for Troll had also stolen his way into her heart.

“Oh, dear.”  She took a deep shuddery breath, gently stroked the scruffy fur between the dog’s ears.  “Whatever am I going to do, Troll?”

He didn’t answer.

Though she would’ve sworn he cracked an eye, giving her a quick look of great satisfaction.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER SIX

“That should do you well, my lady.”  Gare watched Mairi carefully as he stepped back from the repaired table, looking to see if even the slightest change of expression flickered across her cool, closed face.  But there was nothing.  Only the same distant politeness she’d shown him since sunrise, when he’d collected an ax from her to fell a good, sturdy branch from the nearby birch wood.

“I am grateful.”  She nodded, her gaze on the new table leg.  “It was good of you to fix it.”

“I’d have preferred oak, but the table stands steady.  It willnae tilt when you use it.”  He wanted to see her at his high table at Blackrock, claiming pride of place beside him at that huge, magnificently crafted masterpiece, the as yet unoccupied lady-of-the-castle’s chair just as richly engraved and beautiful.

He felt a muscle jerk in his jaw.

She shouldn’t eat at rough-planked cast-off from a shepherd’s hut.

Worse, he hated that the repaired table would always remind her of their ill-fated meeting.  The mad, wild and wondrous kiss they’d shared.  A kiss that had carved deep wounds into the souls and hearts of them both, he knew.  He could see the pain all over her, in her eyes, her cool, shuttered face, and in the overly polite tone of her voice.

She loathed him.

And she had every reason.

She’d gone to the broch’s door where the leather curtain was latched back, giving a fine view down the whole of the narrow, steep-side glen.  “The mist will be lifting soon.”

“So it will.”  Gare followed her gaze, speaking as levelly as he could.  “Troll and I will be away anon.  I gave you my word.”

She inclined her head again, her glossy black braid slipping over her shoulder to hang to her waist.  “I am glad you remember.”

“I aye keep my word.”  He did, even when it didn’t please him.

Feeling that way now, he stared past her into the glen, too aware of the temptation she presented.  He felt a fierce urge to undo her braid, to let her gleaming black hair stream across the back of his hand, spill through his fingers.  His need was so great, so strong, he didn’t dare look at her.

The glen was safer.

It beckoned as the start of his journey home.  He couldn’t wait much longer either.

It wasn’t a sun-bright morning, but enough light slanted through the clouds to chase the chill mist and drizzle that usually blew through the Glen of Winds.  For two pins, he would’ve sworn the gods were conspiring against him, snatching away the mist tendrils at speed, their anger at him so great that they stole his last excuse to stay on in the sweet, soothing, and powerfully seductive presence of a raven-haired, sapphire-eyed vixen named Mairi MacKenzie.

A woman he had no right to have touched, much less kissed.

Gods help him, he wanted more.

He burned to scoop her into his arms, carry her to her bed of furs, toss up her skirts and spread her legs, showing her with all his passion and need how much he desired her.  Far gone as he was, he’d also bare his heart to her, confess that he’d never felt so strongly for another woman in all his life.  That he suspected he could, or perhaps already was falling in love with her.  He did know he wanted her safe and that he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her in this empty, rockbound gorge.

In truth, Kintail’s highest peaks hugged the valley floor so tightly, the Glen of Winds could hardly be called a glen.

For a crazy-mad moment, he considered telling her that he wished to show her true glens.  The broad sweeping beauties that filled Scotland’s vast northeast where he made his home.

She’d love Blackrock, he was sure.

But he said nothing.

Lady Beatrice Burnett’s quiet face hovered before him, as did Robert Stewart’s writ.  The parchment damned him, its wax seal and the bold, slashing signature of the King’s Lieutenant – and his own - making it impossible for him to heed his heart, to abandon plans forged to safeguard Scotland’s oft-times most troublesome and perilous territories.

With privilege came duty, and he’d sworn oaths to uphold his.

Feeling despicable, however untarnished his knightly honor, he glanced to where Troll had slept away the morning beside Mairi’s peat fire.

His good friend wasn’t there now.

And his bowl of morning stew hadn’t been touched.

Gare frowned, pulled on his beard.  Troll ate well and with gusto, never missing a meal.  He was also not shy about begging for more.  There could be no good reason for the dog’s lack of appetite.

“Have you seen Troll?”  He joined Mairi at the door where she’d already placed a bulky linen sack of victuals for his leave-taking.  “He was there by your fire last I looked and he hasn’t eaten his breakfast.”

“I saw.”  She glanced at the bowl, piled so high with beefy stew.  “I thought he doesn’t care to eat so early in the day.

“Troll would ne’er stop eating if I allowed.  He doesnae care when he eats, only that he does.”

“Clyde was the same.”  Her face softened, the sadness in her eyes, spearing Gare’s heart.

“I am sorry you lost him.”  He was, and he didn’t know what else to say.

He wanted to touch her cheek, tuck that stray hair behind her ear, then cradle her face in his hands and kiss her again, long, deep, and slowly this time.  It was a need that hardened him at once, his unchained desire for her making clear how urgently he needed to be gone.

“Any guess where he’s gone?” he asked again, glancing into the broch’s shadows.

Changing the direction of his mind before his need became obvious.

“Nae.”  She stepped back, drawing her shawl closer about her shoulders, putting distance between them.  “Perhaps he needed to go out?”

The word ‘go’ apparently drew him, for Troll appeared at once, coming through the door opening without a glance for either of them.  He also ignored his food, walking past the bowl to the farthest, darkest corner of the broch where he circled three times and then plopped onto the cold, earthen floor, clearly wanting to sleep.

Gare frowned when a chorus of bogus snores ensued.

His friend was up to something, and it wasn’t any good.

The dog also turned his massive shoulders to them, his great head facing the wall.  Rarely had Troll been so courteous.  He hardly ever gave Gare privacy, most times sticking to his side like a burr to wool.

“There is something amiss with him.”  Gare crossed his arms, thinking.

They had a long trek before them.  Duncan MacKenzie’s Eilean Creag Castle, a stronghold on the other side of Kintail, stood nearly to the Isle of Skye.  Great, rocky peaks raged between, an arduous journey for beast and man.  Even huge and strong as Troll was, he’d tired quickly if they set off with Troll not having eaten.

“It’s no’ like him to ignore food.”  Gare turned back to Mairi, himself ready to run a hundred heather miles naked and starving just to be far from her.  The ravening hunger she stirred in him, the almighty attraction he felt for her.  “Have you aught else he can have before we go?  I’m thinking he ate so much stew last night, he’s after something else.  Aye, that’ll be the way of it.”

“Could be…”  She glanced at Troll, began tapping her chin.  “I do have some sliced roasted capon.  It’s good, plump meat if he’ll eat it.”

“That will do.”  Gare nodded.  “Troll loves chicken, any way it’s prepared.  Perhaps you can spare a bit for our journey?”  He didn’t like asking, but Troll’s behavior concerned him.  “He’d surely be glad for it, however much you can do without.”

“I’ll fetch it now.”  She moved away, the emptiness she left behind hitting him like a fist to the gut – even though she’d only crossed the room.

“Sweet lady,” he called after her, the endearment leaping from his tongue, his words having a will of their own, speaking without his consent.  “I’d ask a boon for myself, if you’ll allow me?”

She turned back to him, a small packet of roasted capon slices in her hand.  “I would deny you nothing,” she said, her gaze solemn.  “You may take anything of mine that you desire, if you chose to ask.”

She stood straight, her sapphire eyes blazing into his, seeing everything he was sure.  Her words, the double meaning of them, set him like granite.  Indeed, he wanted her fiercely.  Never had a woman affected him so powerfully.

And with only a few words and a direct look from her knowing eyes.

Gare drew a tight breath, everything in him straining, ready to break.  “When we spoke last night,” he finally managed, giving voice to the other need that plagued him, the one he could address in honor, “you didnae say why the talk of your powers started?  All legends and myths have a seed of truth.

“Before I leave, I’d hear why folk bestowed you with such claims.”  Tell me true, and quickly.  If you dinnae, my other need will win and I will grab you to me, damning us both.

“It is a sad tale.”  She placed the capon on her table, clasped her hands before her.  “I will share it if the telling interests you.”

“It does.”  Gare thanked the gods she didn’t come forward, that she remained across the room.

She smiled, but it was a distant smile, and fleeting.  “Let me first pour you ale, for it may take some time for me to finish.”

So she did, filling not one cup, but two.  And outside, the sun burned away the last few curls of mist, bathing the glen in cold autumn light.

***

“Come walk with me.  I’d rather not speak of such things in the broch’s shadows.”  Mairi stepped past him into the morning, leaving him no choice but to follow if he wished to hear her tale.

It was a cold, brisk autumn day and the wind wailed through the glen as always.  But the sky held patches of blue and the burn sparkled brightly, as if some great hand had cast diamonds across the clear, rushing water.  The many rocks seemed to smile at her, greeting her as the friends she’d come to think of them.  Even the tinkle of the burn was a joy, like the laughter of faeries, caught in a sunbeam.

For all the bleakness around her, she loved the Glen of Winds, and felt a deep attachment.  How sad that she’d leave here for the man coming after her, yet he would shun such a sacrifice, returning alone to his Blackrock Castle.

She stopped beside the burn, the rush of the water calming her.

Faery magick.

Or just the cold, clean wind off the falls.

Most days such things soothed her.  But now only one man lingered in her mind.  She could think of nothing else.

Any moment he would reach her, his long-strided steps bringing him to her across the rocky, broken ground.  Then he was there, stopping beside her, his face wary as he glanced about her sanctuary.

“The mist is gone,” he said, voicing what she knew.

“So it is.”  She slid a glance at him, a grievous error.

He was staring at the far end of the glen, his gaze on the shining waters of one of the waterfalls that gushed down the higher cliffs.  The glen’s shrieking winds dampened the roar of the falls, but it was clear that he was awed, that he appreciated the splendor.

Would he look at her so raptly?

If she were to disrobe here and now and offer him everything she had?

Don’t leave.  Not yet.  Give me a chance to make you mine.

“You see why I don’t mind being here.”  She reached out and stroked his arm, letting her fingertips glide over his arm rings, drawing his attention.  Touching him was the one thing she shouldn’t do, but she couldn’t help herself.  “If I had to leave Drumbell, this is a good place.”

“It is no’ fine place for a woman alone.”  He turned to her, gripping her elbows.  “I am troubled to know you here.”

“It is a better refuge than anywhere else.”  She lifted a hand, held her hair against the wind.  “The souls of the doomed do race through here.  I have heard and seen them, I know they are real.  Many fear them, so most will not come this way.

“That dread keeps me safe.”  She held his gaze, wanting to remember his face, every line and angle.  How his dark hair caught the light, the strands shining in the sun.  “Folk will mourn lost loved ones, but few want to meet their spirits.”

“Yet there isn’t a banshee?”

“Not that I’m aware.”  She studied the sensual slant of his mouth, how the morning sun also touched his beard, making it glisten.  “Perhaps there was such a washer woman here, long ago?”  She glanced aside at the rushing burn.  “This would be a good place for a banshee to wash the bloodied shirts of those marked to die, to wail and moan in sorrow for them.”

“I would hear of you, no’ this glen and its legends.”  He touched her cheek, lifting her chin with one finger.  “What started the tales that you have the power to bring the dead back to life?”

“Because I did.”  Mairi told him plain.

“So it is true?”  Something flickered in his eyes.  “I’d thought you must have special gifts.  You are a maid like no other I have known.”

“I have told you, I am not a maid.”  She adjusted her shawl, felt a prickle of ill ease.  She didn’t want to disappoint him.  Not because she was a woman of passion, no longer pure.  But because she could tell he suspected she’d used an enchantment to snare his desire.

That he wanted her stood clear.

Hadn’t she felt the hard ridge of his arousal when he’d kissed her?

She had, no mistaking.

As he was leaving, she doubted that she’d be confronted again by his rock-solid need, however much she might wish otherwise.  So she’d do what remained, and speak honestly.

“Just as I am village born and not of higher blood, nor does a witchy magick run in my veins.”  She drew a deep breath, her love for the aunt and uncle who’d raised her shoring up her pride, steeling her backbone.

She stepped away from him, went to the burn’s edge.  “What happened had nothing to do with wonders or a miracle.  It was years ago at a Lughnasadh harvest fair.  I was walking past the food stalls, trying to decide what I wanted for my lunch.  A wee lad was eating a meat pie when he choked.  He’d gone red, his eyes streaming as he fell to the ground, unable to breathe.

“I was closest to him, so I grabbed him into my arms, clutching him tight as I ran about, searching for his parents.”  She looked down into the burn’s clear water, seeing the scene again.  “They came rushing up to me as I pressed him to my chest.”

She looked up then, not surprised to find Gare beside her.  “Perhaps it was more the gods not wanting to claim such a young soul, than anything I’d done.  Whatever the reason, before I could release my grip, he stirred in my arms, coughing loudly and then gulping great breaths of air, his life returned.”

“I can see why folk would credit you with miracles, especially at a Lughnasadh fair where the old gods are honored, ancient magick in the air.”  He stepped closer, stroked her hair back from her face.  “In truth, folk were right to laud you for saving the lad.”

“I am glad I was there.”  She was.  She’d do the same again, even knowing how the deed would change her life.  “That winter, something else happened.  A small loch at Drumbell had frozen and villagers were using bone skates to glide across the ice.  It cracked and a girl fell in, disappearing into the freezing water.  She was pulled out, but it took too long and by then it was clear she’d drowned.

“The lads who’d drawn her from the loch placed her on their plaids at the water’s edge and I was fetched, folk believing I could bring her back to life.”

Mairi shivered and rubbed her arms against the chill spreading inside her.  For sure, she’d aided an innocent young girl that day, but it was also the deed that brought her the wrath of Sorcha Bell.

“What did you do?”  Gare’s dark gaze slid over her, something in the way he was looking at her making her fear she’d break when he left the glen.  “I see no sorceress before me, but a beautiful woman with an open, generous heart.  The folk in your village should have honored you.”

“Oh, they did.”  She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.  “For whatever reason, I somehow revived the drowned girl.  Perhaps she wasn’t truly gone?  I’ll never know.  I can only tell you that I acted on instinct, pure fear for her life and a burning wish to aid her.  I knelt beside her, listening for a heartbeat, feeling for her pulse, but there was none.  Her skin was cold and blue.  She wasn’t breathing so I set my hands on her breast, pushing hard, again and again, trying to force her lungs to work.

“They didn’t, so I leaned down and blew my own breath inside her, thinking that perhaps my breath would sustain her, make her again pull in her own.  She did, her eyes popping open as she gasped and sputtered.”  She paused, another great chill flashing down her spine.  “Around us, the good folk of Drumbeg cheered, crying with joy for the lass, praising me as a wonder healer.

“I have never seen such jubilation.”  She hadn’t, though at the time she’d never guessed the ramifications.  “One soul stood apart, glaring at me with such venom that the heat of her hatred scorched my bones.”

Mairi’s stomach roiled with remembering.  “She was the village hen wife, a healer of great renown in those parts.  Her name was Sorcha Bell.  She’d never liked me, never cared for another healer who might earn more praise and respect.  She resented others who worked with herbs and potions, understood the old ways and the power of the moon.

“And that day…”  She paused, shuddering.  “I’d knew made her a mortal enemy.”

“She is why you became the Glen of Winds banshee?”  The fierce look on Gare’s face said he already knew.

Mairi nodded anyway.  “She had a vicious temper.  It annoyed her when villagers called at my cottage, asking for herbs from my garden, a salve or healing tisane.  After the lad at the harvest fair and the lass in winter, her resentment worsened.  She claimed I was the devil’s bride.

“Then when I lost Clyde…”  She didn’t finish, the words snagging in her throat, her eyes burning.  “I told you what happened.  She turned the village against me.  I fled Drumbell and have been here since.  Perhaps I should have stayed and faced her, but I am yet young, and” – she lifted her chin, barely seeing his face for the shimmer of tears – “I am passionate, see you?  I wanted to live.”

“Sweet lass…”  His eyes darkened then and he reached to cradle her face, lowering his head.  “You are more than passionate and-”

“No more kisses.”  Mairi raised both hands, holding them before her as she backed away.  “The mist will roll in again when the light starts to fade from the sky.  I want to be alone when that happens.  I’m asking you to leave now.”

He frowned, but made no move to come after her.  “Is that truly your wish?”

“It is.”  Never.  Come with me to the broch.  Lie in my arms on my bed of furs.

Be mine forever.

“So be it.”  He nodded, his face grim.  “I will fetch Troll and we’ll be on our way.”

“I thank you.”  Mairi’s heart stammered.

But it didn’t matter.  All that did was that Gare and his dog left as swiftly as possible and that they kept a good pace over the hills.  She wanted them faraway by gloaming, so distant that they wouldn’t hear her weeping.

Her cries for them to return.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gare stopped outside Dunwynde, letting Mairi enter before him.  The walk from the burn had opened his eyes, showing him why he’d reached for her, the reason he’d almost kissed her again.  It wasn’t Mairi MacKenzie who’d spelled him.  The strong emotions thrumming in his veins had nothing to do with how she’d melted into him when he’d held her.  Nor was it the way she’d run her hands up his arms and over his shoulders, clutching him with such stunning female need.

None of that had aught to do with the power of feelings raging inside him.

It was this place.

The Glen of Winds.

So much savage grandeur played havoc with a man’s soul, quickening his blood.  For sure, the hills around Blackrock were also grand, the great mist-drenched peaks even mightier, their mass impressive enough to stir any man’s heart.  But he’d scarce ventured beyond his stronghold in recent years, a sequestering that made him appreciate the Glen of Winds’ splendor more than he would’ve otherwise.

He wasn’t sure.

He just knew the thunder of falls and the sun glinting on the burn affected him.  On the higher ground, the mauve and purple of heather gleamed in the clear autumn light, while the ever-present wind carried the earthy-sweet scent of Mairi’s peat fire.

What man wouldn’t reach for a bonnie lass on such a fine, luminous morn?

His urge to kiss her had nothing to do with her great blue eyes or how the slanting sunlight limned her with gold, drawing attention to the fine womanly shape of her, or the sheen of her raven hair.

Gare’s heart hammered.  He sent another glance down the glen, his pulse quickening even now as his gaze moved over the sheer crags and rushing cataracts, the wind-tossed birches along the glen’s high rock-sided edges.

No man could deny such glory.

And when had he become so adept at spinning fables?

All the splendors of Scotland paled beside the woman who’d just slipped into the shadows of the half-ruined broch.

The glen hadn’t made him want to kiss her.

She had.

And she’d entranced him with much more than her sweetly turned ankles and the gloss of her hair.  He wanted her in ways he’d never desired another woman.  A truth that didn’t surprise him because she was, after all, unlike every other female he’d ever known.

Gare heaved a great sigh, heard the wind picking up, whistling through the trees.  He’d promised to leave by gloaming.  Now he wished he was already gone, well over the hills and away.

He’d go at once, putting distance between them before his heart overrode reason.

At a brisk pace, he could be at Eilean Creag Castle by nightfall.  He’d toss Troll over his shoulder and carry the beast if he wearied.

He only needed to fetch Troll.

Before he could, Mairi appeared in the broch’s doorway.

“Troll hasn’t still eaten.”  She glanced over her shoulder, looking worried.

“That cannae be.”  Gare stepped past her into the broch, scarce able to see in the dimness after the morning’s bright light.

Even so, Troll’s great bulk was unmistakable, sprawled so listlessly beside the broch’s central fire.  Only a few steps away, his large bowl of stew winked from beside the wall, the contents piled as high as ever.  Cold, congealed, and wholly untouched.

“He’s ne’er gone so long without eating.”  Gare frowned at the dog, not surprised that his eyes glowed demonic red in the firelight.

For sure, he was up to something.

Too bad, Gare was having none of it.  He wouldn’t be outfoxed by a dog.

“I dinnae believe he’s ill.”  Nae, he knew he wasn’t.

Ailing dogs didn’t wear sly expressions.

“I don’t know…”  Mairi bit her lip.  “It’s never good when an animal doesn’t eat.”

Nae, it isnae.  But no’ for the reasons you’re thinking.

“Do you still have the roasted capon from earlier?”  Gare remembered the treat she’d retrieved.  “Or is it already packed with the other provender?”

“It’s here.”  She went to the table, the new birch leg gleaming silver in the dimness.  She indicated the cloth-wrapped package, opened now to display the succulent breast slices within.

“I’ve been trying to hand feed him, but he only turns his head away, refusing even a bite.”  She took a small piece, went to kneel beside Troll.  “Here, laddie,” she offered, holding it out to him.  “Just a wee taste for me, please?  Only one and I’ll leave you be.”

Troll didn’t blink.

Nor did he turn his big furry face away from her outstretched hand.

He pinned a look on Gare and gave the most pitiful moan to ever cross his doggie lips. Then he rolled onto his side, showing them his back.

“He must be ill.”  Mairi left the capon tidbit on the floor beside Troll’s head and straightened, dusting her hands.  “Clyde stopped eating, too, not long before-”

“He will eat anon, I promise you.”  Gare shot an annoyed look at the dog, not surprised to see an ear twitch.

The beast knew they were talking about him.

“If he doesn’t, I’ll put him on a barley water and gruel diet when we return to Blackrock.”  Gare kept his eye on the dog as he spoke.  He was rewarded by another ear twitch, this time accompanied by a flickering of the dog’s closed eyelids.

Troll didn’t care for his threat.

“Indeed,” – Gare hooked his thumbs in his sword belt – “perhaps we’ll forget the gruel, and just give him barley water.

“Until he’s feeling himself,” he added, waiting.

Another pitiful moan filled the broch, a deep sorrowful sigh.

“He has been drinking.”  Mairi crossed the room to peer at Troll’s water bowl.

“Then he’ll have enough strength to cross the hills.”  Gare was sure of it.

He glanced at the provender sack Mairi had filled for them.  It still sat by the door.  But for some reason, he couldn’t make himself reach down and sling it across his shoulder.

He knew why, and the reason infuriated him.

He should never have touched Mairi MacKenzie.

It’d been madness to kiss her.

It was equally daft to stand here now, with her crossing the smoke-hazed broch, coming right up to him.

“You should eat something, too.”  Her gaze slid over him, slow and assessing.  “The hills between here and Eilean Creag are trackless, the going rough.  You’ll journey better with sustenance.”

Before he could argue, she took his arm and drew him to the table, set with oatcakes, cheese, and a tray of smoked herring.  Her touch lit his skin, sending heat straight to his groin.  Worse, something in his chest unfurled, a strange and curious sensation.

A feeling he’d never known and didn’t want to embrace now.

He willed it away, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

“Lady, you are kind.”  He took the oatcake she offered, and a small bit of cheese.  “I will partake gladly.”

He was a doomed man, after all.

“What are your plans?”  She stepped back from the table, leaving him to help himself.  “Once you’ve reached Eilean Creag.”

“Duncan MacKenzie will surely offer me a night’s lodging, and then I’ll collect Rune, my horse, and be away.”  He glanced at her, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

Her great blue eyes were fixed on him and his heart leapt just looking at her.  For a beat, he couldn’t think straight.  When he could, something in her gaze hinted that she felt the same odd awareness that crackled between them, and that only made things worse.  He tore his gaze away, reached for another oatcake and a herring.

“I’ll thank your chief and his men for granting me passage across their lands, especially into this glen.”  I won’t tell them I now wish I’d ne’er come here.

“Lady Linnet enjoys guests.  Her hospitality is praised throughout the Highlands.”  Mairi spoke from the door, her back to the smoky room.  “She’ll try to keep you there, leastways for a few nights.”

“Then she will be disappointed for I must return to Blackrock at haste.”  If I remain in Kintail any longer, I’ll ne’er leave, or I’ll be taking you with me when I go.  “I have much to do along the way home.  Most importantly, I shall call at Burnett Tower near Inverness,” he added, putting the dread task in words.

So he couldn’t ignore the deed.

His sworn duty to his king and the realm.  The good people of Blackrock, who relied on him.

He didn’t touch his food, his stomach clenching.  “I must speak with Lady Beatrice’s father, make arrangements to-”

“Marry his daughter,” Mairi finished for him, her voice as cool and level as her back was straight.

“That is the way of it, aye.”  Something inside him broke on the admission.  It was a terrible fiery twisting, a rift of jagged misery deep in his chest.

He went to stand behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, his chin atop her head.  “I am sorry,” he said, hoping she’d understand his meaning without forcing him to say words that would only hurt her.  Rip his own soul into a thousand or more pieces.

“The King’s Lieutenant has my oath.”  It was true.  “The very day I set off on my journey to find you, I sent his courier south with my sworn agreement to do the crown’s will, securing a strong alliance for the northeast – through marriage to a fellow chieftain’s daughter.

“Such an oath is binding.”  Gare fisted his hands on her shoulders, wished he couldn’t feel the reaction rippling through her.

He closed his eyes, drew a long, deep breath.  How ironic that he’d come to the Glen of Winds in the hope its banshee would release his heart from the hard stone casing that had built around it.

Instead, he’d learned there wasn’t a banshee, but a beautiful, desirable woman.

Rather than freeing his heart so he could love another, she’d claimed it for herself.

***

“I will also speak to MacKenzie about you.”  He turned her to face him, gripping her elbows as he looked down at her.  His face was hard-set, his gaze fierce.  “Your safety concerns me.  I dinnae care to think of you here alone.  You’d be better off at Eilean Creag.  It’s a formidable holding, guarded not just by the loch surrounding its isle-girt walls, but a garrison of Scotland’s most famed fighting men, warriors led by a man who’s already a legend.”

Mairi almost smiled, and would have if her heart weren’t breaking.

Duncan had pressed her with those very arguments when she’d first called at his door, asking for sanctuary.

He hadn’t claimed to be legend, but he was.

All men knew it.

“The Black Stag would agree, for he made me those very arguments himself.”  She wouldn’t lie.  “But if you knew my clan, you’d know there’s no race more thrawn.  MacKenzie women are even more stubborn than our men, so you’d both have no luck dragging me from this glen.

“I told him then that I’ll not be responsible for drawing the wrath of Sorcha Bell on Eilean Creag and my kinfolk who dwell there.”  She turned back to door opening, the day outside still clear with autumn light.  “She’s a formidable foe and she’d shy at nothing to harm me.”  She paused, rubbing her arms as a chill raced through her.  “She’d also not hesitate to attack anyone who’d help me.”

“All the more reason you should heed your laird’s will and let him protect you within his castle walls.  He is a great man, he-”  He broke off, sounding frustrated.

He braced a hand on the door’s edge, lowered his head to stare down at the threshold’s stone slab.  “MacKenzie is known to protect his kin.  He will keep you safe.  Let him.”

“He does.”  Mairi returned to the broch’s deeper shadows.  It was hard to have him so near, yet already so far removed from her.  She didn’t want him to see the shimmer of tears in her eyes when he left.  “The men he sends to guard the glen are his best.  Sir Marmaduke is his own good-brother and a champion swordsman.”

She stopped beside her fire, extending her hands to the glowing peat bricks.  She needed the warmth for a terrible cold was spreading inside her.  “There are other ways I’m protected.”

“Aye, the spirits of the damned.”  Gare sounded even more annoyed.  Proving it, he threw a scowl at Troll.  “Bogles didnae keep me from entering this glen.  I cannae be the only man in Scotland no’ afraid of ghosts.”

He straightened then and came to her with three long strides.  He gripped her shoulders, looking fierce.  So tall, strong, and magnificent that her heart almost wept.  “Heed me, lass, for I’ve seen the worst of men.”  His voice was rough, his dark gaze piercing.  “Myth and legend will only work so long, then-”

“I didn’t mean the spirits.”  Mairi stiffened.  She knew what spurred his concern.  He wanted to ride to Lady Beatrice without guilt and worry plaguing him.  “Lady Linnet is a taibhsear.  Her gift of second sight is even greater than most seers because she is the seventh sister of a seventh sister.”

She lifted her chin, met his gaze levelly.  “I cannot recall her ever erring.”

“I cannae see how her gift would aid you.”  A muscle leapt in his jaw.  “Men and a stout curtain wall-”

“She’d sense any danger that might approach the glen.  My chief trusts in her and would act to would protect me.  So you see, I am well guarded on all fronts.  You can leave without a care.”  She kept her back straight, her voice strong.  “MacKenzies look after their own.”

“They must also sleep.”  He slid another look at Troll, then turned away to shove both hands through his hair.  “I’m of a mind to take you with me to Eilean Creag, leaving you there.”

“I would not go.”  She wouldn’t.

She did fold her arms, hoped he’d be away soon.  Her stomach was knotting.  Dread coiled deep inside her, the knowledge that when he and his dog left the glen, disappearing up the cliff path, she’d never see either again.

“I am not your concern.”  She moved away, brushed at her skirts.  “You can put me from your thoughts as soon as you’ve climbed the track out of the Glen of Winds.”

“You are no’ a maid easily forgotten, Mairi MacKenzie.”

“I must be for you to call me a maid.”  Did I not tell you I am no such innocent?

He flashed her a dark look before snatching a piece of roast capon off the table and striding over to his dog.  He dropped to one knee beside the beast, his broad back to her as he held the treat before Troll’s slumbering nose.  “Lady, if you’ve spent as much time as I have at court and on the tourney circuits, you’d know that a woman’s true innocence dwells in her heart, no’ betwixt her legs.

“Forgive the harsh words,” – he glanced at her over his shoulder – “but they must be said.  Any man who’d turn away from you because of something you’ve done in the past, is a man no’ worthy of you.”

Mairi blinked, not knowing what to say.

Nor could she have spoken if she wished because a hot thickness was rising in her throat.

“Your chief should arrange a marriage for you.”  He poked Troll’s mouth with the roasted meat, scowling even more when the dog wakened and turned his great head to the side, shunning the food.

“He did once.”  Mairi found her tongue, long ago hurts, and a love she’d always cherish, helping her to speak past her sorrow.  She clasped her hands before her, waiting as Gare grumbled to his dog and then pushed to his feet, leaving the treat beside Troll.

“My mother died birthing me and I never knew my father,” she began, wanting him to understand.  “I was raised by my aunt and uncle.  They were village farmers, famed only for the size and tastiness of the onions that grew in their garden.  My uncle did a fair trade at markets in Kintail and elsewhere in the Highlands.  Duncan MacKenzie arranged for him to sell his onions to an innkeeper on the Isle of Skye.

“The inn was on the harbor at Kyleakin, so was well-visited.”  She began pacing, memories swirling from the darkest corners of her soul.  “I sometimes accompanied my uncle when he delivered his onions to the inn, and so-”

“You caught his eye?”

“Not the innkeeper’s, but his son’s,” she explained.  “His name was Patrick for his mother was Irish.”

A peat brick on the hearthstone popped then, sending a shower of red-orange sparks into the air.  Going to the fire, Mairi took her poker and nudged at the mound of peats until they again simmered quietly.

“He was a big, strapping lad with laughing eyes and a wicked smile.”  She drew a breath, long ago images pinching her heart.  “I was young, had never been in love, not even kissed…”

“Until this lad pursued you.”  Gare was leaning against the table with his arms crossed, his gaze on the glowing peats.  His dark hair gleamed in the firelight, his tall, warrior’s body so out of place in the small, smoky room.  He was simply too magnificent, should be striking such a pose against the marbled hearth of a great noble’s finest solar.

Like as not, his Blackrock Castle held such luxuries.

And wasn’t that a good reason for her to ignore how the air around him seemed so charged with his powerful presence?  The bold and potent virility and strength that drew her so irresistibly that she was sure her femininity sang just to breathe the same air.

She shouldn’t feel such fierce longing.

She bit her lip, willing her need to cease.

“He paid me court, aye.”  She lifted her braid, toyed with its end.  “He made me smile and laugh, he wrote songs for me as he fancied himself a bit of a poet.  He won my young heart, which I gave him freely.”

“I regret nothing.”  She spoke the truth in her heart.  “If I could turn back the years, I’d not want to miss our brief time together.”

“MacKenzie offered terms for you, suggesting a marriage?”  Gare spoke then, his gaze locked on hers.  “He arranged the betrothal and the lad left you?”

Mairi nodded.  “So it was, but Patrick didn’t leave me because he didn’t want me.  He did, and we spent stolen hours indulging our youthful passion in Kyleakin’s hidden corners – trysts that made me a woman.

“Then, just as the betrothal was to be finalized, he died.”  She closed her eyes, the memory still painful.  “He’d been waiting for me high in the hills above the harbor when a storm hit.  My father wouldn’t allow me to leave the inn, and so Patrick waited.  By the time he realized I wasn’t coming that day, the storm had turned fierce.

“The hills are steep thereabouts, the ground strewn with rocks, some loose.”  Mairi began to pace, speaking quickly before her throat could close again.  “He slipped on the muddied ground and fell to his death, striking his head as he hurtled down the cliff, landing in the sea.”

She turned at the far end of the broch, meaning to pace back to the door, but Gare was right behind her, blocking the way.

“By the powers, lass.”  He reached out and took her hands, squeezing her fingers.  Nothing but sympathy stood on his face and seeing it broke her heart anew.

Not for Patrick, but for knowing what a wonderful husband Gare would make.  She hoped Lady Beatrice was worthy of him, but she also wished the woman didn’t exist.

Guilt now joining her sorrow, she held Gare’s gaze.  “It was long ago.”

He gripped her hands tighter.  “I am sorry, lass.  Such a loss will have been hard for you, especially so young.”

“It was, and I will never forget him.”

“Nor should you.”  He released her hands to slide his arms around her, drawing her close.  “You do the lad honor, and that is good.”

“There was another…”  She hadn’t meant to speak of her more recent lover, but Gare’s embrace unsettled her, causing the words to spill free.  “He was a traveling smithy, journeying about to ply his trade.  We met and so” – she felt the heat rising in his cheeks, annoyance beating through her – “he stayed on in Drumbell, courting me and making plans for a life together, once he’d saved enough coin to start a family.

“I should not have believed him.”  She knew that to her cost.  “But I was so lonely, see you?  He was a fine looking man, and lusty.  He drew the admiration of all women, from wee girls to crones, for he had an easy way of speaking, turning phrases that made any woman feel special, as if he saw only her, and was enchanted.

“What he saw was opportunity.”  Mairi lifted her chin, hot bile flavoring the words.  “I allowed him to sleep at my cottage and he supped at my table.  I washed his clothes and stitched repairs as needed.  Then a fat-pursed Inverness merchant stopped at the village when his horse had thrown a shoe.  As the work was done, the merchant spoke of Inverness’s need for well-skilled smithies.  He also told of his beautiful daughters, the hefty bride prices they’d bring.”

“The smith left with him?”

“The next morn.  I was a fool.”

“Nae, you were a woman of passion.  You are one, the gods be praised.”  He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze fierce.  “You are a treasure and will make a fine wife someday.”

His words were the ones she’d most dreaded.

A truth she had to face.

Knowing now was the time, she went to the door.  The light was fading, the sun low and dim behind the darkening clouds.  There was also a hint of rain in the air, and mist clung to the highest peaks.

Gloaming was nigh, and Gare was still here.

A part of her rejoiced, the rest of her quaked with the awareness of what the night would bring.

If it rained, she wouldn’t let him sleep outside.

If he stayed with her…

“I am sorry, lass.”  He came up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders.  “I meant to leave earlier.  I can still go now.  I’ll carry Troll if need be.  He-”

“Nae.”  Mairi shook her head, preparing herself to do the only thing she could: Claim what little bit of him that she could, so she’d have something to cherish once he’d gone.

“It is too late.”  You cannot cross the hills in darkness and my heart cares too much to let you.  “I will make us a warm supper and you can depart on the morrow.”  She looked out into the glen, its steep, rockbound edges hazed now by soft shades of blue and gray.

The smell of rain was stronger, coming on the raw, wet wind.

“If it rains, you can sleep in the broch,” she said, aware she was sealing her fate.  “There is room before the fire.”  My bed of furs will keep you warmer.

“You are sure?”  He slid his hands down her arms, resting them at her hips.  “I’ve no’ wish to trouble you.”

“You won’t.”  She leaned back into him, inhaling his scent.  “I want you to stay.”

Before he could answer, the sun slipped behind the hills, the glen darkened, and the winds picked up, bringing the first splatters of rain.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER EIGHT

A full sennight later, Gare eased back Dunwynde’s door flap and frowned into the cold, wet night.  He also struck his fist against the saturated stone of the door’s thick-cut edge.  Mist and sideways rain blew everywhere, and the howling wind could indeed pass for the wails of the doomed – or the cries of a banshee.  Rarely had he seen such downpours, surely not lasting a full seven days.  Not since his tourney years, so long ago, in so many strange lands with equally odd weather.

Yet when a cloud sailed from the moon, revealing the glen’s tall, rain-slicked walls and dark, wet birches, he knew exactly where he was.

Mairi’s Glen of Winds.

Still.

His mood worsening, he dashed the water from his face, half ready to believe Mairi held the ear of the weather gods.  Or that his besotted dog had taken her side in Gare’s quandary.  He could see the beast championing his favorite with his best interference and stalling skills.

Troll knew his mind.

He was also greatly adept at cajoling others into his corner.

He’d always preferred the lasses.  Not that Gare could fault him for that.

He did frown at the meddlesome beast as he slinked back from the nearest outcrop, so drenched that he looked like a dripping denizen of the sea.  For sure, he didn’t resemble the once-ferocious battle dog of a long-forgotten warrior.

He was simply Troll the Terrible.

Gare knew his tricks.

He’d heard the dog creep from his plaid beside the fire, had watched his slow, hinky-hipped gait as Troll nudged aside the door’s leather curtain.  Then he’d surprised Gare by loping easily to the nearby tumble of stones.  He’d run without any sign of pain, as if he had nary a care in the world.

He’d faked his limp these past seven days.

Gare had a good notion why.

Troll wasn’t pleased that he hadn’t joined Mairi on her bed of furs.

Gare wasn’t happy about that either, but he preferred the pain of restraint now to a lifetime of regret later.  The price of touching her was too high, the cost, too crushing to Mairi.  His feelings scarce mattered, but he wouldn’t break her heart.

He was acting nobly.

Doing what was best from them both.

He just never would’ve believed that keeping an oath would make him feel more like an arse than a valiant.

So he drew a tight breath, narrowing his eyes on Troll as he trotted closer.  If his dog thought he was a fool for not touching Mairi, he could be excused because he knew nothing of the importance of honor, a man’s sworn word, and the duty that comes with privilege.  A King’s writ is binding, irrevocably blessing or damning a man, however the crown’s wishes happened to fall.

Never had he broken a pledge.

He wouldn’t now.

Even if walking away from Mairi would snuff out every last glimmer of the light she’d restored to his life.

“So you knew?” came her soft voice at his elbow.

“That his limp vanishes when he goes out?”  Gare glanced at Mairi, stroked the hair back from her face, unable not to touch her.  “I ken as of this night, aye.  I suspect his miracle happens only when he believes no one is watching him.”

“There’s more you don’t know.”  She sent him a quick smile, stepping back so Troll could shuffle inside, once again assuming his achy-hipped gait.

“Watch out.”  Gare grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the way just as Troll stopped near the fire to shake his great dripping bulk.  Soot, ash, and peat smoke rose in a gray, cough-inducing cloud that drifted everywhere.

He threw a glare at Troll, sure the bugger was laughing.

“I shouldn’t be surprised, scoundrel that he is.”  He turned back to Mairi, releasing her.  “Had I no’ grabbed you, we’d be covered in soot.”

“But we aren’t, and the mess is soon righted.  My broom will sweep it away and the rain will freshen the air.”  She glanced at Troll, a smile dimpling her cheek as the dog circled thrice and gingerly lowered himself onto his sleeping plaid.  “Some might say Troll is mightily clever.”

“That he is.”  I’d wager my beard that he hoped to see me no’ just grab, but kiss you.

Praise the gods, a good warrior kept his wits at all times – even men who carry broken swords.

“So!  That was no great task.”  Mairi returned the heather broom to its place against the wall.  His broken sword was propped nearby.  The polished blade and the broom’s heather presented an unmatched pair, shouting their different stations.

No matter.

She had a smile that pierced his soul and warmed his heart, proving how little he cared.

“What else did the beast do?”  He didn’t really want to know.

“We can be glad of this one.”  She tilted her head and glanced at Troll, now sprawled before the fire.  “The lad’s not ill and he hasn’t lost his appetite.  He just hasn’t been eating from the food bowl here.”

“Is there another?”

“Not inside the broch.”  She kept her gaze on the dog, a corner of her mouth lifting.  “He’s been sneaking the food I set out for the glen’s wild creatures.  There’s a wee red fox, almost tame and very smart, with remarkably knowing eyes.  Then the usual squirrels, rabbits, martens, and a colony of wildcats.”

She shrugged, her face softening.  “More red deer than I can count.”

“You feed them all?”  Gare frowned, not surprised.  His mind whirled.  As he was beginning to know Mairi MacKenzie, she’d do just that, even setting out her own last supplies so her four-legged friends didn’t hunger.

She laughed, a rich, velvety laugh that did terrible things to the hard knot she’d put into his chest.

“Aye, I feed them all.”  Her smile grew as she set her hands on her hips and cast another glance at Troll, who was watching her with slit-eyed stealth.  “And because you are so much like my liege, I know why you’re asking.

“The Black Stag also worried I’d not have enough for myself.”  She went to a darker area of the broch and came back with a large bowl that she placed where rain dripped through the roof thatch, forming a puddle on the hard-packed earth floor.  “Now whenever Sir Marmaduke and his men make their rounds, they bring sacks of leftover viands from Eilean Creag and fill the troughs.  The men cut pine shoots and grasses for the deer, also bringing acorns and nuts.  The troughs are in the wood behind the outcrop.

“Troll must’ve smelled the food.”  Gare paced, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I am glad he’s no’ ill, that he’s eating.  But we should’ve been away days ago.”

“He is a fine dog.  He surely had his reasons for wanting to keep you here a bit longer.”

Gare set his jaw, sure that was true.

He just wished he could do more than admire Troll’s choice in ladies.

But his hands were tied, his word given.

And inside Dunwynde on such a cold, wet night, beside Mairi MacKenzie’s peat fire, all he could see was the luminosity of her creamy skin, the blueness of her great sapphire eyes, and her luscious lips that he knew were so soft and warm.

Just looking at her sent need racing downward so that he had to turn away, not wanting her to see how much he desired her.

As if she knew, she appeared before him.  “I know you’ll ask why I didn’t tell you I saw what Troll was doing,” she said, placing her hand on his arm.  “I couldn’t because I knew what you’d do when you found out.”

“Indeed?”  He arched a brow.  Her light touch affected him too much to say more.  If he tried, he might blurt that all he wanted was to join her on her bed of furs and ravish her.

“Aye.”  She nodded.  “I believe you have a bit of a temper.  Not so bad as Duncan MacKenzie in a rage, but strong enough that you might’ve taken off with Troll.  I worried you’d traipse across the hills in the teeming rain.

“You could’ve fallen ill, both of you.”  She glanced at the sleeping dog.  “Troll may not be sick now.”  She leaned in, her voice low.  “He would’ve caught a chill had you gone.

“So I meant to tell you after the rains.”  She went to her bed of furs, turning back the top coverlet as she did each night before sleeping.

It was a signal for Gare to retreat to the far side of the broch and his makeshift pallet.

The hour for him to no longer look her way – he had once and so was aware that she slept naked.  Damn his eternal soul for peeking!  He’d also made it his habit, once settled in his own bracken-stuffed pallet, to turn his eye on the space between the doorjamb and the leather curtain.

Old ways died hard.

Especially for champion knights.

And so it came that he caught a flash of silver in the rainy dark.  A drawn blade carried by a great hulk of a man with a broad, hard face, and loathing in his eyes.  His thick beard was hung with several small bones and he’d thrown a bear skin around his shoulders.  He looked like a Viking warrior from darker ages and was surely as brutal.  Gare watched as he reached the base of the cliff path, where moonlight glinted off his sword and shone on his bone-hung beard.

Then he was in shadow again, disappearing behind the outcrop.

It didn’t matter.

He’d been seen.

Gare knew from his quick glimpse at the assailant, that he was just that.

He also knew why the brute was here.

He was coming for Mairi.

***

“Sorcha sent him.”

Mairi lifted on her toes, leaning close to whisper into Gare’s ear.  “He’s here to kill me.”

“He’s here to die.”  Gare whipped around, just as she was about to say more.

Their lips brushed.

A jolt raced through her and his expression turned fierce, hinting he’d felt it, too.  Stepping back as if she’d scorched him, he ran both hands through his hair and glanced about the broch, his gaze searching the shadows.

“I should’ve kept the ax in here and no’ in your byre.”  He threw a furious look at his broken sword, her own weapon so dull-edged it would scarce cut peat.  “No’ matter.  You’ll stay here with thon blade of yours and Troll at the door.  I’ll sneak round before he leaves the cover of the outcrop.  I cannae fetch the ax fast enough, but if I charge him from behind, surprise will work for me.

“He’ll no’ expect a man with you.”  His voice was harsh, his face grim-set.

Mairi’s heart thundered.  “You’ll be killed.”  She glanced at the door.  “Leave now, take Troll.  While you can.”

Looking more fierce than ever, he grabbed her to him, kissing her hard and swift, before releasing her as quickly.  “The time for me to leave was the moment our eyes met.  ‘Tis now too late.”

“All the more reason I’ll not see you die.”  Mairi touched his face, slid her fingers across his beard.  She’d think later about the implication of his words.  “Sorcha follows a dark path.  She spells those beard-bones and mumbles incantations to make the wearer invincible.”

“No man is that.”  He crushed her to him again, squeezing tight.  “There’s a greater power than her ancient evil.”

Troll was already at the door, pacing.  His hackles were raised and low growls rumbled in his chest.  Mairi knew he’d defend her to the end – if Sorcha’s man killed Gare.

“Stay at the back of the broch, tip over the cauldron if need be.”  The look he gave her was fierce, commanding.  “The bastard could slip on the muddied floor, giving you a chance to flee.”

Mairi nodded, fear and dread sweeping her, making her lightheaded.

She knew what Gare meant by ‘if need be.’  The possibility chilled her to the bone.  She started to say so, but he lifted the door flap and disappeared into the cold, blowing rain.

“By all the mercies, I never wanted this!”  Ignoring his order, she ran to the door and dropped to her knees beside Troll.  She wrapped an arm around the dog, pulling him close.  “I’m so sorry, laddie.  I know you love him.”  So do I…

Leaning forward, she pressed an eye to the slight space between the leather curtain and the door’s edge.  She saw only rain and the glen’s great peaks, so dark under the roiling clouds.

Sorcha’s man and Gare were nowhere to be seen.

Then Troll’s hackles rose even more and his snarls deepened.  In the same moment, the huge, bearskin-cloaked assailant strode from the birches into the glen, making no attempt to conceal himself.

He was heading for Dunwynde.

He’d gone only a few paces when Gare burst from the trees, charging after him.  Mairi clapped a hand to her mouth, looking on in horror as Gare flew into the brute, roaring a challenge as they both slammed to the ground.

Mairi ran outside just as the assailant’s sword flew from his hand.  Gare leapt off him with lightning speed, snatching the blade and swinging it in a fast down-slashing arc that could’ve disemboweled an ox.  Equally fast, the big man jumped to his feet, bellowing as he yanked a huge double-bladed war ax from a sling across his back.

Troll was frantic, running circles around her, barking loudly.

Mairi pressed her hands to her face and stared at the two men, scarce feeling the wind and rain.

“So she’s returned to her whoring ways!”  The big man tossed the ax into the air, smirking as he caught the spinning weapon by its haft.  He flicked a glance over Gare, clearly assessing his strength and skill as he demonstrated his own prowess by twirling the ax in an array of dizzyingly fast curves.  “Shame to carve up a good warrior and noble,” he taunted Gare, not looking sorry at all.  “I’ll be glad for your dog.  I’m in need of one!”

He pointed the ax at Troll.  “Thon battle dogs are well-loved in my folk’s northern home!”

Not blinking, Gare tossed his sword high into the air, catching its hilt with the same ease as the assailant and his Norse ax.  “That is good,” he returned the challenge.  “You may search for such a dog tonight - in the mead halls of Valhalla!”

“Nae.”  The man shook his head, his gaze flicking to Gare’s hammer amulet.  “You will tell the gods that Sorcha’s man, Brude, yet serves her well.  I’ll claim my mead another day!”

The taunt made, Brude roared and charged, his ax whistling in the air, ready to rain blows on Gare.  Mairi felt the blood drain from her, terror washing over her in waves, chilling her like a hail of sheeting ice.  The wind buffeted her and the rain drenched her, but she couldn’t move, fear and dread freezing her where she stood.

When Brude raised his arm for a hacking blow to Gare’s neck, she yelled, “Nae!  He can have me!  Stop now, please!”  I can’t bear it!

She dashed toward them, running, only to fall to her knees when Troll hurled himself at her and knocked her down.  Snarling in caution, not a threat, he sat on her spread skirts, making clear he meant to guard her well.

Gare and his opponent ignored her.  Their gazes were locked, the red haze of fury on their faces.  Sword and ax looked bloodied, but Mairi couldn’t tell for sure because of the rain and the blowing mist, which was thickening.  She did hear the crash and clash of steel, the insults and grunts of the fight.

Then Brude lunged, his ax slamming into Gare’s sword.  The blow caused Gare to stagger, but he recovered quickly.  Yelling, he scythed his sword in such a rage-filled arc that the blade cut through Brude’s thick-hided bearskin and nearly severed his arm.  Howling, the big man swayed and dropped to his knees, the ax slipping from his fingers.  He toppled over, his blood pooling with the rain on the drenched ground.

He’d bleed out at speed, Mairi knew.

Shuddering, she reached to curl her fingers through Troll’s rough fur.

“A man ne’er hurts a lady,” Gare snarled, pressing the tip of his sword into the thickness of Brude’s bone-hung beard.  “I will tell Sorcha that you serve her no more.”  He nudged the long-handled ax close to the brute’s hand.  “Take your ax, go with your Valkyries.  I’ll no’ be the reason any Norseman cannae enter Valhalla.”

And so when Brude’s fingers curled around the haft’s wood, Gare nodded once.

“I will tell the gods that you fought well, whate’er I think of you,” he promised, his voice strong and clear.  “No Norseman should die without a weapon in his hand.  And you no longer pose a threat to any woman.”

Then, as Mairi watched, still too shaken to move, Gare grabbed a handful of deer grass, using it to clean the blood from his borrowed blade.

“The bastard is dead,” he called over his shoulder to her.  “He can harm you no more.”

“Ahhh, but I can,” came a dread voice behind her, just as the cold steel of a dirk’s blade pressed hard against her throat.  “Didn’t think I’d find you, eh?”

Mairi’s heart plummeted, her innards icing.  She didn’t need to know who’d spoken.  She’d recognize the deceptively soft, eternally evil voice anywhere, anytime.  There could only be one person as vile and dangerous as her nemesis.

The devil’s own handmaiden.

Sorcha Bell.

***

Much later, in the smallest, darkest hours of the night, but on the far side of Kintail, light from a brace of almost gutted candles cast shadows up and down the white-washed walls of Eilean Creag Castle’s most sumptuous tower bedchamber.

Quarters to the laird and his lady, the room held all the comforts a besotted husband lavishes on his much-loved wife.  At the moment, Duncan MacKenzie slept deeply.  His snores were light, his sleep undisturbed by the wind rattling the window shutters, the ceaseless rain drumming on his roof.  He also wasn’t aware of the sharp tang of brine and wet rock permeating the air.

For sure, he didn’t know about the bees.

His wife, Lady Linnet, knew all about them.

She couldn’t see them, but she knew why they’d wakened her with their buzzing.  Somewhere beyond her capability to see them, they swarmed about the shadowy chamber, their drone increasing in volume, as did her dread.

The bees were heralds, come to warn of an impending vision.

Even after all these years, she didn’t greet them gladly.

Knowing it was pretty much pointless, she went into one of the room’s deep-set window embrasures and threw open the shutters, rain and wind or nae.  Sometimes brisk air helped, keeping her from slipping too deeply into the images the gods chose to show her.

Now and then she suspected Duncan’s powerful presence held the visions at bay.  He wasn’t at all fond of them.  She’d noticed that whenever he was near, she was bothered less frequently.

This night he slept soundly, only the half width of the room away from her.

Which meant the vision’s message was dire.

“Duncan, my love…”  She glanced at him, sprawled naked across the covers as always when in their bed.  Chill, wet air and moonlight spilled through the window, limning the room – and him - in a shimmering silver glow.

He truly was magnificent.

More so now than ever, which she just might tell him, and would if the bees’ buzzing wasn’t increasing so rapidly.

But it was.

All she could do was slump onto one of the embrasure’s window seats and wait.  It was already clear that the moonlight bathing the room with such silvery luminosity wasn’t cast by the moon.

The silvery shaft coming through the window now speared across the chamber to merge with the light and shadows thrown on the wall by the brace of candles.

Where they met, an image was taking shape, weaving and pulsing on the wall until a silver sword appeared – hovering over the stag’s head tapestry that hung above their bed!

Linnet could only stare, unable to do aught else.

But she knew who carried the sword, for its blade was broken.

Sir Gare MacTaggert.

What she didn’t know was why the sword was growing.

As she watched, the blade’s steel elongated, stretching longer and shining brighter until a full-length, undamaged sword hung in the air, dazzling her.

The image’s brilliance hurt her eyes, but looking away from any vision risked losing the image and its message.  And this one was clear.

Beautifully, wonderfully so.

Mairi had captivated the once-great knight.

She’d freed him of whatever penance he’d placed upon himself, perhaps even enjoying a bit of romance in the Glen of Winds before he returned to his duties.  Obligations that she knew would see him soon wed.

She wouldn’t consider more – doing so risked offending the gods that gave her such images.

The old ways must be accepted as they came.  Any tampering or imposing of your own wishes bode ill, perhaps even reversing any good that might have come.

It was enough to see that Mairi had made the broken knight whole again.

Or so she thought until a red drop fell from the ceiling and trickled down the sword.  Another drop followed, soon joined by more.  Again and again the red rain plopped on the blade, rolling its length, catching on the hilt, and then dripping to the floor.

Linnet’s eyes rounded, horror sluicing her.

The need to look away screamed inside her, but she remained frozen, unable to speak or even move.  By now the entire sword was bloodied, its glistening red bringing the sharp, metallic bite of blood.

Fresh blood, newly spilled.

Linnet pressed a hand to her mouth, chilled.

She hoped she wouldn’t be shown whose blood it was.  But then she blinked, felt less light-headed, and the droning bees were silent, the image gone.

She was free once again.

Her husband still slumbered peacefully.  Rain still drummed on the roof, the wind still howled.  She could hear the slapping of waves on the rocks beneath the tower.  It was a night like any other in her husband’s proud isle-girt stronghold, so close to the Isle of Skye.

Peace reigned at Eilean Creag Castle.

But something was very wrong at Dunwynde.

Duncan would be furious, claiming he wasn’t surprised in the least.  But he’d also gather his men and ride for the glen at first light.

Linnet just hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER NINE

“Leave her be!”  Gare roared, his blood icing at the nightmare beneath the cold, cloud-hazed moon.

Rain lashed down and winds howled, the whirling mist making it hard to see.  But he did: Mairi kneeling on the sodden ground, held there by a hag who could only be Sorcha Bell, a withered old woman with spiteful eyes.  She’d gripped Mairi’s hair, pulling her head back, and pressing a dirk against Mairi’s throat.

“Gare!”  Mairi stared at him, her eyes wide.  “She has a dagger!”

“No’ much longer.”  Gare closed the space between them, cold anger tightening his chest.

Troll circled the women, growling.  Rain glistened on his rough pelt and he seemed to have doubled his size.  His eyes shone fiercely, his unblinking gaze on Sorcha.  He’d bared his teeth, showing his large fangs so that he looked more like a wolf than a dog.

But he was well trained.

He wouldn’t attack unless commanded.

“Drop the blade, Sorcha.”  Gare towered over them.  “Now, or Troll will tear you apart.  He’d savage you, and then call on his friends in the Netherworld to sharpen their teeth on you until your bones are ground to dust.”

“I know you,” she sneered, her gaze flicking over him.  “I’ve seen you at cattle markets.  You’re the man with the broken sword.”

“I carry a blade now.”  Gare lifted his borrowed sword, gave her his hardest look.  “You just saw it in use.  I’ve no’ taste to wield it again, no’ on a shriveled auld woman in a reeking deerskin cloak.

“But I will.”  He slid a look at Troll, nodding almost infinitesimally – a signal that had Troll on Sorcha in a beat, his great paws on her shoulders his face only a breath from hers.  “You cannae win.”

Sorcha sniffed.  “I have the old ones’ blessings.  Your dog may snarl and bark, but he’ll be too fearful for more.  Dogs respect dark powers.

“And you, Sir Broken Sword,” she jeered, “will not want to risk Mairi’s neck.  If your dog moves again, so does my blade.”

“Indeed?”  Gare drew a finger slowly down the side of his nose, a signal that brought a lightning-quick lunge from Troll.  He gripped Sorcha’s wrist, shaking her arm so that she dropped the dagger.

“Gare!”  Mairi leapt to her feet and threw herself into his arms, holding tight.

“You are safe now, lady.”  He pulled her to him, tightening his arms around her.  “She will be gone anon, have no fear.”

“But you’ve vowed to not…”  She pressed her head to his shoulder, not finishing.

It didn’t matter.

He knew what she meant, and she was right.

He’d made an oath he couldn’t break, whatever Sorcha’s sins.

“I didnae say I’d kill her, only that she’ll be leaving us.  And she will.”  He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers.  “Sorcha!” he turned back to the hag, raised his voice above the wind.  “I do no’ make war on women, ever.  You attack innocents.  That cannae go unpunished.”

“Mairi MacKenzie was born wild.”  Sorcha glared venom at them, shook back her whir of tightly curled red-gray hair.  “There isn’t an innocent bone in her body.”

“You will return to Drumbell and make it your lifelong ambition to undo the wrong you’ve done her.”  Gare’s temper flared.  He struggled to speak levelly.  “Folk will hear the truth from you and I’ll know if that isn’t so.”  He looked hard into her cold, resentful eyes.  “If I must come for you, there will be no place in Scotland for you to hide.

“Go now, before the itch in my sword hand speaks faster.”  He stepped back, placing himself before Mairi, shielding her.

“Wait…”  Mairi came round him to fix Sorcha with a look.  “See that my cottage and garden are given to the young thatcher and his new wife.  They are staying with his parents and need a decent home to start their lives.”

Sorcha’s lips thinned.  “I fancied your wee hovel for a new herbarium.”

“You heard the lady.” Gare slid his arm around Mairi drawing her close.  “See it is done, as she wishes.  I will hear if you fail her.”

“Humph!”  Sorcha spit, and then spun around, scuttling away into the rain and mist.

She was gone in a blink.

Mairi stood shivering, Troll keeping guard beside her.  She looked miserable.  Dripping wet, flushed, her hair a tangled mess.  Her eyes glistened in the darkness.  Her drenched clothes clung to her, revealing as much as naked skin.  Gare swallowed, need unfurling inside him.  Never had he seen a more desirable woman, and never had he wanted one so badly.

But there was only one thing he could give her.

“Come, lady,” he said, placing his hand at the small of her back and guiding her to the broch.  “You need a bath to warm you and then you will sleep.  We’ll leave for Eilean Creag at first light.”

She stopped, looking up at him.  “We?”

“Aye.”  His mind was set.  “You can stay here no longer.”

They’d reached Dunwynde and she glanced at him as he pulled aside the door’s curtain so she could enter the broch’s smoky warmth.

“Sorcha will heed your threats.”  She pulled off her dripping cloak, spread it near the fire to dry.  “She is a coward.”

“So she is,” Gare agreed, wishing she wasn’t more.  “Sadly, she is also a tongue-wagger.  She will no’ cross me, for sure.  She saw what I did to her man.

“But she knows where you are.”  Gare fastened the door hanging, turned to face her.  “One mention of the Glen of Winds and other ill-wishers could appear on your doorstep,” he said, going to the back of the broch to fetch her large wooden bathing tub.

“That could be,” she agreed, but something flickered in her eyes as she watched him boil water for her bath.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was a look of hope.

Before it could grow, he braced himself to say words that would spear his heart.

A truth he knew she didn’t want to hear.

“Your place is with your people.”  His gut clenched, everything in him warring against what he must do.  “Duncan MacKenzie will keep you safe – we have discussed this.  Few lairds care for their own as he does.  All know it and no man, or woman, would dare cross him.”

“That is so.”  She’d slipped into the deeper shadows, was stripping off her wet clothes behind the plaid she’d hung for privacy.  “I should have stayed at Eilean Creag when I first sought his protection.”

Gare nodded, busying himself with lining her wash tub with a large linen cloth, then searching her shelf for the small jar of rose-scented soap she favored.  When her bath was ready, he’d bury Brude.  Mairi shouldn’t be confronted with such a sight when they left Dunwynde at daybreak.

The task would also spare him from the temptation of having her wet and naked before him.  Her warm, welcoming self, and her lush, ripe curves only paces away, yet as unattainable as the stars.

“The Black Stag and his family will welcome me.”  Mairi emerged from behind the plaid hanging, a large linen drying cloth wrapped around her.

She stood near the fire, watching as he filled the tub with heated water.  “He has aye said his door is always open to kin, a place aye at his table.”

Gare’s chest tightened with a pain he never wanted to feel again.  “Then all will be well on the morrow.”

Nae, it wouldn’t.

Leaving Kintail without Mairi would gut him, creating an ache he’d carry forever.

He craved her, relishing the softness and warmth of her in his arms, the honeyed taste of her kiss, the silkiness of her hair.  She’d also won him with her compassion, strength, and kindness.  Truth was, he’d come to love her.

The sharp pain gathering in his chest at the thought of saying goodbye, proved it.

Walking away might serve the greater good of the Scottish realm, and secure the continued weal of his people at Blackrock.  But it would destroy him.

All this he knew.  Yet what choice did he have?

Not one that he could see.

***

A short while later, Mairi was sure the broch’s dim lighting was playing tricks on her.  Or the blessedly warm water of her bath had lulled her into a dream state.

How else could she explain the lovely young woman standing before her, backlit by the glow of the peat fire.  She wore a man’s steel-linked armor and held a plumed helmet.  One hand rested on her heart, and her gaze was on Mairi, her eyes beseeching.

She shone with a light that came from within and Mairi knew who she was.

Lady Gwendolyn Berry, the ill-fated English noblewoman Gare had unknowingly struck down at the battle of Neville’s Cross five years before.

Unafraid of ghosts, for what were they but the souls of once living men who’d left the earthly realm, Mairi eased up in the high-sided bathing tub.  Her heart knocked wildly, whether she was accepting of bogles or nae.

Encountering one wasn’t something that happened every day.

As if she understood, the spirit gave her a small, sad smile, and then glanced at the door.

Tell him… he is free.

Mairi didn’t see Lady Gwendolyn’s lips move, but she heard the words as surely as if the ghost had whispered them in her ear.

But then a strong gust of chill, wet wind shook the door’s hanging and the room’s light and shadows shifted, blurring the spirit’s image.  Or perhaps Lady Gwendolyn simply chose to vanish, her quest met.

Either way, Mairi knew what she had to do.

She had two parting gifts for Gare, though one was as much a present to herself.

She hoped he’d accept both.

To that end, she gripped the sides of the cloth-lined tub and pushed to her feet.  Before she could reach for the drying cloth, the door’s curtain was drawn back and Gare strode into the broch.

He froze, staring at her nakedness.  “By thunder!”  He clapped a hand to his eyes, shook his head.  “I didnae mean…”  The words hung between them, rough-edged and raw.  “I was gone a while.  I thought you’d be abed by now.”

“No harm done.”  Mairi spoke calmly, hoped he’d think her shivering was from the night’s chill and not because of his gaze on her bared flesh.  A perusal that stirred her blood, rousing her.  “I am not shy, not ashamed of my nakedness.

“The warm water was soothing.”  She took the drying cloth, began rubbing the wetness from her skin.  “I stayed in the bath longer than intended.”

“I should’ve called out before coming inside.”  He went to the shelf where she kept her uisge beatha, pouring two measures.  He kept his back to her, clearly giving her privacy to don her night shift.

Mairi frowned, fighting the urge to go to him.  She yearned to touch his broad-set shoulders, glide her fingers down his strong, hard-muscled arms.  Above all, she ached to take his hand and lead him to her bed where she wanted to give him the gift she so hoped he’d accept.

One night entwined, intimately joined until the rising sun separated them.

Loving him would break her, shredding her soul.

Seeing him ride away from Kintail without having known his touch, would be a far worse fate to bear.

She needed such memories to sustain her.

So she left her night shift on its wall peg and pulled on her thin night robe instead.  She tied the laces only loosely, aware that the front-opening robe did little to hide her most valuable assets.

She wanted him to see her bared curves, every enticement of her womanliness.  Hoping he wouldn’t turn around before she was done, she took a small flagon of rose-scented oil from a niche in the wall.  Quickly, she dabbed a few drops at the base of her neck, beneath her breasts, and – she didn’t care what such wantoness said about her – to the soft skin of her inner thighs and even the warm and needy place betwixt them.

Perhaps she really was wild and wicked, in need of taming as many folk at Drumbell often scolded.  But she didn’t see love as wrong.

Tempting Gare was her only chance.

But first…

She took a deep breath and stood straighter, pushing aside all thought of her yearnings.  Now wasn’t the moment to attempt seduction.

Even so, it was hard to resist as he came back to her, carrying two small cups of uisge beatha.  He gave her one, his gaze steady on hers, as if he hadn’t noticed the almost opened state of her bed robe – or had and didn’t want to look at her.

“Drink, lady.”  He pressed the cup into her hand, nodding when she took a sip.  “It’s been a fraught night, but many of your cares can now be eased.”

“So can yours, my lord,” she spoke formally, the weight of what she was about to say heavy on her heart.  “I believe I know why the gods led you here.”

He’d just drained his uisge beatha and dragged the back of his hand across his beard.  “To slay dragons?  Sweet lass, I would have fought an army of the winged beasties for you.  All that matters is that you are safe.”

“So I am, and shall be – on the morrow, at my chief’s isle-girt home.”  Mairi took another steadying breath.  The light and shadow in the broch felt odd again, seeming to shift and swirl around them.  It almost felt as if they’d entered another realm, the rest of the world falling away.

“You are safe now, too.”  She hoped he’d believe her.  “By letting Sorcha go, you repaid the loss of Lady Gwendolyn.  However unknowingly her life was taken.”

“What are you saying?”  He stepped closer, gripping her arm.

Mairi lifted her chin, forging on.  “A balance was struck when you allowed Sorcha to walk away.  Your debt, the penance you’ve borne, is over.  I know because the lady appeared to me there.”  She flung out a hand, showing him where the spirit had hovered.  “She wanted me to tell you that ‘you are free.’”

For a long moment, he looked at the empty space she’d indicated.

“Lady, I dinnae believe in bogles,” he finally said.  But he was still gripping her arm and she could feel the tightness of his muscles easing, sensed that a tremendous burden was slipping from his shoulders.

“This broch is full of shifting light and shadow.”  He glanced round, as if to prove it.  “The rain is dwindling and the clouds are breaking.  You saw a moonbeam through the door opening.  Lady Gwendolyn is away and buried in England.”

She was here this night.

She cared enough to want you to live a good life.

Mairi didn’t say what she knew.

She suspected he’d believe in time and that was enough.

Now, this night…

“I would give you one more gift to carry away with you, if-”  Her bravura began to crumple.  She couldn’t bear it if he refused her.  “I believe you’ve received everything you sought here, and that is good.  In coming to the glen, you also brought something to me.

“Stirrings, feelings I’d never expected.”  Not knowing what else to do, she undid the ties of her robe and let the garment drop to the floor.

She stood naked before him, bathed only in the broch’s dimness and fire glow, wholly unashamed, yet so frightened he’d shun her.

“Lady…”  He clenched his hands, his gaze roaming over her, his eyes dark.  “This is no good idea.”

But he didn’t snatch up her robe and swirl it around her as she’d expected.  That gave her hope, as did the unmistakable swelling at his groin.

He clearly desired her.

And her heart sang to see his longing.

“I’ve been alone some time,” she rushed on, the night air chilling her skin even as her cheeks burned.  She swept back her hair, freeing her breasts.  Molten awareness poured through her, pooling low in her belly, deep between her thighs.  “You’ve been without the comfort of a woman for longer than I have missed a man’s caress,” she said, scarce hearing her voice for the thunder of her pulse.  “No lover has ever kindled such heat in me.”

“I know what you’re offering.”  His expression was fierce, his entire warrior’s body looking as if he’d been cast to stone.  “We shouldnae do this.  The price for such pleasure could be steep.”

“Then you’re not refusing me?”  You are worth any cost.  She stepped closer, her breasts brushing his chest.  The heat of him warmed her through his plaid.  “We would hurt no one…”

“Only ourselves.”  His eyes glinted, his words hinting at pain that was a distant blur in the future.

“I do not care – for myself.”  It was all she could do not to twine her arms around his neck, drawing him to her for kisses.  Her fingers itched to tear the plaid from him.  She wanted to run her hands over his bared skin, learning and memorizing each muscled plane, glorying in his sandalwood scent, his potent virility.  “I only ask these last few hours.  Then we shall be no more.”

“By all the bleeding gods!”  He caught her to him, his mouth crashing down over hers in a deep, devouring kiss.  He thrust one hand into her hair, gripping her nape as he kissed her hungrily.  It was a bold, open-mouthed claiming that stole her breath and left her clinging to him.  Her heart raced, the world around her beginning to tilt and spin as she clutched his powerful, plaid-draped shoulders, returning the kiss with all the passion she possessed.

He pulled her closer, releasing her hair and using his free hand to tear off his plaid.  As quickly, he tossed it aside so that not even a sliver of air stood between their eager nakedness.

“Gare?”  She drew back to look at him.  “My bed of furs, shall we-”

“Aye!”  He scooped her into his arms and carried her to her sleeping place where he laid her on the thick pelts, then knelt beside her.  He trailed his fingers across her breasts, smoothed his hand down her side, along the curve of her hip.  “I have ached for this, lady, even as I swore no’ to touch you.”

Mairi reached up to stroke his beard.  “I am feeling more a wench than a lady.”

“You are my lady, and e’er shall be.”  His gaze swept her, so heatedly that she almost felt the breath of flames everywhere he looked.  When his gaze paused at the vee of her thighs and he skimmed his fingertips across the dark curls there, she melted.

The hot pulsing in that most intimate place was nigh unbearable, her desire so great she could scarce breathe.

She wouldn’t think about him calling her his lady.

She was wench enough to know men say many things in the throes of passion.

“All I want is this night.”  And then a thousand more, again and again for all our days.  She trailed her fingers across his chest, admiring his sculpted muscles, the scattering of dark hair that arrowed from his chest to his belly and lower.  “I would give you ease to carry with you when you go.”

Moments I’ll wrap in every beat of my heart, to treasure forever.

“Sweet lass.”  He stretched out beside her, reached to palm her breasts, plumping and caressing them.  Cherishing her as if she were a great and precious prize.  “You give me too much.  But I am captivated and cannae resist,” he said, his voice gruff as he leaned in to rain kisses across the swells of her breasts, then swirl his tongue around one peak and then the other.

Mairi’s entire body warmed, tingly bliss spooling through her.  Around them, light and shadow merged until nothing remained but a shimmer of silver that shielded them from the outside world as he closed his mouth over one tight nipple and drew hard, the intimacy almost pushing her over the edge.

“I didnae want this.”  He lifted his head to look at her as he slid his hand from her breasts to her waist, stroking lower to slip his fingers between her legs.  He caressed the soft, sensitive insides of her upper thighs, then the sleek, damp place that tingled so desperately.

“I cannae naesay you.”  His fingers lit over her again and again, each touch bringing ribbons of pleasure.

The sensations were heady, making her rock her hips into his hand.  She didn’t want him to stop.  She let her knees fall wider apart, opening her to his bliss-spending fingers as he sought and circled the sweetest part of her, heightening her pleasure.  Yet she still craved more, was sure she’d shatter if he lifted his hand from her.

“I can take no more.”  She could hardly speak.  “No man has ever touched me this way…”

“Nor will any ever again.  You are mine, Mairi MacKenzie.  I willnae let you go.”  His voice was low, the words again claims she knew men made when pleasuring women.

They meant nothing.

Not for a supposed wonder healer who’d been raised on an onion farm.

Her heart pounded anyway.

And she let herself hope as she looked down to watch his fingers stroke her.

“You are beautiful, more dear than a King’s ransom.”  He used one finger to rub the tiny seat of her greatest pleasure.  “I could touch and kiss you all night, ravishing every inch of you.

“Especially this part.”  He splayed his hand over her, cupping the whole of her.

Mairi shivered, her blood racing.  “You may have anything you desire.  I am yours, this night.”  Don’t leave me on the morrow.

I can’t watch you go.

“I would have you, aye,” he vowed, his gaze on the place he was still gripping so firmly.  “So sure as a man cannae hold back the tide.”

Then he was nudging her knees even wider and settled himself between her thighs, leaning down until his breath warmed her skin.  He eased her legs over his shoulders, his gaze lifting to hers as he lowered his head and flicked his tongue over the delicate flesh where his fingers had plied such mastery.  He circled and probed, then simply began licking her.  Long, slow drags of his tongue across the whole of her, again and again, so that the sweetest, most intense pleasure speared through her.  Beautiful sensations she’d never known and that she couldn’t bear to relinquish.

“Gare…”  She lifted her hips, threaded her fingers in his hair as she rubbed against him, already feeling the crest of her release.  “I can take no more.”

“You can, and shall.”  He opened his mouth over her, drawing deeply, causing her hips to arch at the intimacy.  “I willnae stop until we are both replete.  You are nowhere near sated enough.  We have hours before the sun rises.”

Mairi’s heart broke, the reminder of the morrow piercing her soul.

“Then take me now and let us love well.”  She smoothed her hands over his head, cradled his face.  “I would have you at least three times before the morn’s light.”

“No’ near enough.”  He rolled on top of her and she felt the hard, thick length of him against her inner thigh, nudging her needy flesh, seeking entry.

He braced himself above her and lowered his head, slanting his mouth over hers and kissing her deeply as he eased inside her.  Slowly at first, but then she wrapped her legs around him, drawing him deeper.  She gripped his shoulders, urging him into a harder, faster rhythm that took her breath and made her heart pound.

She clung to him, the pleasure so intense, more exquisite than she would’ve believed.  And all around them the strange and beautiful silvery light danced and shone, intensifying when he reached down between them to rub and circle her most sensitive spot until the sensations spiraled and broke.  Her body quivered and then stilled, waves of completion washing over her.

From somewhere, she thought she heard him call her name.  She wasn’t sure, for the wind was rising again, its howl louder than ever.

But then he slowed and heaved a great, shuddering breath as he pulled out of her.  He rolled onto his back, drawing her close against his side.  She rested her head on his shoulder, slid one leg over his hip.

“Sweet lass.”  He smoothed back her hair, kissed her brow.  “I would ne’er hurt you.”

You already have – by leaving.  “You have only brought me joy.”  Mairi allowed herself the half-truth, not wanting to speak of the sorrow to come.  “I did not know such pleasure existed.  Not as with you.”

“You deserve so much more.”  He pushed up on an elbow just as the door curtain moved and Troll entered the broch.

“He left us alone, didn’t he?”  Mairi watched the dog walk without a limp to his food bowl, polishing his evening meal and then drinking deeply from his water.

Troll knew there was no more reason to feign ailments or achy bones.

He’d accepted defeat, sensed they were leaving.

“He’s a smart lad.”  Gare took her hand, lacing their fingers.  “He’ll be at the door when the first hint of gray lightens the sky.”

“And you?”  She held her breath.

“I shall be there before him.”  He gave her the answer she’d dreaded.

Mairi turned her face to the side and drew a long, tight breath.  She needed to steel herself against the memories they’d just made.

How could she have believed they’d be enough?

THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

CHAPTER TEN

Early the next morning, high in the most barren region of Kintail’s greatest peaks, Gare sent a prayer to the gods.  He thanked them that he’d wakened with Mairi beside him.  Whatever the day brought, he’d have the memory of her wrapped in arms, her warmth pressed to him, her silky black hair streaming across his chest.

She’d even rested her hand atop his heart, as if she knew it beat only for her.

Remembering, his chest tightened, so he pushed the images from his mind.  What he needed to do was keep putting one foot before the other as they trudged across yet another bleak, wind-bitten ridge.

They’d set off early and the Glen of Winds was now far behind them as they made their way across the stony, mist-drenched heights of Kintail toward Duncan MacKenzie’s stronghold, the isle-girt castle, Eilean Creag.

Gare frowned, dreading what would happen there.

But Mairi’s safety and happiness were at stake.  And he didn’t want her damned.

Above all, he didn’t want to lose her.

The need to keep her at his side was powerful, a driving force that could destroy them both.

He glanced over his shoulder at the way they’d come.  His gaze couldn’t pierce the wall of mist swirling everywhere, but he felt Dunwynde behind him, its peat-hazed warmth and solace.  How he wished they could’ve stayed there, hidden away in Mairi’s bed of furs.  The haven where he’d learned how much he loved her, how fiercely he wanted to keep her.

“Are you sure this is the way?”  She touched his arm, looking at him with worry in her great blue eyes.  “I’m not concerned for myself,” she said, glancing at Troll.  “But Troll will need a rest before we go much farther.”

“Then we’ll pause here for a bit.”  Gare didn’t like how she’d set a hand on her hip, drawing in long, deep breaths of the chill autumn air.

She looked exhausted and that only heaped more worry and guilt on his shoulders.

Especially as he knew she hadn’t slept, a lacking that was his fault entirely – much as he couldn’t deny she’d been equally ravenous.

Mairi MacKenzie was insatiable.

She was incomparable.  Wild, uninhibited, and more passionate than any woman he’d ever known.

Her heart…

He doubted the world’s great seas could contain her goodness, the deep compassion that beat inside her.

“It isnae much farther,” he said, pulling her to him, rubbing her back, hoping to soothe her weariness as best he could.  “My regrets that we left so early, and in such miserable conditions.”  He dropped a kiss on her brow, glanced again at the mist that had thickened since they’d reached the higher ground.  “At least the rains have ceased.”

“How can you know we’re close?”  She rested her head on his shoulder.  “We can see nothing.”

“I know as any Highlander does.”  He cupped her chin, leaning down to give her a soft, light kiss.

And he did know.

To the bone, he was aware of the great stony peaks soaring around them.  He knew they were there because his love for the land let him feel their mighty presence.  They just couldn’t be seen.  Thick, impenetrable mist cloaked them completely, parting only now and then to allow glimpses of rock-clogged corries, steep gorges, patches of brown-and-red bracken, dead heather, and rushing burns.

This was the heart of the Highlands, Kintail the lifeblood of the region.

Then, before they could see more, the day turned dark and bleak again, the world vanishing beneath the rolling blanket of dense, gray fog.

Mairi rubbed her arms, drew her cloak tighter against the icy air.  “I do not want to spend the night up here.  Troll will catch a chill.”

“Troll will sleep before your laird’s hearth fire this night, his belly full, and his snores annoying everyone.  Dinnae fash yourself, lassie.”

“Well, I do.”

“You needn’t.  I can smell the sea wind.”  He turned her in his arms, set his hands on her shoulders.  “I spent too many years sailing to the gods knows where on the tourney circuit.  Once you’ve steeped your lungs in salt air, you have a nose for it, always.”

“Troll isn’t so certain.”  Mairi glanced at the dog.  He’d dropped onto his haunches, looking miserable.

“He wasn’t with me in those days.”  He stepped away from her to pull a small pouch from beneath his cloak, retrieving a twist of dried meat that he gave to Troll, clearly a bribe.

“He will be fine, as will you.  Soon.”  He tucked the treat pouch back inside his cloak.  “Eilean Creag Castle is less than an hour’s walk, I promise.”

She nudged a clump of autumn-browned heather with her toe, clearly not convinced.

“You dinnae believe me.”  Gare touched her cheek.  “Look between thon drifts of mist, and then down the slope to the west.  You will see the glimmer of torchlight and hearth fires.”

He turned her in the right direction.  “The firelight is also shining on the water, turning it orange.  Thon is your laird’s stronghold, with Loch Duich surrounding its walls.”

“Aye, I see the castle now.  It is Eilean Creag.”  She whipped around, strong emotion in her face.  “Will you be leaving this day?  For Burnett Tower in Inverness?”

Before he could answer, Troll leapt to his feet, barking.

At once, the air filled with the shouts of men.  Someone blew a horn, once and then twice more.  The sound echoed off the high crags as the misty wood came alive, the noise of approaching horsemen all around them.  Iron-shod hooves rang on stone, joined by the crunch of gravel and the creak of saddle leather, the clink of mail and armor.

“Mercy!”  Mairi gripped Gare’s arm.  “Can Sorcha be returning so soon?  With an army?”

“No’ if she doesnae want her gizzards pickled.”  Gare pulled her behind him and drew Brude’s borrowed sword.  Ever a champion, Troll positioned himself beside Mairi, ready to guard her.  “Whoe’er comes is no’ from that hag.  Even so, you take this ax and use it if you can.”  He pulled Brude’s war ax from the strap across his shoulder, and thrust it into her hands.  “The sight of it should deter a man – leastways long enough for Troll to tear out his throat, should anyone come at you.”

“If you are gone.”  She spoke so softly he scarce heard her.

“Should that happen, aye.”  He wouldn’t lie.  “I’m hoping it willnae come to that.  Like as no’ they are headed elsewhere and havenae seen us.”

Mairi didn’t look so sure.

In truth, he wasn’t either.

He drew her into his arms, holding her close.  “Perhaps it is your Sir Marmaduke and his men?”

“Nae, it wouldn’t be.”  She shook her head.  “This is the fastest, most direct way into the Glen of Winds, but also the roughest.  Traveling these passes would be too hard on my chief’s horses.  He wouldn’t want the beasts so stressed or endangered.

“Sir Marmaduke and his men use a safer, more circuitous route.”  She looked up, turning her blue gaze on him.  “They’d never come this way.”

“Then Troll and I will keep you safe.”  His voice roughened.  “You know that now.”  He rested his chin atop her head, tightened his arms around her.  “You’ll spend this night in a fine chamber in your liege’s castle, a room with sumptuous accoutrements and all comfort, as befits you.

“That I promise.”  He kissed her rose-scented hair, slid his knuckles down her cheek.

She shivered and pressed her face against his plaid, but she didn’t speak.

There wasn’t time.

The sounds were closer.  Already, flashes of silver shone through the trees.  Steel blades and mail, sure signs of a war party – then they were there, a group of horsemen emerging from the trees.  Big, bearded men in gleaming hauberks and draped in plaid, they were hung with weapons and rode under a stag’s head banner.

MacKenzies.

And from their hard, grim-set faces, the reason for their journey wasn’t good.

Indeed, they looked murderous.

***

“My chief!”  Mairi glanced at Gare, saw an indefinable emotion flash across his face.  “He’s the big, dark-haired man in front, the one with two swords at his waist.  Next to him is his captain of the guards, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow.  He’s Duncan’s good-brother by marriage and a Sassenach.  You can’t miss him – his face is scarred.”

“Then they’ll have reason to travel so heavily armed.”  Gare rammed his borrowed blade into the ground, waiting.  “I dinnae think they expected to meet us here.”

“Maybe they heard of Sorcha’s attack?”  Mairi could think of nothing else.

Still in his prime, Duncan’s handsome face was fierce, his gaze piercing.  He’d donned his famed black mail and looked more fearsome than she’d ever seen him, while the heavy gold torque at his neck and his many gold-and-silver arm rings gave him the appearance of a Celtic lord of warriors.

His good-brother, the more mild-mannered Sir Marmaduke, also wore a grim expression.

Whatever their purpose, they weren’t on their way to bring victuals or peat to Dunwynde.

Both men swung down from their saddles and strode forward.  Their companions stayed mounted, their faces also unreadable.

Ill ease spread inside Mairi.  She pressed a hand to her breast, her heart knocking against her ribs.

She slid a glance at Gare, lowering her voice.  “Something is wrong.”

“So it seems.”  He reached for her hand, squeezing.  “I have heard MacKenzie is a man of reason – if you speak plainly with him.  I shall do so.”

Mairi bit her lip, struggling to control her emotions.

She knew what that truth would be.

And hearing him voice his plans would break her.

“Laird MacKenzie!  Strongbow!  I greet you!” Gare called as they drew up before them.  “I am Sir Gare MacTaggert of Blackrock Castle.  I came to your lands in peace and leave them now as a friend,” he went on, proving her right.

He flashed a glance at her and she hoped he didn’t see the wetness burning her eyes.  “Your kinswoman, Mairi, is in need of safekeeping.  We were on our way to Eilean Creag Castle, where my horse, Rune is stabled.  I would ask a night’s lodging, and-”

“You carry a sword, Blackrock.”  Duncan didn’t let him finish, his gaze snapping to the blade Gare had thrust into the ground.  “All men know your sword is broken – or is it now bloodied?”

“The sword you see was reddened, aye.  Yestere’en.”  Gare didn’t flinch, meeting the older man’s gaze easily.  “My rent blade rests beneath a cairn in the Glen of Winds for I’ve no longer any use for it.  This brand” – he indicated Brude’s weapon – “is borrowed until I return to my home and can have a new sword made.

“Borrowed or nae, it served me well last night,” he added, then reached again for Mairi’s hand, lacing their fingers as he told her chief of Sorcha’s attack and how he slew their assailant.  He left out no detail except what happened later, in the shadowy confines of Mairi’s broch, on her fine bed of furs.

“Sir…”  Mairi wished Duncan’s scowl would ease.  He looked so fierce when he frowned.  “If Gare hadn’t been with me in the glen, I would be dead now.  He was taking me to you, trusting it is best for me to leave Dunwynde and stay at Eilean Creag, under your protection.”

“Is that what you want?”  Sir Marmaduke stepped closer and looked down at her, his gaze probing.  “To remain at Eilean Creag?”

“It is surely best.”  She glanced aside, not wanting him to see into her heart.

Stinging heat pricked her eyes and a hot, thick lump was rising in her throat.  Worse, she felt so cold inside, empty and hollowed.  She feared she’d never be whole again.

She loved Duncan and his family.  But she wanted her own.  Unfortunately, she desired a life with the one man she couldn’t have.  And arriving at the Black Stag’s lair only meant impending doom.

Sanctuary for her or nae, Eilean Creag Castle represented the hour of reckoning.  The agonizing moment when she’d have to watch Gare ride off into the mist.

It was not for the best.

But her pride wouldn’t let her say so.

She did see Duncan and Sir Marmaduke exchange a glance.  It was the kind she’d seen before, usually when Lady Linnet had been after the two of them about something.

Just now, she suspected that something was her.

“And you, laddie?”  Duncan strode up to Gare, clapped a hand on his shoulder.  “Are you for agreeing that Mairi would be best served in my care?”

Gare didn’t hesitate.  “She would be safe with you, I know.”

“But that’s no’ what you’re wanting, is it?”  Duncan’s gaze flicked to where Gare clutched Mairi’s hand.  When he looked back at Gare, his scowl was gone, replaced by an almost smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“My lady wife, Linnet, has the sight, see you?”  He stepped closer still, placed his other hand on Mairi’s shoulder, forming a connection to them both.  “My lady is why we were riding so hard for the glen, armed for war.  She had one of her spells last night, claimed she saw your broken sword run whole and then turn red with blood.

“She had other tales as well, though I’ll no’ be sharing those!”  He threw a glance at Sir Marmaduke, who had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“So-o-o!”  He stepped back, hooking his thumbs in his sword belt. “I’ll ask again, laddie.  Are you really for leaving the lass at my castle?”

“Nae, I’m taking her with me – whether it pleases you or no’.”  Gare drew her close, wrapping an arm around her.  “I haven’t asked her yet if she’ll have me, though I’m thinking she will.  There are problems I intended to speak with you about before I asked you for her hand.”

“Oh, Gare!”  Mairi searched his face for any hint that she’d misheard him.  She saw none, only love and determination.  “You know how happy this makes me.  I love you, I do!”

She lifted on her toes, threw her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek.  “But Lady Beatrice…”  She knew it would be awful, especially if they called at Burnett Tower together.  “Her family will be outraged, insulted-”

“Nae, they willnae.”  He leaned down, kissed her brow.  “I ne’er paid a formal call to the Burnett.  His daughter was only the most suitable of the young gentlewomen suggested to me as a bride.  I didn’t want to claim any woman until I’d seen you, knew that I could rid myself of my penance and make a good husband.”

“So she never knew?”  Mairi’s heart thundered, her eyes filling, hot tears making it hard to see.  “You weren’t betrothed to her?”

“Nae.”  Gare smiled, shaking his head.  “I meant to call at Burnett Tower on my journey home.  Now there is no need.”

“Then what is the problem?”  Sir Marmaduke still looked concerned.

Duncan glared at him.  “Must you aye spoil happy endings?”

Unperturbed, the scar-faced Sassenach turned again to Gare.  “Tell us what else troubles you, lad.  Here in Kintail, there is little thon blowhard cannot fix.”

“Aye, right…”  Gare stepped away from the little group, rubbing his neck as he started pacing.  “That is the crux of it, see you?”  He glanced at the two older men, not looking at Mairi.  “The matter is delicate and I’d no’ hurt Mairi for all the world’s gold.”

“So?”  Duncan and Sir Marmaduke spoke in unison, both men folding their arms.

“‘Twas an order from the King’s Lieutenant, Robert Stewart, commanding me to wed,” Gare explained, going on to tell them the same tale he’d already shared with Mairi.  How the crown wished Scotland’s oft-times unruly northeastern corner better secured through strong alliances.  For Gare, that meant marriage to a daughter of good house, a well-seen family of noble blood and one that commanded respect.

Mairi struggled to keep standing where she was.  She felt a powerful urge to flee, to run all the way back to Dunwynde.  It was even harder not to thrust her fingers in her ears.  Gare might love her, and she was sure he did.  But she was still the daughter of a nameless father, a simple village lass raised by her aunt and uncle, the onion farmers.

Nothing could change that.

So why was her chief smiling, looking almost amused?

“That is no problem, lad,” Duncan boomed then, strolling over to Gare and putting his arm around Gare’s shoulders.  “See you, I have ne’er cared much for Lowland worthies, those who strut about Stirling and Edinburgh, garbed like peacocks and shrieking as loudly.  I’ve no mind to obey them.  No’ when it doesnae suit me.”  He paused, threw a look at his men over by the trees, the lot of them still mounted.

“But I will rally to their cause if doing so helps strengthen a region my beloved Lady Mairi might soon call her home.”

“Sir?”  Mairi blinked.  She glanced at Gare, saw he looked equally puzzled.  “Gare knows I am not a lady.  I didn’t lie to him.”

Now Sir Marmaduke was also smiling.  “Sweet Mairi,” he said, his dear voice gentle, “you need to listen with your heart and not your ears.”

Mairi pushed back her hair, still confused.  “I don’t understand.  Sorry, I-”

“Your chief called you Lady Mairi.”  Gare was suddenly beside her, his own eyes suspiciously moist.  He leaned in, lowering his voice.  “I believe it has something to do with his Sassenach captain saying he makes his own rules and does as he pleases here in his beloved Kintail.”

And then she understood.

“Oh, dear…”  She blinked furiously, unable to stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Here, lass.”  Sir Marmaduke was beside her then, pressing a small, linen cloth into her hand.  “Dry your tears, for you’ve no need to cry.”

“For sure, she doesnae!”  Duncan took her hand, holding it between both of his.  “Nae more, and ne’er again, something’s telling me.”

He looked down at her and she almost laughed because his eyes were glistening, too.  Then he turned again to his guards and lifted his voice, “Ho, men!  We’re away for home.  We’ll have guests in the hall this e’en.  My lady niece and her husband-to-be will join us for a fine feasting!  We’ll have warmed mead and venison, and my best musicians for dancing.”

A great cheer rose from the men and they rode forward, circling the little group as they whooped and brandished their swords, some blowing horns.

All beamed and shouted hoorahs, their excitement catching.

Not a one questioned that the onion farmer’s niece was now the much-loved and privileged niece to one of the greatest Highland chieftains Scotland had ever seen.

Indeed, no one would dare raise a question or objection.

Not if they valued their neck.

And so it came to be that, on a cold and mist-drenched morning, the Glen of Winds banshee ceased to exist.

Even so, it was a bit hard saying farewell to her.  Without the banshee, or the wonder healer, Gare would never have journeyed to Dunwynde.

“Then we would have met elsewhere, my love.”  He stepped up behind her, sliding his arms around her and pulling her back against him.

They needed to wait while Duncan’s men argued who would have the honor of giving up their mount so the laird’s lady niece could return to Eilean Creag in style.

“I can’t speak – I am so overcome,” she managed, leaning into him, hoping her knees wouldn’t buckle.  “What if you’d never sought the banshee, the caster of miracles?”

“I’d have found you if I’d had to search all broad Scotland and beyond.”  He dropped a kiss on her nape, his warm breath tickling her ear.  “I knew you were out there, waiting for me.”

His words made her heart flutter.  “For such a great warrior, you are a romantic, Sir Gare.”

“Only for you, Lady Mairi.”  He kissed her shoulder then, nipped the soft skin beneath her ear.  “I would fight any dragon, challenge the devil, if it pleased you.”

“You please me,” she vowed, turning to face him.

“I have only one regret.”  He lifted her chin and kissed her.  “That I waited so long to find you.”  He would’ve said more, but Troll was pushing between them, pressing into their legs, seeking attention.

The reason was apparent – they had an audience.

Duncan, Sir Marmaduke, and the guardsmen, stood in a circle around them.  All of the men had tellingly bright eyes and red noses.  They no longer looked fierce, but rather comical.  And they were still smiling.  One patiently held the horse chosen for Mairi.

It was time to go.

Even so, she grabbed Gare’s sleeve when he started forward.  “I have a regret, too.”  She spoke low, not wanting anyone else to hear.  “I should have liked to have kept my bed of furs.”

“You willnae need it, sweetness.”  He took her hand, leading her to the horse.  “I will warm you every night.”  He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips.  “I’ll make sure you’re so well heated you willnae want any covers.”

“I know.”  She did.

“But?”  The concern in Gare’s eyes made her heart turn over.  “Something still troubles you.”

“Oh, nae.”  She placed a finger to his lips, silencing him before he could say suchlike again.  “I have never been happier.  It’s just that I would’ve enjoyed having the pelts as a keepsake.  Because it was there, on my bed of furs, that we first-”

“I will send someone to fetch them.”  He touched her face, smoothed the dampness from her cheek.  “It will be my first task upon reaching Blackrock.  Would that please you?”

“Oh, aye!”  Mairi smiled.  Her joy was now complete.

More than she’d ever dreamed.

Except…

She tugged on his hand again, lifting on her toes to speak in his ear.  “There’s one more thing,” she said, only half teasing.  “I wish my chief wasn’t throwing a feast for us tonight.  Free flowing mead and pipers and fiddlers could make for a long evening.”

Gare arched a brow, a wicked gleam in his eyes.  “Shall we slip away early?”

Mairi nodded, already tingling.  “I would like that very much.”

Gare grinned.  “So would I, lass, so would I.”

And so they did, stealing away as soon as they could that night, not caring if anyone noticed.  Only Troll knew and he wasn’t telling.

ABOUT SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER

USA Today bestselling author Sue-Ellen Welfonder is known for her strong heroines, Alpha heroes, and weaving Highland magic and humor into her tales.  Her passions are Scotland, medieval history, Celtic legend and lore, the paranormal, and animals.  All can be found in her medieval romances and the contemporary paranormals she writes as Allie Mackay.  She lives on Florida’s southwest coast with her husband and her muse, Snuggles the writer cat.

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A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

HIGHLAND DYNASTY SERIES BOOK THREE

AMY JARECKI

TITLES BY

AMY JARECKI

NEW JACOBITE SERIES: HIGHLAND DEFENDER

The Fearless Highlander

HIGHLAND FORCE SERIES

Captured by the Pirate Laird

The Highland Henchman

Beauty and the Barbarian

Return of the Highland Laird  (A Highland Force Novella)

HIGHLAND DYNASTY SERIES

Knight in Highland Armor

A Highland Knight’s Desire

Highland Knight of Rapture

PICT/ROMAN ROMANCES

Rescued by the Celtic Warrior

Celtic Maid

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER ONE

The Scottish Highlands, Late Fifteenth Century

Gyllis Campbell forgot the pain in her backside when Dunstaffnage Castle came into view. It was all she could do not to dig in her heels, slap her riding crop against her mare’s rump and overtake their dreary entourage. But Mother would surely admonish such a display of unladylike exuberance.

In the castle foreground, blue and white striped tents festooned with colorful flags flapped in the breeze. The sight made butterflies flit about her stomach. If only she could hop off her horse, she’d be able to walk faster than the guards leading them. Gyllis had been looking forward to the annual Highland fete for ages. At long last they’d arrived and the rain had stopped. It would be Beltane on the morrow—May Day. And it couldn’t possibly rain on the opening day of the games.

Gyllis cast an excited grin toward her sister. “What is the first thing you plan to do?”

Helen licked her lips. “I can already smell the honeyed cryspes.”

Food?

Though only a year younger, Helen could be incredibly dull. She even opted to wear a veil and cover her lovely honey-colored locks, though she was a maid and within her rights to flaunt her beautiful tresses. “Sounds delicious,” Gyllis managed a disinterested reply. She set her sights on more interesting fare and scanned the scene for Highland warriors. Where is he?

“And you?” Helen asked.

“Hmm?” Gyllis focused on a gathering of well-armed knights ahead. No handsome lad with a head of thick dark locks among them. She could picture Sir Sean MacDougall in her mind’s eye as if she’d seen him only yesterday. She adored everything about the knight including his long, athletic legs she’d admired many times when he sparred in the courtyard as one of her brother’s Highland Enforcers. A potent and powerful man, Sir Sean’s face was as equally rugged and handsome as his form. It had been six months since she’d last seen him before he left to patrol the borders. But forever burned into her memory was the way his azure eyes had stared at her from across the table during last year’s Beltane festival. No man had ever gazed upon her with such fervent hunger. More so, his stare had awakened a longing deep within Gyllis’s soul that would not be forgotten.

“What will be the first thing you’ll do, silly?” Helen asked again.

Gyllis waggled her brows. “I want to watch the games.”

“But they do not start until the morrow.” Helen tsked her tongue. “Bless it, you are incorrigible.” She leaned toward Gyllis. “I know what you’re doing.”

“So?” she snorted. “Eoin will be here, too.”

Helen whipped her head around so fast, she nearly fell off her mount. “Wheesht. Ma will hear you.”

Gyllis glanced over her shoulder at her mother and younger twin sisters. Bogle’s bones, she and the lassies would all need to find husbands soon. She had long past attained the age of twenty. Many highborn lasses were wed by ten and six—the same age as Alice and Marion. Yet her brother, the all-powerful and domineering Lord of Glenorchy, frowned upon every available noble who passed through Kilchurn Castle’s gates. Well, Gyllis had decided it was time to take matters into her own hands, lest she end up a spinster. If her brother deemed no one suitable to place a ring on her finger, she would follow her heart—a love interest she had harbored for years.

“Gyllis?” The commanding tone in Mother’s voice made her sit straighter. “Have you seen Duncan?”

I’d prefer it if my overbearing brother remained on the borders. “Not as of yet.”

“His missive said he would meet us at the gate.”

Gyllis eyed the barbican and the long pathway leading to Dunstaffnage’s immense grey stone walls. “Perhaps we shall see him when our entourage proceeds closer to the castle.”

“Can we not stop and look at the wares first?” asked Alice, Gyllis’s youngest sister—aside from Marion who was born moments later.

Mother cleared her throat. “No one will be doing any browsing at the fete until we are settled in our rooms.”

Gyllis rolled her eyes to the sky. “The servants will see to that. We’ll be in their way.”

“Oh?” Mother said. “And how will you know where you’ll be sleeping?”

Gyllis grinned at Helen. “You can tell us, Ma.”

“Ungrateful children,” Mother sighed. “It shan’t take long. Together we will proceed to our rooms and I’ll hear no further argument.”

With a wink, Gyllis leaned toward her sister and whispered, “You’ll have to wait a wee bit longer for those honeyed cryspes.”

“And you must put off ogling Sir Sean.”

Her heart fluttered at the mention of his name. She flicked her riding crop at Helen. “I’ll wager you’ll be dancing with Sir Eoin MacGregor this eve.”

Helen grasped the crop and yanked it from Gyllis’s hand. “You are shameless.”

“And you are ungrateful.” Gyllis snatched the whip back. “Remember, I am the one who intends to keep the Campbell sisters from spinsterhood.”

***

Sean MacDougall left his horse with his squire and removed his helm. He inhaled a deep breath of Highland air. The sweet scent of home enlivened him. He’d been looking forward to the Beltane games as he did every year and now even more so.

After spending six months patrolling the borders with the Highland Enforcers, he needed clean air and good sport. He scrubbed his knuckles against his scalp and marched from the stables toward the smell of roasting meat.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, nephew?”

Sean stopped on the path leading to the castle’s main gate and turned. He’d recognize his uncle’s timeworn scowl anywhere. “If it isn’t the Lord of Lorn, himself.” He held out his hand for a firm handshake. “I see you’ve outdone yourself this year. The collection of merchants is grander than ever before.” Indeed, the tents sprawled across Dunstaffnage’s foreground posed an impressive sight.

Lorn chuckled—though not a tall man, he had a deep voice. “We do bring in more tinkers every year.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers together. “And with it comes more coin—as long as they can keep their thieving hands to themselves.”

In the past six months, Sean had endured enough of backstabbers and thieves to last a lifetime. At times he’d reckoned fate must have doled him out a parcel of bad luck. But he aimed to rectify his lot starting now. “I wish you well controlling the roustabouts. I’m here for the games.”

“I would assume no less.” Lorn chuckled and squeezed his arm. “And I expect you to be victorious—I’ve wagered a nicely sum upon it.”

Sean grinned. “I aim to give it my best.”

“Good lad.” Lorn smoothed his fingers down his grey, pointed beard. “I haven’t seen the Laird of Dunollie as of late. Will he be dining at the high table with me this eve?”

“Unfortunately, Da needs rest. He was a wee bit fevered last eve, but I expect him to come round before the end of the games.”

“Very well.”

Above the crowd ahead, Duncan Campbell climbed the steps leading to Dunstaffnage’s inner barbican. Sean waved and Duncan offered an exaggerated bow, his black hair dropping into his eyes. They’d been friends since the age of ten and four when Sean’s father sent him to Kilchurn Castle to foster with the late Lord of Glenorchy, Duncan’s da.

“Are you still riding with that Campbell blackguard?” Lorn asked.

Sean raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me, Uncle. Duncan is one of my closest allies.”

“I’d watch my back with friends such as he.”

“It would be in our best interest if we Highlanders could manage to end our feuds.”

Lorn scrunched his nose as if he’d just tasted a bitter brew. “’Tis easy for you to say, but I must find some way of keeping Campbell fingers off my title when I’m laid to rest. To my chagrin, my sister off and married the Earl of Argyll—if I pass without issue, the title will go to him, the bastard.”

Sean regarded his uncle. Blood ran thick in the Highlands, but he cared not to taint it with hatred for friends. He thumped him on the shoulder. “You can always marry Dugald’s mother and legitimize your son. That should solve all your woes.”

“But marrying so far beneath my station would cause consternation at court,” Lorn growled, drawing his thick brows together. “If only I had a legitimate heir like your father.”

Sean headed off with a chuckle. “You must start on that, uncle—before you’re too old to get a rise out of your cock.”

Lorn fell in step beside him. “Insolent lad. You should talk—how old are you now? Nine and twenty?”

“Aye.” Sean had never thought about aging, but the way Lorn said it, he already had one foot in the grave.

“You’d best be sowing your seed soon, else you’ll find yourself in a similar predicament.” Lorn jabbed his elbow into Sean’s ribs. “There’s no better time to find a ripe lassie than Beltane. You ken the legends.”

“Ballocks to that.” Sean slapped a dismissive hand through the air. “I’m off to fill my belly and enjoy the sweet Highland air. I’ve plenty of time to worry about marriage after the games.”

Having had about all he could take of his uncle’s babble, Sean raced ahead and followed Lord Duncan through the gatehouse. The inner courtyard was filled with nobles dressed in brightly colored blues, yellows, and more red velvet than he’d ever seen outside of court. A tall man, it wasn’t difficult for Sean to push through the crowd, straight into the castle’s tapestry-lined great hall. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread made his mouth water and his stomach growl.

From the high table, Duncan stood and beckoned him. “We’re not too late for our nooning.”

“Thank the good Lord for small mercies.” Sean slid into the seat beside the baron. “And where is your wife?”

“Lady Meg opted to remain at Kilchurn with the bairns. The wee ones are still too young to travel.”

Sean reached for a ewer and poured himself a tankard of ale. “And how are the twins?”

“Elizabeth has a healthy set of pipes for certain—though her brother Colin can hold his own.”

“Was the birth worth returning from the borders early?”

Duncan bit off a chunk of bread and winked. “I’ll say. Bloody miserable reiving thieves I can live without. A turn at home did me some good as well.”

A servant placed a trencher of chicken on the table and Sean swiped a leg. “And Lady Meg, has she recovered from the birth?”

“Aye, she’s as feisty as ever.”

Sean laughed. He’d never forget the night they stole Duncan away from Edinburgh gaol. They were riding like hellfire when Sean realized someone had followed them. He’d set a trap and nearly killed Lady Meg before she uttered a word. If it weren’t for her shrill scream, Sean probably would have run her through. He still shuddered at how close she’d come to meeting her end. Feisty and fearless.

High-pitched giggles across the hall pulled Sean from his thoughts. A lovely picture indeed. Gyllis Campbell and her sisters gaily flitted into the hall as if a ray of sunshine had brightened the entire room. Sean stopped mid-chew. It had been quite some time since he’d seen Gyllis. “God’s teeth.”

“What?” Duncan asked.

Sean swallowed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Tall with willowy limbs, Gyllis had always reminded Sean of a meadow nymph. Chestnut locks framed porcelain skin and her moss-green eyes encircled by rings of black could captivate any man. “Your sister grows more radiant every time I see her.”

“Which one?”

Bloody hell, Duncan knew. Sean gripped his tankard and took a long pull on his ale. “I suppose Highland lassies are more appealing after a man’s taken a turn in the Lowlands.”

“Aye?” Duncan frowned. “Well, nothing’s changed. Friends and sisters do not mix—Lusty Laddie, you’ve tainted my opinion by all the womanizing we did as lads. Bloody oath, you’ll never put those lecherous hands on one of my sisters. You may be the best man I know with a sword.” Duncan glanced at Sean’s crotch. “And I’m referring to the one you carry on your hip. Pray you keep that in mind over the next few days.”

True, Sean liked the ladies as much as the next man—mayhap better—and he’d earned the moniker Lusty Laddie, but it appeared Duncan had forgotten his own wayward womanizing. Those carefree days hadn’t been all that long ago. Sean cleared his throat.

Gyllis caught Sean’s eye and stopped mid-stride. She pursed her pouty lips as if gasping. Then she smiled and fluttered a wave. The corner of Sean’s mouth turned up like a simpleton.

“MacDougall?” Duncan jabbed him with an elbow.

Sean glanced at his friend. “How do you recommend I react? Pretend your sister doesn’t exist?”

“Aye, that’s exactly what you should do.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little healthy admiration. Besides, I’ll be heading back to the borders in a fortnight, thanks to you.” Sean bit down and tore a piece of meat from his chicken leg. “How have you fared finding a match for each of your four sisters?”

“Wheesht.” Duncan eyed him. “That is none of your concern.”

“Too right. And as I recall, you lifted lassies’ skirts first and asked their names after.” Sean picked up his tankard and guzzled it. Christ almighty, he didn’t come to the games to flirt with some bonny lass deemed too good for him due to his friendship with her brother. Nay, it mattered not that he was to inherit the Chieftainship of Dunollie. Nothing Sean could say would make a difference to Duncan Campbell, the Lord of Glenorchy, unless he agreed that his sisters all marry above their stations.

He swallowed and glanced up. Then he nearly spewed his ale across the table. Bloody hell, Miss Gyllis stood opposite him, looking more radiant than she had at the far end of the hall.

“Good afternoon, Sir Sean,” she said with a smile and a curtsey. “’Tis lovely to see you at the games again this year.”

Must the temptress sound like a heavenly angel?

Sean’s chair scraped the floor as he hastened to stand. Then the flimsy piece of furniture clattered to the floorboards. “Miss Gyllis, how delightful to see you.” Bowing, he feigned his best attempt at nonchalance, ignoring the toppled chair behind.

The lassies around her giggled.

Sean bowed again. “Ah…All of you.” He grinned at Gyllis like he was still wet behind the ears.

“Take a seat and eat or be gone the lot of you,” Duncan said. “Pick up your chair MacDougall. Bless it, you act like you’ve never seen a lassie before.”

“Pardon me, ladies.” Sean hoped to God he hadn’t turned red and stooped to right his seat. “It has been several months since I had the pleasure of such fair company.” He raised an eyebrow at Duncan, the bastard. He might be a close friend, but he was a complete arse when it came to his sisters.

“We’ve already dined.” Helen tugged Gyllis’s arm. “Come. I’m dying to see all the wares on display.”

“A moment.” Gyllis smiled, looking sultrier than any young maid ought. “Will you be at the feast tonight, Sir Sean?”

“Aye.”

She blessed him with a radiant smile. “Will you dance with me?”

“Gyllis.” Duncan rapped the butt end of his eating knife on the table. “It is not your place to ask a knight to dance.”

Sean would have liked to grasp her hand across the table, but the blasted board was too wide. He settled for a deep bow. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Gyllis.”

“I shall see you this eve then.” She dipped her head politely before being steered off the dais by her sisters.

Her tresses hung down her back in waves and swished across her shapely hips. Even with layers of skirts, her feminine form enticed. Sean rubbed his fingers together, imagining her hair to be finer than silk. No other lass in the hall came close to Gyllis Campbell’s beauty. Unfortunate. If Sean had a mind to court anyone, it would be she. But the Lord of Glenorchy sitting beside him would ensure things never progressed that far.

Duncan pointed to the trencher. “Are you planning to eat that?”

“Huh?”

“The breast.” Duncan reached across and snatched the last piece of chicken. “Are you entering all-around, or are you specializing this year?”

Sean’s shoulder ticked up. “No use being here without going for a chance to win the purse.”

“I thought as much.”

“You as well?”

“Aye, as long as I’m here keeping an eye on your uncle for my uncle, I may as well enjoy myself.”

Sean chuckled. “Lorn and Argyll—the age-old feud. By rights we should be fierce enemies.”

“If it was up to our betters we would be.” Duncan shoved the last bite of chicken into his mouth. “Thank God my father saw the benefit of uniting the clans. No one in Scotland can match the enforcers.”

Sean held up his tankard. “And so may we continue to keep the peace.”

Duncan raised his cup and tapped it to Sean’s. “Slàinte.”

“Slàinte.”

Sean glanced toward the doors. Every muscle in his back clenched. That damned Alan MacCoul had Gyllis’s hand clasped between his filthy mitts. Worse, she was smiling at him, giggling even. Her voice rang out above the hum of the crowd.

He grasped his chair’s armrests, ready to spring, watching the bastard bend at the waist and plant a kiss on the back of her hand. Gyllis nodded politely, just as she had done to Sean a few moments ago.

Duncan sat forward. “What’s that slithering snake doing?”

Sean shot him a sidewise glance. “Proving he’s an unmitigated arse. Unfortunately, he’s a member of my clan. I shall deal with his impertinence.” Sean pushed back his chair, but by the time he strode to the dais stairs, Alan MacCoul had already shoved through the crowd as if he were planning to dine at the high table.

He traipsed directly to the base of the steps. “MacDougall, I thought I’d find you near the food.”

“’Tis a common place to gather at the noon hour.” Sean failed to understand why Alan had always been able to skate by with his impertinence. Even when they were lads Alan had been a bully—and older to boot. Sean would turn up with a black eye or worse, and the Chieftain of Dunollie would grab Sean’s chin and pinch. Hard. “A little bullying will make you strong, son. Next time Alan challenges you, stand your ground—prove to me you’re worthy to be chieftain.”

Well, that had been close to impossible when they were lads, given three years difference in age. However, now that they were grown, it was another story. Sean stood a good hand taller than Alan, and fighting the weasel would provide no sport whatsoever.

Alan didn’t try to mount the steps to the dais, but Sean could have sworn he caught a covetous glint in his eye.

The slithering snake smirked. “I’m surprised to see you here with news of your father’s illness.”

Sean knit his brows. He’d only had a fleeting moment with Da prior to departing for the games. He’d been home long enough to gather fresh clothing. Aside from a fever, Da had a cough, but dismissed it as a passing ailment. What more did Alan know? The bastard always had his nose in the family’s affairs. Why, Sean wouldn’t be surprised if he’d served his father with a tincture that had made him sick. “Da said he’d be along in a day or two.” Sean shrugged. “But ’tis no concern of yours.”

Alan’s eyes grew dark.

Duncan moved in beside Sean. “State your business, MacCoul, then I suggest you head further down the hall and sit with your own kind.”

The shorter, but stocky man sneered. “Just came up to tell Sir Sean I aim to win the tournament this year.”

Duncan threw his head back with a deep, rumbling laugh.

But Sean clenched his fists. If the hall weren’t full of women and children, he’d gladly challenge the errant scourge to a duel of swords. Now isn’t the time. “Well then, it will be my privilege to hand you the purse should you be victorious.” He’d meant it as a jibe and it sounded so.

“That would give me great satisfaction—though I believe I’d prefer the gift to come from the Lord of Lorn’s hand. After all, he’s an earl.”

Duncan clapped Sean’s shoulder. “Come. Lady Meg gave me a list of items to purchase at the fete. I could use a hand.”

Alan blocked the stairs, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. “Two knights heading out on a woman’s errand?”

Sean clambered down and stood on the bottom step, towering over the cur. “A knight’s code of chivalry is something you would know nothing about.”

Duncan barreled down and pushed past Alan’s shoulder. “Come MacDougall, we’ve no time to wag tongues with a sniveling whoreson.”

Sean gave Alan one last glare—narrowed his eyes so he’d know this wasn’t over. Perhaps it was a good thing he’d have the chance to beat Alan MacCoul in the games. He’d issue the smug toad some long-awaited humble pie.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWO

For the first evening feast of Beltane, Gyllis sat in the great hall with her sisters wearing a green damask kirtle and matching veil, held in place by a bronze circlet. All the lasses were dressed to astound—one thing Mother never failed to impress upon the Campbell sisters—Clothes maketh the lady. Gyllis did not admire fine gowns as much as Ma, but she couldn’t discount the fact that a noblewoman’s dress indeed was important to society.

Mother and Duncan had gained places at the high table with the Lord of Lorn at one end and the Earl of Argyll at the other. The two highest ranking men in the hall glared at each other like caged dogs and Gyllis was happy to be sitting away from the stuffy posturing and politicking upon the dais.

Alice pointed toward the door. “Alan MacCoul just arrived with an impressive retinue. Is he a knight?”

“He looks gallant like a knight,” said Marion.

Gyllis tore off the butt end of bread and tossed it at the twins. “Sillies. Do you not know anything? He’s a bastard.” She cringed. Alan had stopped her earlier that day and had been a tad too familiar, grasping her hands and telling her how lovely she looked. She’d tried to be polite though there was something sinister in his stare. Gyllis couldn’t put her finger on it, but those lignite eyes made her uneasy.

Helen raised the ewer of watered wine. “Looking at his ceremonial armor, I’d say he’s a wealthy bastard.”

Alice craned her neck to better see him, making a blatant show of ogling. “Aye, he must have ample property.”

“Good heavens, Alice, turn around. You’re making a fool of yourself.” Gyllis eyed her sister across the table. “You’d best set your sights a wee bit higher. Duncan would never approve of an untitled man.” She leaned forward to whisper. “No one even knows who his father is.”

Alice clapped a hand over her mouth. “That does sound like a scandalous story.”

Marion giggled. “At least he’s handsome if ill-bred.”

A servant placed a trencher of roasted meat and stewed vegetables in front of Gyllis. “Thank heavens the food’s here. Your minds have run amuck from hunger.”

“Pardon me, is this seat taken?” The deep voice came from behind.

Gyllis cringed. Alan MacCoul had moved out of sight. Please no. She feigned an annoyed frown and turned. Her heart hammered in rapid succession. “Oh my.” She smiled broadly and scooted aside on the bench, squeezing into Helen. “Of course, we would love to have you join us.”

Sir Sean grinned. He could melt an entire slab of butter with his smile—straight, white teeth, bold jaw with a neat and closely cropped beard. His shoulder-length, dark brown hair and azure eyes made him look devilishly dangerous.

The bench was so crowded, his thigh and shoulder pressed against hers. In any other venue, such touching would be indecent, but Gyllis couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. Her heart fluttered and she leaned into him a bit more.

“Sir Sean, Why are you not wearing your ceremonial armor?” Alice asked.

“Honestly?” Sean shot a puzzled look to Gyllis. “That sort of pomp is only reserved for weddings and court appearances. I’m far more comfortable wearing a plaid and doublet.”

“Alan MacCoul has donned his ceremonial armor.” Marion pointed. “Even the Lord of Lorn is sporting a silver breastplate.”

Sir Sean’s shoulder ticked up, but a tempest brewed behind his eyes. “Mayhap I incorrectly assumed this eve to be a more casual affair. I’m afraid my uncle makes Beltane a greater spectacle every year.”

“The church is insisting we call it May Day.” Gyllis lifted the trencher of meat and smoothed her shoulder against his as she offered it to him. “I think you are admirably dressed.”

“My thanks.” Sean selected a thick piece of roast lamb with his eating knife.

She replaced the tray. Helen nudged Gyllis with an elbow and she scooted flush against Sean’s thigh. Though she wore layers of skirts, his leg felt hard as stone. Goodness, with flesh as solid as his, he needs no armor. She dared glance his way. “Apologies. The hall is awfully crowded.”

Sean faced her and lowered his lids, fanned with long, dark lashes. Gyllis liked that he had to cast his gaze downward to meet hers. So often she was self-conscious about her height, but Sean MacDougall stood at least a head taller.

“Are you looking forward to Beltane?” he asked.

“Aye,” she said. “The games will be great sport.”

Helen leaned forward. “I hope the weather remains in our favor.”

“Me as well.” Sean held up his eating knife. “I prefer running on dry ground.”

“I’m looking forward to the Maypole dances,” Alice said.

Marion licked her lips. “And pigs on the spit—nothing better than pork roasted over an open fire.”

“Mm, I can practically taste it now.” Under the table, Sean’s fingers brushed Gyllis’s thigh. “And you? What are you looking forward to on the morrow?”

“Everything.” She inhaled, her heart hammering like a snare drum. Sir Sean smelled of rosemary soap and spice. How undeniably intoxicating. Her eyelids fluttered while her head swooned. “Would you care to sit on our plaid…weather permitting of course?”

He reached for his tankard as if considering.

Gyllis could have kicked herself. Oh heavens, I’ve been too forward. He most likely has other plans. She flicked her hair with a toss of her head. “I’m certain Mother and Duncan will enjoy your company. After all, we haven’t seen you at Kilchurn Castle in ages.” Now I’ve done it. Why can I not keep my mouth shut?

Sean sipped then offered a nod. “I’m not positive Lord Duncan will approve, but I would be remiss if I did not accept your generous invitation.”

“You will?” Beneath the table, Gyllis clasped her hands, trying to quell her excitement. “Very well, then. I shall ensure I bring along a plaid of ample size for us all to sit upon.”

She hesitated for a moment, wondering what she should say next. Did Sean agree because they had been friends for such a long time? Nine years her senior, she’d known him nearly all her life, looked up to him when she was a wee lass, and as a teenager, admired him. They’d shared many a glance across Kilchurn’s great hall, especially since she came into her majority. Gyllis had always interpreted meaning into those glances. However, Sean had never been more than courteous—though he was a good dance partner when he wasn’t off on the king’s business with Duncan. She stole a sidewise glance at him then quickly looked at her plate.

He’s staring at me. Surely that must mean something.

The musicians moved into place on the balcony above—a fiddler, a drummer and a piper.

Alice clapped her hands. “It looks like his lordship has planned country dances for this eve.”

Gyllis stole another look at Sean—he was still staring and now grinning at her. “Ah…It looks like a plaid and doublet were the perfect choice for this evening’s dancing.”

The fiddler started in on a reel and benches scraped across the floorboards. Sean stood and offered his hand. “I believe I owe you a dance, Miss Gyllis.”

Her heart thrummed in tandem with the foot-stomping music. “You’re ever so kind, sir knight.”

“You must dance with us all, Sir Sean,” Marion chimed.

Gyllis wanted to tell her sisters to go find their own dancing partners. But that wasn’t the way of things at a Highland gathering. Everyone danced with everyone. At the moment, however, Gyllis rested her palm atop Sean’s powerful hand. Though they were barely touching, gooseflesh rose across her skin. She prayed this would be a very long reel indeed.

***

Sean probably shouldn’t have agreed to sit with Gyllis and her family at the morrow’s Beltane feast, but her eyes had looked so hopeful, he couldn’t say no. Since his father was ill, as future Chieftain of Dunollie, Sean should keep company with his clan. But he wouldn’t worry about that now. He led the lovely lass to the dance floor, his thigh still tingling where it had been flush against hers. All he cared to do at the moment was watch her gracefully twirl in the crook of his arm.

In a fortnight he’d return to the borders, sleeping in stables with a mob of smelly warriors. He could allow himself a modicum of enjoyment over the next sennight, even if Duncan Campbell didn’t exactly agree. Besides, the coming months would have no such pleasures. Sean was never one to buck a challenge, and he’d had been enamored with Gyllis since…since…honestly since she’d turned from a spoiled gap-toothed lass into a stunning woman.

“Have you had much opportunity to dance as of late?” Gyllis asked.

“None at all. I’m afraid all there was time for was riding, eating, sleeping and fighting the English.” Sean’s belly squeezed when she smiled, her dimples dipping into the high color of her cheeks.

“Oh my, that does sound tedious.” She assumed her place in line, standing across from him. “Do you remember how Mother used to make you partner with us during our dancing lessons?”

“I shall never forget.” At the time, he’d considered Gyllis an annoying child. He chuckled—he’d been sixteen and she seven. And as a young squire, Sean hated being forced to partner with the lasses. He had more important things to conquer during his fostering—like proving himself to the Lord of Glenorchy and earning his knighthood. As a matter of fact, he’d rarely had time to think of anything except enforcement work. But he did love it. Duncan called him a ghost because Sean’s strengths lay in tracking and ambush.

The fiddler stamped his foot indicating the dance was to begin and Sean locked elbows with Gyllis. Her arms were long, yet lithe. Willowy.

She fluttered her lovely eyelashes at him. “I always thought you would rather be elsewhere than dancing with us.”

Sean reached over and patted her hand. So small beneath his callused fingers, her skin was softer than silk. “Perhaps as children, but right now there is no place I’d rather be.”

The dancers formed three large circles. Sean held Gyllis’s hand while another woman danced in the center. He scarcely noticed the woman to his left. Gyllis’s intoxicating scent of fresh cut flowers and honey captivated him. The bodice of her green gown was cinched taut around her waist. Creamy white breasts swelled above the neckline—not too small, and most certainly not too large. Her cleavage provided plenty to captivate his interest.

She glanced up at him and grinned. Afraid he’d been caught staring at her breasts, Sean snapped his gaze to her eyes. By God, they were the most tantalizing color of moss. He looked closer. He’d always thought she had black rims around her irises, but the more he studied them, the more he could swear the rings were navy blue. “Exquisite.”

“Pardon?”

“Ah, your ey….”

Gyllis released his hand and skipped into the center of the circle. Sean studied the others with no clue as to where they were in the reel. Well, at least if Gyllis was in the ring, she’d spin with the man directly across then return to twirl with Sean. That was the good part of dancing—if he had a lapse of attention, he could usually pick the steps back up.

As he expected, Gyllis skipped toward him, her inordinately long chestnut tresses swishing behind her. He locked hands with her and spun. “Did I tell you how bonny you look this eve?”

She giggled and slid back into place. Irritated to turn away and join elbows with the woman behind, Sean continued with the reel. They wound their way around the circle until again he held Gyllis’s hand in his. “You’ve become quite an accomplished dancer.”

“Thank you.” She blessed him with her dimples again. “I daresay you could use a lesson or two from me.”

He chuckled. Someone had noticed his inattentiveness. “It would be my pleasure to take advantage of your offer someday soon.”

Her mouth twisted. “But you must return to the borders.”

“Aye, for a time.” The music stopped. “But I shan’t be away indefinitely.”

“Miss Gyllis.” Alan MacCoul stepped beside her. “Would you dance with me?”

Sean’s gut churned. If only he could challenge the bastard on the spot. But a friendly gathering was no place to make a scene. His jaw twitched. One dance.

She cast Sean a questioning look. He tightened his grip on her hand and leaned to her ear. “Meet me in the courtyard after this tune.”

Her gasp was barely audible, but she met his gaze with more than trust filling her eyes. The excitement written on her face made him yearn for more than a kiss, though that was all he could hope for.

Sean released his hold and bowed. “M’lady.” Then he spun on his heel.

Why does that bastard plague me every time I turn around? And what the hell is he doing dressed like he’s going to a king’s coronation?

As he headed outside, he ground his fist into his palm. He had no business arranging a secret meeting with a woman, especially his best friend’s sister. It must have been her eyes that caused my lack in judgment. I shall keep the conversation light and see her back to the hall before anyone realizes Gyllis has slipped away.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER THREE

Gyllis could hardly wait until the dance with Alan was over. She glanced at the great hall doors every time she had a clear view of them. Had Sean honestly whispered in her ear and asked to meet her in the courtyard? At long last her dreams were finally coming true.

Her palms perspired as she skipped along in a serpentine pattern, grasping the other dancers’ hands. When she completed the circle and again clasped hands with Alan, she shuddered. With his black hair combed away from his face, he was handsome, but the way his dark eyes regarded her made Gyllis uneasy. She could never trust someone with such an intense stare. He seemed almost crazed, and starved. Alan couldn’t possibly be hungry, they’d only just dined.

She spun outward. From the dais Duncan watched her, sitting on the edge of his chair as if he could spring across the hall any minute. Why her brother was so overwhelmingly protective was beyond her. Heaven’s stars, he’s more watchful than a father. She harrumphed. At least they want their daughters to marry and make alliances with other clans.

When the music ended, Gyllis’s stomach swarmed with an attack of butterflies.

“Would you care for another dance?” Alan asked.

Her gaze darted to the doors. If she told him she planned to take a turn in the courtyard, he’d surely follow her. “Thank you, but I would be remiss if I didn’t suggest you dance with one of my sisters.”

He grasped her hand. His touch was rough like Sean’s, but firmer and nowhere near as inviting. “But I’d prefer to dance with you.”

Gyllis pulled her hand away and rubbed it. “Perhaps another time.” She curtsied and made the pretense of moving toward the wall while watching Duncan out of the corner of her eye. Fortunately, he’d turned his attention to a conversation with the chieftain beside him. When certain Alan wasn’t following her, she skirted toward the door. With one last glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching, she slipped outside.

She stood for a moment, blinking her eyes to help them adjust to the darkness.

A hand grasped her elbow. “Walk with me.”

Her heart stuttered. “Sir Sean, you are full of surprises.”

He slid his hand down her forearm and threaded his fingers through hers. “Apologies. I hope you do not think me untoward.”

“Not at all. We’ve know each other since I can remember.” She leaned a bit closer to him. “Duncan trusts you—I trust you.”

“Aye? Mayhap too much.” He looked at her, the whites of his eyes glowing in the moonlight. “I shouldn’t have asked you to step out with me.”

“But I wanted to.”

He drew her hand over his heart. “I cannot chance sullying your reputation.”

Of course Gyllis knew what he meant, though she still looked over both shoulders. “That is why I was careful to ensure no one was watching when I slipped out of the hall.”

He led her into the shadows at the far side of the well then turned and faced her, clasping both her hands between his much larger palms. “When I said you look bonny this eve, I really wanted to say you are more radiant than any woman in the hall.” His voice grew deeper, the rumble of it making gooseflesh run in tingling waves over her skin.

They were standing so close she could have sworn Sean could hear her heart pattering. She emitted a nervous laugh. “You exaggerate, but I thank you.” Her insides were about to bubble out of control like a tankard too full of ale. “I cannot say how happy I am you were able to come to the games. I prayed you would be here.”

“You did?” He sounded surprised. “I would have thought a lass with such a well-respected family would have far greater things on her mind than me.”

“You are the heir to a chieftainship. I think that would qualify as a suitable subject to occupy any noble lassie’s thoughts. Unless…”

“Unless?”

She had to ask. “Are you promised?”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Nay. I’ve been too busy keeping peace in the name of King James to become mixed up in a betrothal.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders tensed. What did he mean by mixed up? She started to step away, but he tugged her closer. So near, his warm breath caressed her forehead.

“Forgive me,” he purred. “I shouldn’t have jested.”

She bit her bottom lip. “I’m afraid I’m being overly serious. After all, we’ve been friends all our lives. Why should you not jest?”

He brushed an errant lock of hair under her circlet. “Gyllis?”

“Aye?”

“Have you ever been kissed?”

“I—” Before she could utter her next word, Sean’s lips brushed hers in the most feathery kiss she’d ever imagined. Her head spun. With a sigh, she swooned into him. “I’ve nay been kissed like that before.”

“That was no kiss.” He wrapped his arms around her as if creating a protective barrier where nothing in the world could harm her. His face looked incredibly bold in the moon glow—desire filled his eyes, yet the dark shadow of his beard and long, wavy hair gave him a look of danger.

Hot blood thrummed beneath her skin as he studied her lips. His breath smelled of mint laced with a hint of aged whisky. Her tongue slipped out and wet her bottom lip.

Please, kiss me again.

With a tilt of his head, Sean plied her with his sultry mouth. Gyllis’s knees wobbled, making her body crush into his hard chest. Her breasts molded into him, filling with desire. She closed her eyes and melted. If there was a heaven, she’d found it in his arms.

He spread his lips slightly and probed with his tongue. Gyllis’s eyes flashed open and she tried to tug her head away, but Sean’s hand slid up and cradled her crown. Relaxing, she parted her mouth. It felt too good not to play along. Then he stroked her tongue. Shivers coursed through her body.

This kissing is earth shattering.

Again closing her eyes, she followed Sean’s lead while he swirled his tongue with hers, as if their mouths were dancing. Then he trailed feathery kisses along her neck.

“Now that was a kiss, lass.” His deep voice rumbled with intoxicating resonance.

Floating. I must be floating. “I cannot tell you how long I’ve wanted you to do that.”

“Aye? I reckon I’ve thought about it for quite some time myself.”

“Honestly?” Gyllis still could not believe she stood there in Sean’s arms. “Why did you wait so long?”

He chuckled. “Your brother isn’t overly fond of the idea, considering he and I are both the king’s enforcers.”

“If it were up to my brother, I’d live in spinsterhood the rest of my days.”

“I doubt that, but ’tis hard for him to see his younger sister in the arms of a man.”

She skimmed her finger along his bearded chin. “Would you feel that way—if you had a sister, that is?”

“Aye, I suppose I would.” His breath skimmed hot on her face as he drew nearer and kissed her cheek. “I cannot bear to think of another man kissing you.”

She grew bold, rose on her toes and kissed his lips. “I like kissing you.”

“Mm.” Sean slid his fingers along her neck and splayed them through her tresses as his mouth again plied hers with the most rapturous kiss imaginable.

Swooning in his arms, Gyllis wanted this moment to last forever. If only she and Sean were completely alone and not at a fete with people mulling about, she’d keep her arms wrapped around him and kiss him until the sun came up.

“Unhand her, MacDougall,” demanded a gruff voice. “Taking advantage of the Lord of Glenorchy’s sister? I always kent you were a cur.”

Sean tugged Gyllis behind him and faced Alan MacCoul. “You’re prying where you have no business.”

“Am I now?” Alan sauntered toward them. “You were holding the lady in your arms and I’ve heard not a word of your betrothal.”

Gyllis started to step forward. “Mr. MacCoul—”

Sean stopped her advance with a straight arm, glaring at Alan. “Why are you always poking your nose in my affairs?” In an instant, Sean’s voice had gone from soothing to a deadly growl.

Alan fingered his dirk, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve never been able to tolerate a spoilt chieftain’s son.”

His dirk hissed from its scabbard. In one motion Alan lunged.

Gyllis screamed.

Sean sprang to the side and grabbed Alan’s arm, twisting him away from Gyllis. The dirk dropped. As she skittered against the wall, Sean flipped the blackguard onto his back. Before she could blink, the MacDougall warrior had him pinned to the ground with his fingers clamped around his neck. “Why my father tolerates your shite, I’ll never know.”

Alan choked and kicked his feet to no avail. “You-you’ve no clue who I am, do you?” he croaked.

“What are you talking about?” Sean leaned in. “I ought to—”

Duncan barreled into the courtyard, brandishing his enormous sword. “Gyllis! What are you doing out here?”

She clutched her fists under her chin and shot a panicked glance to Sean. “I…I…I…”

“Get your bonny arse inside and find your mother. Bless it, must I weld a ball and chain around your ankle?”

“But…” She scooted past Sean and Alan, her hands trembling. “He protected me.”

Sean kept his eyes on Alan, but inclined his head toward her. “I shall see you anon, Miss Gyllis.”

“Until the morrow, Sir Sean.” She hastened to the door, but before entering, turned to watch.

Duncan pointed his sword at Alan’s temple. “Be on your way MacCoul. This is a time of truce, no matter your quarrel with MacDougall. All can be settled with a bit of healthy competition.”

Sean released his grasp and stood, palming a dagger. “I shall relish such an opportunity.”

Alan scrambled to his feet, retrieved his dirk and shook it at them both. “This will never be over. I will imprison you in irons and laugh while your body rots in a dank and musty cave.” The hatred in the man’s voice was palpable.

Why on earth is he so bitter? Chewing her lip, Gyllis darted inside and skirted around the noisy hall before Duncan could chastise her yet again.

Clasping her hand taut to her chest, she raced toward Helen.

“Gyllis, Ma has had us searching all over for you. Where have you been?”

She grabbed Helen’s hands and tugged her toward the stairwell. “Hurry. I’m bursting at the seams to tell you.”

“What is it? You look like you could dance on the rafter beams.”

Gyllis waggled her eyebrows. “I probably could if someone gave me a lift.” She raced up the winding steps and into the tiny chamber where all four sisters were appointed to sleep. She closed the door and caught her breath. “You’ll never believe it.”

“What?”

“I know not what was more romantic,” Gyllis bubbled. “The kiss or that he fought for my virtue.”

“A kiss?”

Gyllis grasped Helen’s hands and spun her in a circle. “Aye. At last Sir Sean kissed me.”

Helen giggled. “Honestly? How scandalous—and here at Beltane with so many people about?”

Spinning off across the room, Gyllis hugged herself. “Aye.” She stopped and swayed in place. “It was glorious, Helen. I felt like I was floating away on a wispy cloud.”

Her sister drew her hand to her lips. “And you said he fought for your virtue?”

“After he kissed me, Alan MacCoul came out and drew his dirk—said all sorts of vile things.”

“Oh no,” Helen gasped with her eyes wide. “That dreadful man.”

“Aye, but in the blink of an eye, Sean disarmed him and wrestled him to the ground. Why I’ve never seen a man move so fast.”

“Did he hurt him?”

“I do not think so.” Gyllis rolled her eyes. “Then Duncan came charging out of the hall like a mad hornet and sent Alan on his way.” Her shoulders dropped. “And then he ordered me inside, the brute—spoilt all my fun.”

Helen pulled her onto the pallet and sat facing her. “Goodness, it sounds as if you had enough excitement to last the duration of the games.”

Emitting a long sigh, Gyllis grinned. “The best part?”

“Aye?”

“’Tis only the first day.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning, Sean found a place behind the stables to stretch his aching limbs. Though he was accustomed to sleeping on hard ground, the floorboards in the great hall provided no comfort. At a gathering like this, rank mattered not. A single man spread his plaid in any available space, unless he was an earl.

“There you are.” Gyllis strode toward him, smiling like sunshine. She held out a white kerchief. “Will you take this for luck?”

He accepted the token and turned it over in his hands. Embroidered with bluebells, he couldn’t help but hold it to his nose. It smells like a mountain of heather. “My thanks.” He offered a sheepish smile. Duncan had given him a good earful last eve, and he’d been right. Sean never should have asked Gyllis to meet him in the courtyard—especially after dark, without an escort, and with so many clansmen about. Any number of people could have assumed the worst and tried to ruin her reputation. Bloody hell, Sean could have been forced to marry the lass on the spot.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He blinked, thinking for a moment that marrying her would have been rather fun. “Nay.” Blistering barnacles. Sean didn’t have time for a wife even if he could convince Duncan he was worthy to marry his sister.

“Then why are you looking at me as if I’ve got the ague?” Gyllis was too perceptive. But that’s another thing he liked about her. Not only beautiful, she was sharp as a hawk and quick with her tongue.

He resisted his urge to grasp her hand and pull her into his arms. Instead, he nervously wrapped her kerchief around his pointer finger. “I’ve a fair bit on my mind.”

She looked at the cloth and then her gaze trailed sidewise. “Would you…um….prefer not to carry my kerchief?”

Damn his hesitation—he’d offended her. He took a step in and cupped her cheek. “I am honored to carry it.”

She turned up her face and pursed her lips, eyelids fluttering closed.

Sean couldn’t help but take note of all the people mulling about. Bless it, I cannot kiss her here. The resulting scandal would be unmitigated. It would ruin her for certain and send Duncan and the Campbells after him like a pack of wild dogs. Sean clasped her slender fingers and drew them to his lips, giving her a quick peck. Forget the heather. The scent of her skin smelled fresher than a pool of fragrant water lilies. He closed his eyes and inhaled again, until she slid her fingers from his grasp.

With a look of bewilderment she cradled her hand and stared at it, as if she were no longer willing to look at his face. “I’m told the piping and drumming competition will be during the feast this eve.”

“Aye? That should liven things up.”

“Gyllis.” Helen came from around the stable’s corner. “Mother is looking for you. We must take our places for the race.”

She grinned at Sean—though her smile had a twist, as he might have confused her with his reluctance to kiss her lips. “You’d best go, else you’ll miss the start.”

He held up the kerchief. “I’d better. And thank you—this will bring me luck, I am certain.”

Sean watched her disappear around the stable wall while clenching his jaw. He either needed to have a somber discussion with her brother, or rein himself in. And given his present state of affairs, he should do the latter. MacDougalls didn’t marry Campbells, not since the time of Robert the Bruce when the MacDougalls had lost over half of their holdings—some of which were unfairly dispatched to the Campbell Clan. Many a man loyal to his father still harbored deep resentment for the Campbells.

The ram’s horn sounded, announcing the race would soon begin. Sean shook his head and headed off. He hadn’t come to the games to make merry with Gyllis. He’d come to earn the respect of his countrymen—to win these games and ensure MacDougall continued to be a feared name throughout the Highlands.

Nearly fifty contestants formed a queue at the edge of Loch Etive whilst Lorn’s clerk launched into a proclamation of the rules. “There will be no backstabbing and no weapons of any kind…”

Sean chuckled to himself. A Highland race wasn’t without its share of backstabbers. It didn’t surprise him to see Alan MacCoul halfway down the line leering at him like a venomed snake.

Duncan trotted up beside Sean. “I nearly missed it.”

Sean arched an eyebrow. “Is anything amiss? ’Tis not like you to be late to a contest of any sort.”

“A missive came from the king.”

“Aye? What did it say?”

Duncan patted his doublet. “Dunno—haven’t opened it yet. If I had, I would have missed the start. Besides, a missive can wait a bit even if it is from his grace.”

“Remind me to tell the king you said that the next time we’re at court.”

Duncan smirked. “Should such a foul rumor come my way, I would deny it emphatically.”

The clerk finished his oration and the ram’s horn sounded. Sprinting, Sean sped ahead to ensure he positioned himself at the front of the pack. And in an eight-mile race, he’d keep pace behind the leader until the very end.

Duncan had the same idea and bloody MacCoul wasn’t far behind. Sean wouldn’t concern himself with that blackguard. He’d drop off soon enough.

Everything proceeded in respectable civility until Sean and the leaders rounded a farmhouse at the halfway point. Two brigands wearing chausses and shirts sprang from nowhere, barreling straight toward Sean. Startled by the movement of the first attacker, Sean’s instincts took over. Ducking, he flung the bastard over his back. When the second one hit, he wasn’t so lucky. Walloped in the side of the head, he stagger-stepped sideways until he crashed to the ground.

It was bad enough to have the contestants fighting each other, but now hoodlums had been planted? Someone must have a very large wager indeed.

Sean scrambled to his feet, fists at the ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Duncan throw a boot into number one’s gut. Sean eyed the second man and aimed a blow at the hinge of his jaw. Hitting his mark, teeth cracked. The bastard’s hands flew to his face before he collided with the dirt.

Duncan beckoned him. “Hurry.”

Sean ran beside his friend. “Who were those swine?”

“No idea.” Duncan took in a deep inhale. “But I’m certain they were waiting for you. They darted straight for you without a mind to the others.”

Sean sped his pace. “We can still win if we push.”

Duncan waved him on. “This is your sport. Go.”

Sean sprinted for the leaders, more intent than ever to win. Someone had set a trap for him—knew he was the man to beat.

***

Most of the spectators lined the outer bailey wall-walk on the Loch Etive side of the castle, all straining for a glimpse of the leaders in the footrace. Gyllis stood beside Helen, barely able to contain her excitement.

Yes, Sean had appeared a tad despondent when she’d given him her kerchief, but after all, he was preparing for a race. If they hadn’t been interrupted last eve, she would have given it to him then. But she didn’t want to think about that now. The weather was fine and Sean would sit with her during the feast just as they’d planned. She needn’t consider a thing beyond that at the moment.

“There they are,” someone yelled.

Gyllis cast her gaze toward the wood. Four runners barreled out of the trees, racing for the castle. The second man shoved the leader, who swung back his elbow. The closer they came to the finish line, the more the runners pushed with fists swinging.

“How can they stay ahead of the pack when they’re fighting like that?” Helen asked.

“The fighting has most likely just begun,” said a man behind them.

A fifth man darted from the forest. Gyllis made out Sean’s long stride, close behind the fighting leaders.

Alice shook her finger. “Look! Alan MacCoul is winning.”

Unable to believe it, Gyllis leaned further over the crenel notch. Sure enough, Alan had shoved his way into the lead. “But Sir Sean’s speeding around them.”

Shouts from the crowd grew louder.

Gyllis hopped in place and clapped her hands. “Faster, Sir Sean!”

Alice shook her fists in the air. “Run like the wind, Mr. MacCoul.”

Gyllis gave her sister a firm whack on the shoulder. “Excuse me. How can you cheer for that blackguard after he threatened Sir Sean with his dirk last eve?”

Alice stopped hopping up and down. “He did?”

“Aye.” With a well-founded nod, Gyllis returned her attention to the race. Sean indeed was moving closer to the lead, now one or two paces behind Alan. Her gaze darted to the finish line. I don’t think he can make it. Heavens, if Alan wins, it will upset everything.

Sean closed the gap. Alan struck out with his right. Sean clutched his arm and stumbled over the finish line right behind that blasted MacCoul. Within the blink of an eye, the Lord of Lorn’s officials surrounded Sean.

“He’s been cut!” someone yelled from below.

Gasping, Gyllis started for the stairwell.

“You shall remain up here, young lady.” Mother grasped her shoulder.

“But Sir Sean’s been hurt.”

Mother rolled her eyes with a tsk of her tongue. “I assure you, simply sparring with your brother has caused Sir Sean injuries much worse than a wee cut on the arm.”

Gyllis huffed and resumed her place in front of the crenel notch. She couldn’t see anything. Sean was surrounded by any number of men and Alan was nowhere to be seen.

“It appears you were right about Mr. MacCoul,” Alice said. “He definitely acts like he’s a bastard.”

“Pardon me?” Mother stepped between them. “Mind your vulgar tongue.”

Gyllis inched away until she was out of Ma’s grasp. Not knowing how badly Sean was injured twisted her stomach in knots. She could stand there no longer. “I’m heading out to see what I can do to help.”

“Gyllis,” Mother called.

She didn’t stop. If nothing else, she had to ensure Sean was all right. She dashed down the narrow spiral steps, pushing past people dawdling about, and ran out through the gate. Stopping in her tracks, Gyllis suddenly couldn’t breathe. The crowd had thinned and Sean stood with a woman wrapped in his embrace. The woman’s face was blocked by her wimple, but there was no mistaking it, Sean had his arms around the lass for a good long time.

Dumbfounded, Gyllis stood and stared. Her hands shook. She wanted to scream, but could form no words through the tightening of her throat.

A man walked past and brushed her shoulder. “I beg your pardon.”

Gyllis blinked, but was still too stunned to acknowledge the man. She backed into the tunnel of the barbican and drew her hand to her chest. I’m a fool, a stupid romantic who will never find a husband because my family locks me away in a castle and hardly ever allows me to visit court. Beltane was my chance—and now if that mutton-head dares to come sit on my plaid this eve, I’ll tell him exactly what I think of him. Mayhap he’s double-crossed Mr. MacCoul—mayhap that’s why Alan lashes out at Sean at every opportunity.

***

Da? Dead? Sean had gone completely numb. He couldn’t feel the wee cut to his arm, nor did he care. When Angus and Jinny approached with the news, he’d fallen into Jinny’s outstretched arms, hardly able to inhale.

“It has only been two days. He told me he was fine.” Sean coughed to choke back the tears welling in his eyes.

“Aye,” said Jinny, the MacDougall Clan’s healer. “We all thought it was a passing cold, but last eve he took a turn. ’Twas the sweating sickness for certain.”

Sean glared at Angus, his father’s man-at-arms. “Why did no one fetch me last eve?”

“He didn’t complain at all. We had no idea how bad it was until this morn when Sarah took him his porridge.” Angus looked him in the eye. “By then he was gone. ’Tis now up to you to lead the clan, m’laird.”

Sean stood dumbfounded. For the love of God, he was now the Chieftain of Dunollie? Yes, he’d always known he’d succeed his father, but not like this, not now.

Angus inclined his head toward the horses. “We must away.”

Jinny grasped Sean’s arm and shoved up his blood-soaked sleeve. “I’ll need to wrap this first. Angus, I’ve a rolled bandage in the satchel. Fetch it for me.”

Sean tugged his arm away. “Nay. It can wait.”

“”Tis too deep to ignore.” She took the bandage from Angus. “You’re as pig-headed as your father. It won’t take but a moment, unless you want to grow weak in the head by the time you reach Dunollie.”

With a groan, Sean held out his arm and nodded to Angus. “Who else knows about this?”

“We kept it quiet—didn’t want word to slip out without informing you first.”

“Good. I shall pen a formal proclamation after we reach Dunollie.”

Jinny tied off the bandage. “’Tis only fitting it should come from you.”

Sean pushed down his sleeve and strode toward his horse. At least Angus had been smart enough to gather his things and have his horse saddled and ready to ride as soon as he crossed the finish line.

“Where are you off to?” The Lord of Lorn rushed up to him, his black mantle billowing with the wind. “The swimming competition is anon—and MacCoul was disqualified for using a blade. You’re our victor. You cannot—”

Sean gripped his uncle’s shoulder and placed his lips to his ear. “Da’s dead. Keep it to yourself until I have the keep in order. I must muster my men. Word like this gets out when our enemies ken I’ve been away, God knows what they’ll do.” Dread snaked up Sean’s neck. Aye, he needed to grieve his father’s death, but it was more important for him to take care of the clan. Once he had control, he’d issue an appropriate decree to be read by the criers.

“I shall make your excuses.” Lorn pursed his lips. “Do what you must. I’ll keep your confidence. But do not wait too long, else a scandal could erupt with your reputation sullied. People will think you’ve something to hide.”

“It shan’t be but a day, two at most.” Sean mounted his horse. “Besides, this news would serve to put a damper on your festivities. You wouldn’t want that.” He dug in his heels and cantered south to Dunollie. Thank God he was only four miles away. If he’d still been on the borders it would have taken him a week to travel home—and even longer for Angus to find him.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER FIVE

Gyllis sat in her saddle with her back hunched and stared at her gelding’s withers. She’d been furious when Sean didn’t bother to present himself at all during last night’s Beltane festival. She couldn’t decide what hurt worse, seeing him in the arms of another woman, or having been completely disregarded as if her invitation meant nothing. Her heart ached—felt like Sean had taken his dagger and cut it out.

Duncan had been right. Sean MacDougall was not good enough for her or any of the Campbell sisters. He was a womanizer of the worst sort.

Worse, Gyllis had not accomplished a one of her goals on their trip to Dunstaffnage and now she and her sisters were headed back to Kilchurn Castle to be tucked away until Lord knew when. Her entire body hurt. Her throat was sore—probably from crying herself to sleep—her eyelids were heavy and her head hurt so much, she could have sworn someone clamped it between a pair of smithy’s tongs.

At least she’d be protected from the cruel world cloistered within Kilchurn Castle’s curtain walls. If she never saw Sean MacDougall again, it would be too soon. She stuck out her tongue and spat. And to consider I kissed his filthy mouth.
I wish I could curl up in my chamber and never come out.

Her sisters were riding just behind Mother with Gyllis taking up the rear. Of course, they were accompanied by a heavily-armed guard of sixteen men in four-point diamond formation. When they traveled, Duncan always ensured they had a well-armed retinue to protect them against outlaws.

Gyllis looked over her shoulder and realized her brother wasn’t with them. “Where is Duncan?”

Mother turned in her saddle. “He received a dire missive from the king. He left for court at first light. Enforcers business.”

What is it about the Highland Enforcers? They are always here and gone. Sean’s most likely traveled with him—not that I care about his whereabouts in the slightest.

“Lady Meg will not like it when she discovers he’s off to court again,” Helen said.

Alice tapped her mare’s rump with her riding crop. “Heaven’s stars, Duncan’s wife awaits him with two wee bairns and he’s off on yet another inordinately important errand.”

“It is not our place to question your brother. He’s the Lord of Glenorchy,” Mother said. Gyllis could swear Ma would defend Duncan with her last breath.

Helen smoothed a hand over her veil. “Aye, but not everyone is made of iron, Ma. I have no idea how you lasted for seven years while Da was fighting in the Crusades.”

“That which you cannot change must be endured. I coped quite nicely—and the Glenorchy coffers grew healthier as a result. If you are faced with adversity, you must meet it head-on and make the best of your lot.” Mother twisted round and shook her finger at the lasses. “Eventually you will gain reward from your efforts.”

Slumping further in her saddle, Gyllis presently cared not to think of being strong and industrious. She was not the lady of a keep, nor did she have any prospects of becoming one…unless Duncan was at court arranging a betrothal with some unsuspecting noble. Aye? That will never happen.

Swooning with a wave of nausea, she moved her hand over her mouth. Her throat burned with an awful taste oozing over her tongue. Quickly, she leaned away from her gelding and retched with a gagging croak.

If it hadn’t been for her knee hooked in the top pommel of her sidesaddle, she would have fallen on her face, curled into a ball and waited for death to claim her right there on the trail.

“Halt!” Mother shouted. A circle of horses surrounded Gyllis. “Are you ill, child?”

“I think I am.” Gyllis’s mouth filled with saliva while her head pounded even more relentlessly than before. “Initially I thought I was upset, but I’m perspiring and shaking. Everything aches.”

Mother pointed eastward. “Mevan, you must speed our pace.”

“Very well, m’lady.” The man-at-arms circled his hand over his head. “You heard her ladyship. Onward.”

Gyllis had no choice but to persevere, growing sicker by the moment. By the time they reached Kilchurn Castle, she could no longer sit. She slumped over her horse’s neck, eyes closed, holding on and hoping the gelding would remain on course with the others. Her entire body felt as if pins had been jabbed into her flesh. Every step the horse made jostled her bones like she would shatter at any moment.

Maintaining a fast trot, Mevan led them into the inner courtyard. Unassisted, Mother hopped from her mount and addressed her man-at-arms. “We must see her above stairs straight away.” She then pointed to Marion and Alice. “Quickly, fetch Lady Meg. Tell her Gyllis’s illness came on suddenly. She’ll know what to do.”

Mevan stepped beside the gelding and reached up. “Fall into my arms, Miss Gyllis, I’ll see you’re right comfortable in no time.”

It took all her strength to slip her knee from the top pommel and ease off the saddle.

Mevan’s grip clamped too tight, like knives gouging her flesh. “You’re afire, lass.”

The rumble of his voice caused her head to throb with unbearable pain. Gyllis shook uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered. “I’m so c-cold.”

“I’ve no doubt you’re fevered,” he said, whisking her into the keep and straight up the tower stairs.

Gyllis clutched her arms close to her body, praying the jostling would soon stop so she could collapse in the folds of her bed. The whole castle was drafty—made her teeth chatter. With no fire lit in her chamber, it was as frigid as it had been outside. She crawled under the bedclothes and shivered while her head pounded mercilessly.

***

Angels wept from the dreary skies while Sean stood at the graveside beside Kilbride Church on Dunollie lands. The priest droned in an endless monotone, chanting the Latin burial mass. The Tenth Chieftain of Dunollie’s death mask had been hastily made. Sean had arranged for the most skilled stonemason to carve the effigy that would complete the tomb, but presently his father’s body lay wrapped in linen, hands still holding his bejeweled sword, awaiting internment into the granite crypt that would house his body through eternity.

Sean’s mother had died of consumption five years past. Her death had been a somber time in his life, but did not compare to the hollow void now filling his heart.

Da had been a powerful and decisive man. His father led the clan, facing the brutal realities of life, yet he had a gentle streak—one Sean didn’t always understand. But from his first memories, he’d looked up to his father—aspired to be like him. A tickle of doubt needled at the back of his neck. How in God’s name would he fill his father’s shoes?

The clanswomen lamented and sniffled around him. Yet he couldn’t weep. The Eleventh Chieftain of Dunollie could not demonstrate weakness. Sean’s jaw clenched as he endured the morose tones from the seemingly endless mass.

When at last the priest was silent, he nodded to Evanna, Jinny and Angus’s daughter. The lass stepped forward, wiped her eyes, inhaled deeply and began to sing a ghostly tune.

Watchin’ yon hills of the heather,

On the shores of the deep blue sea,

A bonnie young lassie sat singin’ her sone,

Wi’ dew on her plaid an’ a tear in her e’e.

She swayed wi’ a galley a’sail and aw’ee,

An’ aye as it lessen’d she sigh’d an’ she sung,

Fareweel to the lad I’ll ne’er again see

I’ll nay forget ye. Alas, yer mem’ry ’ll alway’ be wi’ me…

Evanna’s voice sang clear as a curlew soaring above a loch on a misty dawn. The purity of her tone made chills spread across Sean’s back. She repeated the sad verse twice while wails from the women rose.

When the song ended, an eerie pall cast a heavy blanket atop the gathering of MacDougall clansmen and women. The only sounds were sniffles and rainwater dripping from the leaves. Sean had not the inclination to move. He stared at his father’s body. Everyone did. He’d always known this time would come, but had been so busy adventuring throughout Scotland, he had never considered it would come so soon. But it wasn’t unusual for any man to meet the Lord at eight and fifty.

If only I had spent more time with him. Now I’ll nay have a chance.

Angus stepped forward and bowed. He then retrieved the sword from Da’s body and strode directly to Sean. “In the name of King James, you are the rightful heir. Carry the chieftain’s sword with pride.” The henchman held the two-handed sword out. “Buaidh no bàs.”

“Buaidh no bàs!” the clan chorused with the Gaelic MacDougall motto, victory or death.

Clenching his teeth, Sean grasped the sword and drew it from its scabbard. “I will carry this with pride and the MacDougall Clan will grow and prosper.” He held the blade over his head. “Buaidh no bàs!”

He slid the sword back into its sheath, secured it in his belt and set out. Thunder cracked overhead as he led the clan down the path to Dunollie Castle.

Behind him, hurried footsteps slapped the mud.

The hackles on Sean’s neck prickled.

Before he could turn, Da’s sword was yanked from his belt. “I should be Chieftain of Dunollie, not a miserable piss-swilling maggot!”

Drawing his dirk, Sean whipped around and crouched. Alan MacCoul moved fast as a fox. With teeth bared, he hacked down in a deadly challenge. Sean jumped back as the blade hissed through the air, just missing his flank. Circling, Sean eyed his nemesis. At last the bastard had given him the opportunity to end their feud once and for all.

Eyeing his target, he waited for Alan to strike—to give him a flicker of an opportunity, and Sean would attack. “Make your move,” he growled.

A thud sounded like a stick of wood hitting a tree. Alan’s arms dropped with the sword, his face stunned. He plummeted to his knees then fell to his face.

Angus stood behind him, holding a branch as big around as a man’s calf.

Sean picked up his father’s sword. “Why did you not let me finish it?”

Alan writhed and groaned.

Angus grasped the cur under the arm and tugged him to his feet. “I’ve no stomach for another funeral this day.”

Sean sauntered forward and slid the blade under MacCoul’s chin. “In honor of my father I’ll spare you. Take your galley and be gone. I’ll have no more of your backstabbing. You are banned from Dunollie lands forever.”

Spitting, Alan struggled in Angus’s grasp. “He was nay merely your father.”

“Aye, we’re all hurting.” Angus pulled him toward the embankment where the clan’s galleys were moored.

“Angus,” Sean hollered. “I’ll need to see you in my solar forthwith.”

***

Sean sat and stared at his goblet of whisky. His jaw twitched and his gut churned. This was a black day. He may as well make it blacker.

A rap resounded on the door.

Sean raised his goblet and sipped. He’d swirled the fiery liquid around his mouth before swallowing. He knew who’d knocked and it served the varlet right to wait. After one more sip, he placed the goblet on the table. “Come.”

Angus stepped inside with his bonnet in hand. “MacCoul has sailed with his galley, m’laird.”

After staring at him without blinking, Sean grasped his armrests and squeezed. “I’d have finished him if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“Aye.”

“You ken more than anyone, MacCoul has been a thorn in my side since the day I was born.”

“Aye.”

“Have you nothing else to say for yourself?” Sean leaned forward. “My father protected that bastard. Do you now see yourself taking up MacCoul’s mantle?”

Angus let out a labored sigh and glanced sideways, high color flushing his face. “Nay.”

“Then why did you stop me?” Sean slammed his fist on the table.

The older man jolted at the sudden noise then spread his palms. “I-I just reacted. Mayhap ’twas your father’s voice in my head.”

“It’ll nay happen again.” Sean shoved back and stood with his palms flat on the table. “Do you ken how your actions made me look in front of the clan?”

“Aye, but you were distraught.”

“Damn it, man, I was defending myself from attack.” Sean paced then kicked a chair. “I respect you as my father’s henchman, but you will never make me look the fool again.”

“Apologies.” Angus bobbed his head. “Agreed. I acted without thought. You’ve every right to be upset with me.”

Sean shook his finger. “I do and I am.” He flicked his wrist. “Go fetch the factor. I want an accounting of the coffers—everything from crofters rents, to notes outstanding, to the size of our herds.”

“Aye, m’laird.”

Sean held up his hand. “A moment.”

Angus raised his brows expectantly.

“Have we any eminent threats?” He didn’t know of any, but he’d been away so much the question needed asking.

“Aside from the errant cattle thief and outlaws in the wood west of Black Lochs, things have been at relative peace for the past five years.”

“What have you done to rid the forest of the outlaws?”

Angus’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Whenever we run them off, ’tis a matter of time afore they’re replaced by another unsavory lot.”

Sean nodded. “I aim for Dunollie to remain at peace and free from attack. After I’ve met with the factor, I want a detailed account of skirmishes as far back as you can remember.”

Angus bowed. “Very well, m’laird. I’ll return with Master Murdach momentarily.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER SIX

Alan MacCoul didn’t sail far—it wasn’t even a league to the miserable Isle of Kerrera his father had granted him in hopes he’d till the soil or raise sheep and live a quiet life away from the scrutiny of society. But Alan had no yen for the life of a farmer. He was a warrior, a leader of men.

Even his father would be proud to see the army he’d amassed. The nobleman had been embarrassed by Alan his entire life—did everything to hide his bastard from the world, but that only served to make Alan more determined to prove his worth. He’d spent a few years on the borders, helping the reivers steal sheep and cattle from the English—and each other in lean times. Alan had grown strong and his sword was valued there—as was his coin. All he need do was send word and he’d have five score of Lowlander fighting men, not to mention another score of deposed MacDougalls in addition to Campbells who couldn’t stomach the Earl of Argyll’s tyranny.

He kept things quiet on Kerrera, however—at least until all was in place to declare his superiority. If he moved too soon, he might lose his income stream, and that most certainly wouldn’t do.

He seethed. He’d been standing alone at the stern of his galley, jaw set. Being exiled by Sean MacDougall was almost more than he could bear. I will make that sniveling magpie pay and I’ll laugh as I watch him suffer.

Alan’s mother had made sure he had a place in the MacDougall Clan. After all, it was her clan too, though she had passed years ago.

His most trusted men, Brus and Trevor, came up on either side of him as the galley neared the shore. Brus placed a foot on the bench. “You’re nay planning to roll over and take your exile like a dog are you?”

Alan lashed out with a fisted backhand. “Watch your bloody mouth.”

Brus stumbled into the hull and wiped his jaw.

Alan leered at him and then Trevor. “How many times do I have to tell you we must wait—seize the opportunity when the time is right?”

“Aye, but with recent events, I’ll wager it’ll be soon.”

Alan grinned. “I’ve some games planned for the new Chieftain of Dunollie to keep him occupied whilst we prepare.”

Trevor nodded. “I like the sound of that.”

“First we’ll need to ensure our galley is hidden from the mainland. No need for passersby to spot my boat—especially MacDougall men.”

“Easily done,” Trevor said.

“Good, call the men together. We shall set things in motion this eve.” When the galley eased to a stop upon the smooth rocks, Alan looked toward the shore. “Have you found a smithy? We need to keep building our cache of weapons.”

Brus pointed toward the cave. “I can hear the iron clanging—but he’s nay happy with his accommodations.”

“Bloody hell, most smithies sleep on the hard floors in their shops—what kind of milk-livered…”

The blacksmith stepped out of the cave and held a sword up to the sunlight. Wearing a leather apron, the man must have weighed eighteen stone. His forearms alone were as thick as the galley’s mast. The corner of Alan’s mouth ticked up. “See to it he has first pick of the wenches next time the whores visit from the village. I could use muscle like that fifty times over.”

After Alan hopped over the rail, he strode directly to the smithy and held out his hand. “Welcome. Alan MacCoul here.”

The man offered a firm shake and a suspecting eye. “Walter, m’lord.”

“I’m no man’s lord.” Alan smirked. “At least not as of yet. Tell me, is everything on Kerrera to your liking?”

The big man rubbed his backside. “Aye, but I could use a bit more hay for my pallet.”

“Consider it done.” Alan clapped the smithy’s beefy shoulder. “I aim to ensure everyone shares in my success and I only ask for one thing in return.”

“What would that be?”

“Loyalty.” He uttered the word slowly to ensure there’d be no misunderstanding.

***

Gyllis lay on the bed and listened to Mother and Meg discuss her failing health. They likely thought she couldn’t hear them. Though she could barely move, her ears and eyes had not been affected by the illness that plagued her.

“It has been over a week and she continues to decline.” Across the room, Meg wrung her hands. “And now she’s showing signs of paralysis. Her joints are stiff. I’m afraid her condition has gone beyond my abilities.”

Mother cast a worried glance toward Gyllis. “This morn she could scarcely swallow her willow tea.”

Meg crossed herself. “May God have mercy on our dear sister.”

If Gyllis could have screamed, she would have. But presently her voice was but a garbled whisper, her throat raw and sore. She had no intention of dying. She couldn’t. There were too many things she had yet to do in this life, bless it. Her head pounded and she closed her eyes, willing the pain away.

“I wish Duncan were here.” Mother covered her mouth with her palm. “Last eve I sent for John.”

Though Gyllis’s head throbbed, her heart squeezed at the idea of seeing her closest brother. John had joined the priesthood and now was the prior at Ardchattan. Gyllis rarely had the chance to see him, but enjoyed it immensely when she did. If only he could make me better.

“As a man of the cloth, I do believe he may be a better brother than Duncan. He’ll know what to do for certain,” Meg said. She’d always been pious, and though Gyllis adored her, she was growing rather tired of Duncan’s wife voicing her fears of doom.

“Mother,” Gyllis said, her voice croaking like a toad from the loch.

Ma hastened to her bedside and grasped her hand. “Aye, my sweeting?”

“When will John arrive?”

She cast a worried glance to Meg. “Soon—as soon as he can spirit away from the priory, I’ll ensure he comes straight up to see you.”

Gyllis tried to swallow and coughed. “I want to see him.”

“’Tis a good sign.” Mother patted her hand. “Drink some more tea whilst we wait.”

Meg reached for the cup while Mother helped Gyllis sit up. She could barely move her hands to grasp it. Meg helped her by tilting it back, but when the bitter brew hit her mouth, she erupted in a coughing fit. The tea spewed across the bedclothes and down the front of Mother’s apron.

Wheezing, Gyllis hung her head and tried to swipe her brow with her hand, but couldn’t lift the trembling appendage. “I’m sorry.”

Mother helped her recline and brushed at the wet spot. “You mustn’t worry. We should have used the spoon.”

Tears stung Gyllis’s eyes. “I hate this.”

“I know sweetheart. Do not worry overmuch, John will be here soon.” Mother patted her cheek. “You should rest until he arrives.”

With heavy eyelids, Gyllis nodded. “What is wrong with me?”

“I wish we knew,” said Meg. She brushed her fingers of her good hand over Gyllis’s hair. Meg had a cleft hand she called the claw that she tried to keep hidden for the most part. “One thing I do ken—you are a fighter, just like your father. You will not allow this illness to overcome you. Of that I am certain.”

Gyllis shivered and sank into the mountain of pillows the women had layered behind her back. If only this horrid sickness would pass, she could focus on regaining her strength. Mother and Meg headed toward the door, their voices muffled in hushed tones. Gyllis wanted to listen, but the effort was more than she could manage.

After the door closed, Meg pattered across the floor and sat on the bed, picking up Gyllis’s hand. “I’ve sent to the physician’s council in Edinburgh and requested information on your symptoms. I’m not sure what my appeal will turn up, but I’ll leave no stone unturned. Until then, the priory is the best place for you. The monks will be able to provide the care you need.”

Gyllis licked her dry lips. “I do not want to go to Ardchattan. I’ll be away from you and Helen.”

“I ken.” Meg lightly brushed her fingertips over the back of Gyllis’s hand. “Helen told me things didn’t go well for you at the Beltane festival.”

“The first night, Sir Sean was so charming.” A lump caught in her throat. “I cannot bring myself to speak of the rest.”

“Well, if Sean MacDougall isn’t the man for you, I’m sure we shall find another gallant knight who will adore you completely. Let us see to your recovery and then I will make it my duty to ensure Duncan has a line of suitors queued up to offer for your hand.”

“If I ever do recover.” The lump in her throat grew.

“Do not say that. Your illness may have knocked you about, but between John, the monks and what I can find, we shall see you set to rights.”

“Thank you.” Gyllis weakly brushed her thumb over Meg’s finger. “Has Duncan returned from court?”

“Not as of yet,” she sighed.

“I am sorry.”

“No need. He shall be home as soon as the king’s business is settled else we shall need to build a home in Stirling as well.”

Gyllis emitted a rueful chuckle and then yawned. “If you want Elizabeth and Colin to know who their father is, that may be your best option.”

Meg leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Sleep my dear. We shall wake you when John arrives.”

***

“Gyllis?” a deep voice called her name. He spoke so softly, the tone soothed her. If only she could hear it again, but then she would have to wake. “Gyllis, lass,” it came again.

She stirred. “Sean MacDougall, is that you calling my name?” She’d welcome a dream even of Sean to while away the body aches and sickness—for her dreams were the only place she’d ever again see him.

“Nay, ’tis your brother, John.”

Gyllis opened her eyes, a faint smile splitting her upper lip with a sharp sting. “You came.”

“And you still have your heart set on that MacDougall roustabout.”

She attempted to raise her hand, but it was too heavy. “’Tis good to see you.”

Dressed in black robes, John looked ever so serious—a far cry from the lad who used to show her how to climb trees and net fish in Loch Awe. He tugged the bedclothes down slightly and grasped her shoulders. “What’s ailing you?”

“It started with the sweat and shakes, and now my limbs ache so much I can hardly move.”

He took one arm and massaged it between his large hands. “Does this feel good?”

“Aye.”

He took each arm and rested them by her sides. “Now see if you can lift them.”

With all her effort, Gyllis clenched her muscles and tried to raise her arms, but only the one John had rubbed rose off the bed.”

John’s brow creased. “Is that all the better you can do?”

Gyllis closed her eyes and bore down, trying to force her arms to rise.

John patted her shoulder. “”Tis a fine effort. I do not want you to overexert yourself.”

“Have you ever seen this before? Do you have any idea what’s wrong with me?”

He frowned and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “You’ve paralysis for certain.”

A cry caught in her throat. “Is there a cure?” she whispered, dread filling her voice.

“I’ve seen it in the infirmary at the priory. It seems to attack its victims and linger.” He scratched his chin and hummed. “If anyone can recover from this, ’tis you, but it will not be easy. God gave you a willful spirit for a reason.”

He pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and gave her a pat. “I’ll need to take you to Ardchattan Priory. The monks can care for you far better than Lady Meg—nothing against Duncan’s wife, but you need more care than one person can give.”

A tear slipped from Gyllis’s eye. “Oh John, why has this happened to me? One day I was happy and gay and the next, I became so ill I was certain I would die.”

“Only God knows the reason one person is afflicted and another is not.” He stood and clasped his hands as if he were praying. “As his sheep, our role is to take our lot in life and make the best of it—be strong and trust in God to lead us through the dark shadows.”

She wanted to wipe the tears from her eyes, but had not the strength to put forth the effort. “When did you become so wise?”

He offered a faint smile. “If only it were thus. Rest. I shall arrange a transport forthwith.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sean and his men rode west toward Fearnoch Forest. Cattle thieving had begun before the effigy had been placed on his father’s grave. If the outlaws think they can cross me, they’ve another thing coming. And why did Da not send for me when I was on the borders? Every time the MacDougall drove out the vermin they were replaced by others? I’ve been battling lawlessness since I reached my majority. Now’s the time to end it on my own lands.

If the thieves thought they could take advantage of the MacDougalls because they were in mourning, they were sorely mistaken. “Did anyone see the backstabbing tinkers?”

Slapping his reins like he was beating a drum, Angus struggled to keep pace. “Nay.”

“Six cattle thieved without a sign?” I find that hard to believe. A lot of things hadn’t sat well with Sean since he started diving into the estate’s affairs. And all had not been smooth whilst his father lived either. Small coin and livestock disappeared from the ledgers with a stroke of a pen. With each little adjustment Sean uncovered, his suspicion grew. That he had a traitor in his midst was certain. Who…was yet to be discovered.

“A rider approaches from the south,” bellowed a sentry at the rear of the retinue.

Sean held up his hand and slowed his horse. Circling around, Fraser galloped toward them. Of all the MacDougall clansmen, Sean trusted him the most. They had been boyhood friends and Fraser often rode with him when carrying out Highland Enforcer tasks for the Lord of Glenorchy and the king.

“Another five head missing by the southern border.”

Sean gaped. “Any sign of the thieves?”

“No, m’laird.”

“That makes no sense at all—if the outlaws are holing up in Fearnoch Forest to the west, how are they slipping unseen to the south…and where are they driving my cattle?”

Angus rode in beside him and pulled up. “The two crimes could be unrelated.”

Fraser’s horse snorted and stomped its right front. “I reckon someone’s testing your verve—trying to see what they can take from the new chieftain afore they get caught.”

“They’ll be caught and the risk is nay worth the gain.” Sean looked up and watched a hawk circle overhead. “I’ve plenty of enemies, but only one comes to mind who’d go to so much trouble.” He eyed Angus.

The older man’s shoulder ticked up. “I do not think Alan MacCoul would stoop so low, besides, he sailed off in his sea galley a fortnight ago.”

Sean smirked. “I could never trust that bastard.” He raised his voice and eyed all his men. “Where did MacCoul sail after he left Dunollie lands?”

No one said a word. He dug in his heels and walked his horse along the line of men. “We’ll rid the wood of outlaws, but moreover, I want a scout on MacCoul’s trail.” He spun his horse and started back the other way. Right now there weren’t many men he could trust—or who had the necessary skills to follow a cold trail. “Hell, I’ll find him myself. I’m the best damn tracker in the Highlands.”

“That you are,” Fraser said.

“Do you think it wise to leave your lands so soon after you’ve taken up your father’s mantle?” Angus asked. “There are a great many affairs needing your attention.”

Sean had always trusted his father’s henchman, but presently he questioned the man’s loyalty.

“MacDougall!” A rider galloped from the direction of Dunollie. “I’ve a missive from the Lord of Lorn.”

Sean threw up his hands. “Does everyone ken our whereabouts?”

“I didn’t think it was a secret,” Angus said.

Sean pointed at the laggard’s sternum. “We need a sober discussion, you and I.” He beckoned the messenger. “Come.”

Sean took the missive and ran his finger under his uncle’s red-wax seal and read.

“What is it?” Angus asked.

“My uncle…ah…has requested a meeting.” He wasn’t about to say where or when—not to Angus and most definitely not in front of all his men when there could be a backstabber about. He needed to learn whom he could trust and whom he couldn’t and fast. Unfortunately, his uncle’s summons changed Sean’s plans.

He stuffed the missive in his doublet. “Angus, take the men and drive out any outlaws in the wood. Fraser, find out where MacCoul sailed after he left the clan. Better yet, find out where he’s holing up and report back. I want to see you at Dunollie within a fortnight.” He grasped his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. “Do not fail me.”

“On my way, m’laird.”

***

“Trevor’s galley approaches, sir,” Brus hollered from the cave entrance.

With two more rutting thrusts, Alan ground his teeth with a grunt and finished swiving the whore he had shoved up against the cave’s wall. Pulling up his trews, he shook himself off, revived at the relief of tension the quick hump had brought.

He expected good news. Hiding out on this God-forsaken island didn’t suit him. The damp made his bones ache and his temperament border on the verge of tyrannical—not that intimidation was a problem. It was a tactic he used even when he wasn’t feeling like an ogre.

Brus caught the mooring rope while the galley ran aground on the beach.

Followed by his men, Trevor hopped over the side, a daft grin spread across his face.

“Well?” Alan asked, leaving the whore in a tousled heap.

“Easier than taking a Sunday stroll with my ma,” Trevor boasted.

“Out with it, man. I want details.”

“Two bands thieved cattle. One to the west and the other to the south—exactly as you said.” He dug in his purse. “I sold the beasts to a transport headed to Glasgow—Eleven marks, one for each head, less payment for me and the men.”

Alan snatched the coin and counted it. Trevor had taken the agreed quarter. He didn’t like that his men had taken their share first—but if he challenged the brigands with coin in their pockets, their loyalty would wane. “Did you see any trouble?”

“Nay—could thieve the laird’s cattle every day, I’d reckon.”

Alan was no fool. “If you tried tomorrow, you’d be caught for certain.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The alarm’s raised by now. It will not be half as easy next time—besides how much torture could any one of your men take if caught?” Alan adjusted his crotch. “We shall lay low for a time—travel to visit our allies in the Lowlands where we do not have to hide in a cave.”

The men nodded in agreement.

“Walter,” Alan hollered over his shoulder.

The smithy stepped out from the cave’s shadows. “Aye?”

“While we’re away I want you to fashion irons for a man.”

“You mean you’re not taking me with you?”

“You heard me.”

The blacksmith knuckled his head and glanced at the woman Alan had just discarded. “You’ll leave the whore?”

“Very well.”

“All right, then, but I’ll need measurements.”

Alan gestured to his body. “My size, but a hand taller.”

Walter shook his head. “Tis nay that easy—”

“Just see it done. I’ll hear no more from naysayers.” Alan turned to Trevor and Brus. “We sail at dawn.”

***

Propped up with pillows, Gyllis closed her eyes and yielded to the monk’s gentle ministrations. She’d been in the cell at Ardchattan Priory for a month now and, though the sickness had passed, the paralysis still plagued her. Even her breathing had become shallow and labored. She closed her eyes. Dark thoughts of a life as a cripple blackened her mind. She’d be a burden to her family—or to the priory unless by some miracle, God saw fit to give her the strength to walk again.

“I’ll wager things are not as comfortable here for you as they are at Kilchurn Castle,” Brother Wesley said in his ever-soothing voice. He had a sallow complexion with grey eyes, black hair, and his front teeth were large and crooked. It was difficult not to stare at them on the rare occasion he smiled.

How different and ever so mundane things were cloistered behind the priory walls. Nothing exciting ever happened—she never heard a voice raised or the clanging of swords when the guard sparred as she’d heard daily at Kilchurn Castle. The dangers of the world seemed a hundred miles away.

Gyllis glanced at the stark walls with a single wooden cross nailed above her head—aside from the bed, the only piece of furniture was a wooden stool. Brother Wesley looked at her expectantly.

“Aye, my chamber is five times the size of this cell,” she answered. “And the bed is far softer than this cot.” Indeed, she’d prefer to be home now.

He pressed the heel of his hand into her thigh and rubbed with a circular motion. Had he not taken an oath of celibacy, Gyllis could never have permitted him to care for her. “With God’s grace, we shall have you up in no time. I’m sure you are anxious to return to your kin.”

“If I could spring from this bed this moment, I would.”

“You must take one thing at a time. ’Tis a long process to recover from a disease like paralysis.” He patted her leg then resituated her skirts. “Let us see how your arms are faring today.”

Her fingers twitched and she closed her eyes. Clamping her teeth and scrunching her face with effort, she forced herself to lift them from the bed. Sucking in a gasp, the worthless limbs dropped back down. She glared at Brother Wesley. “They’re useless.”

He lifted her hand and held it in his palm, offering a serene smile as if he had not a care. “You raised them twice as far as yesterday. I am impressed with your progress.”

If only Gyllis could share in his subdued exuberance. If Brother Wesley were to raise one of his thick eyebrows, it would be an untoward display of emotion. “I most certainly am not pleased. Do you have any idea how miserable it is to lie on this cot hour upon hour unable to move?” And now she’d begun to suffer from bed sores.

“It must be very monotonous indeed.”

“’Tis unbearable.”

The monk frowned. “I shall continue to pray for you, Miss Gyllis.”

That’s all she’d heard since arriving at this miserable priory. “Praying? What good will that do? I cannot even feed myself—and the indignity of being changed like a bairn.” She turned her face toward the wall and groaned.

“I am sorry—I shall continue to try to help, though my efforts have not met with your satisfaction.”

Gyllis cringed. She’d just insulted the kindest, gentlest person she’d ever met. Devil’s bones, this illness turned her into a curmudgeon. “Apologies, I did not mean to imply your ministrations have not been met with my sincerest gratitude.” She took in a deep breath and willed the air to fill her limbs right through her fingers. With her exhale, her hands rose at least six inches. She chuckled and glanced at Brother Wesley.

“Praise be to God, Miss Gyllis.” He stood and clapped his palms together. “I do believe the Lord’s strength just showed the greatness of its power right through the tips of your fingers.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Let me try again.” She closed her eyes. Please, please, please. Once more her hands rose from the bed. They trembled a bit, but she’d done it. No matter how small the win, it was something. She splayed her fingers. Without telling Brother Wesley, she tried to wiggle her toes. Possibly the toes on the right foot moved. She couldn’t be certain.

The door opened and John stepped inside, holding a lute and a parcel. He grimaced at Brother Wesley and bowed his head. “Have I interrupted you?”

“I was just finishing.” The monk straightened and smiled. “Miss Gyllis lifted her arms further than ever before.”

John smiled. “Very good news.”

“Indeed.” Wesley bowed. “I should prepare for vespers.”

“I shall be in the nave shortly.” John sat on the stool beside her bed. “Mother sent a few things.”

Gyllis eyed the lute in his hands, her spirits again sinking. “I doubt I’ll ever have the wherewithal to play that again.”

The cell was so small, he simply leaned back to place the instrument in the corner across from the bed. “We’ll keep it here until you are ready.” He reached inside the satchel and pulled out a book. “You might start with this first. We can prop you up and I’ll wager you’ll be able to turn the pages since you can raise your arms a bit.”

Gyllis squinted at the title. The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle & other Romantic Tales. “My heavens, ’tis not the Holy Bible?”

John smoothed his palm over the leather binding—with light dun hair, her brother posed a handsome man. “I suppose Mother thought you’d prefer something lighter, though I’d be more than happy to replace this with a Bible from my own library.”

Gyllis’s fingers twitched, if only she could snatch the book from his hands and cradle it to her chest. She may never find romance for herself, but she certainly could live it through the text on the page. She’d read The Legend of King Arthur over and over until she could recite lengthy passages. “Please, can I start now?”

“Very well.” He glanced around the tiny cell. “Perhaps you’ll be able to read if I rest it in your lap.” He opened the book to the first page then lifted Gyllis’s arms and placed them across her lap.

Instantly she was transported by the mystical knight, Sir Gromer Somer Joure as he challenged King Arthur to discover what women desire most. Anxious to turn the page, her fingers twitched, her arm moved spasmodically and knocked the book from its perch.

John slid it back in place, but kept it open to the page she’d already read.

Grinding her teeth, Gyllis concentrated, focusing on the simple task of turning the page. When at last her feeble hand grasped the velum, her motion jerked, and the cursed book clattered to the stone floor. A cry caught in her throat. “Bless it, I am completely useless.”

“I’ll fetch it.” He retrieved the book and again set it on her lap.

Gyllis shook her head. “No. What use is it if I cannot turn the pages myself?” She looked at the ceiling and wailed. She couldn’t even clench her miserable fists. “My God, why has this happened to me? What did I do to deserve a life in purgatory?”

John placed his hand on her arm. “There, there. You mustn’t fret.”

“But I can do nothing without help.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “It would have been better if God had taken my life than to have left me paralyzed with no prospects of recovery.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You’ve made progress.”

“D-do you honestly believe that, John?” Uncontrollable sobs racked her body. It had been ages and ages since she fell ill—and she hated every moment of her confinement. “I am the most worthless lass who ever lived. I cannot even hold a miserable book. I’ll never walk again. I’ll never be courted by a dashing knight. I’ll never bear children.” She wiped her miserable nose on her shoulder because she couldn’t—possibly never would be able to—use a worthless kerchief. “I am nothing.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Ardchattan Priory, but he was looking forward to the prospect of seeing John Campbell, the prior. After the untimely death of John and Duncan’s father, the younger son had left the Highland Enforcers to become a priest. Sean hated to see him go. He was a fine knight and a better friend.

He raised the blackened iron knocker on the cloister gate and rapped it twice.

Not long and a monk slid open the viewing panel. “Yes?”

“Sean MacDougall here, Chieftain of Dunollie. I’ve come to meet the Lord of Lorn, has he arrived as of yet?”

“Afraid not.” The monk moved to shut the screen.

Sean thrust the hilt of his dirk into the opening before it closed. “Then perhaps I may have a word with the prior. John Campbell and I were boyhood friends.”

A single eye peered through the gap. “I shall inquire if he is able to receive visitors.”

The monk slid the panel closed. To Sean’s surprise, the hinges on the big black gate creaked. When the door opened, the monk gestured to a bench in the cloister, walled on one side, hedged by a row of trimmed holly on the other. “Wait here.”

Sean sat as directed. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, folded his arms, whistled a tune and then he stood. Not one to be idle, he paced. Behind the hedge someone chuckled. A woman’s voice.

He peered over the shrubbery but saw no one. Only a few steps from the courtyard entrance, he walked to the break in the hedge and peeked around. A woman wrapped in blankets sat on a bench directly opposite from where Sean had been sitting. She wore a plain white veil atop her head and was looking down—in fact she was reading.

The book must have been interesting because her shoulders shook as if she might be laughing. If only he could see the joy upon her face, he’d enjoy a good laugh himself.

The woman’s hands trembled and she slowly reached to turn the page—as if she were very old—though her fine-boned hands appeared smooth and ageless. Her shoulders tensed as she struggled to grasp the vellum. Sean cringed at her effort.

What illness afflicts the lass?

When she finally had the page turned, the blasted thing flipped back the other way.

“Argh.” The agony in her voice clawed at Sean’s heart.

He strode forward and plucked the book from her fingers. “Please. Allow me.”

The woman gasped as if she’d been accosted.

Sean glanced at her face and froze. In that instant, his heart stopped, his mouth dried and his stomach plummeted to his toes.

He knew her. Cared for her. But something was terribly wrong. In that moment, she appeared so vexed and more so, stricken by horror. Christ, she was so skeletally thin, but he could never mistake the pair of mossy green eyes encircled by rings of navy blue.

He swallowed. “Gyllis?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

She quickly averted her face. “Go away.”

“It is you.” Sean knelt beside her. “My God, what happened?”

Her shoulders tensed and she moved a trembling hand to block her face, seemingly afraid of catching a disease from him.

He wanted to place his palm upon her shoulder, but stopped himself by clutching the book tighter. “You’re so frail and thin.” He cast his mind back. “Yet a mere two months have passed since Beltane…”

“Please, return my book and leave me be.”

Why was she being so despondent? They were friends—more than friends, for the love of God. “Will you not look at me—tell me what ails you?”

She snapped her head around, tears welling in her eyes. Unimaginable pain and anguish stretched her features. “Must you taunt me?”

The words came out as if she’d slapped him. “I would never do that.” He knelt beside her. “Tell me what happened…why are you here?”

The fire that flashed through her eyes was akin to hate. What suffering had caused such bitterness? “As if you would care about me, Sean MacDougall. I’ll not have you make a mockery of me, not ever again.” Her voice choked. “Go. Live your life and forget I ever existed.”

Sean reached for her hand and squeezed. A mockery? Not ever again? She couldn’t possibly mean that? He’d always adored Gyllis, always thought of her as his… He blinked successively. Why was she acting thus? “Please—”

“Sir Sean.” A monk hastened toward him, brown robes billowing. “The Lord of Lorn has arrived. He’s asked to meet with you at once.”

“I must go.” Sean regarded Gyllis and placed the book on her lap. “I’d like to visit you again.”

She stared at the volume. “’Tis best if you did not.”

Sean’s heart twisted with her every bitter word. Never had she been discourteous toward him. Why did Lorn have to be in such a damned hurry? He would have liked to find out more, but presently the lass proved none too eager to talk.

He pursed his lips and grasped her hand. Bowing his head, he pondered at the frailty of the fingers in his palm, whilst he savored her sweet fragrance. It had always captivated him. Closing his eyes, he pictured the Gyllis he knew—the lass with the free spirit and easy laugh. He placed a gentle kiss on her hand and straightened. “Until we meet again, Miss Gyllis.”

The monk beckoned him. “This way. Prior John said he would attend you after.”

Walking away, Sean cast one last glimpse over his shoulder. Gyllis watched him out of the corner of her eye. That something dreadful had happened was a certainty. What, he intended to find out before he left.

***

Gyllis stared at the book in her hands, except she couldn’t see it through the tears filling her eyes. If she could have curled into a ball and died she would have. How long had Sir Sean been watching before she attempted to turn the page?

She never wanted anyone to see her feebly try to accomplish something she’d done with ease only months ago. Tears ran down her cheeks. She sucked in a deep breath to stifle her weeping, but it only served to heighten her remorse.

Had he any idea how much it tore her apart to see him again? And he made no mention of why he’d broken his promise to sit on her plaid. Aye, it was a simple matter, but it had been a savage cut to her heart. Why, I mightn’t have become so ill if it weren’t for my broken heart.

Her nose was running and it streamed over her lips, spreading an unwelcome, salty taste in her mouth. She opened and closed her fist. Blast it to hell. In one determined motion, she raised her hand and swiped it across her face. She blinked rapidly and stared at her fingers.

“Heaven’s stars.”

She raised the trembling hand again, but this time she missed her face altogether. That she’d first connected with her head at all must have been accidental.

Groaning, she cast her gaze to the clouds above. Everything about Sean MacDougall reminded her of the fool she’d been. Happiness was only a fleeting speck given the duration of one’s life. How could she have ever expected to live happily? She smirked at the book on her lap—the pages were full of fairytales—events that could never come true.

At least now she had no illusions. With life came pain and humiliation. She could not even visit the privy closet without assistance. How much worse can things become?

Forced to succumb to the monk’s ministrations like a bairn still in swaddling clothes, she hated being dependent on someone for her every need. Everyone around her shot pitying glances her way. She didn’t want pity, she wanted freedom.

This situation is untenable. She clenched her fists. I will walk again. With effort, she folded her hands and closed her eyes. God in heaven, give me strength to overcome this illness.

Pushing the book aside, she bore down and swung her legs over the side of the bench. Her head swooning with the effort, she took in a deep breath. Sliding to the edge, she placed her slippered feet on the ground, just as she’d done many times with the assistance of Brother Wesley.

But this time she was far more determined.

With her palms flush against the bench, she shifted her weight onto her legs and pushed up. Wobbling with exertion, standing was excruciatingly slow. Her heart fluttered when, for the first time in two months, she stood unassisted.

Her legs shuddering, Gyllis eyed the grass before her. One step.

Swallowing, she inched her foot forward.

Her knee buckled. Gyllis cried out. Before she could fling her arms forward, she landed face-first in the moist grass.

“Miss Gyllis,” Brother Wesley cried as he hastened to her side. “Whatever are you doing?”

Her nose throbbed and she stretched her jaw to the side only to be met with a sharp pain. “My, that hurt.” Dear Brother Wesley, always rushing to her aid. If only she didn’t need his charity. He was a selfless and giving monk, and right now Gyllis needed him far more than she wanted to admit.

“You mustn’t do that again—not without assistance.” He gathered her in his beefy arms. “Let us see you back inside.”

She looked him in the eye. “Mark me—I will walk again and show Sir Sean MacDougall I can overcome anything.”

Concern creased Brother Wesley’s brow. “Did he upset you?”

***

The monk led Sean beyond the cloister walls to the stables where the Lord of Lorn waited with his men. Sean held out his hand in greeting. “Uncle, I must say I’m eager to hear what you have brewing, given the secrecy.”

With a grin, Lorn offered a firm handshake. “And I’m all too eager to share it with you.” He inclined his head to a path leading into the wood. “Come, walk with me—away from prying ears.”

Sean cast a sideways glance to Lorn’s men. Could the earl not trust his inner circle? I suppose I shall find out.

Together they walked into the wood along a well-kept path, one obviously used by the priory monks on a regular basis.

Lorn plucked a maple leaf and twirled it between his fingers. “How have you been coping since your father’s death?”

“Well enough.” Sean shrugged. “A few head of cattle have gone missing, but nothing too alarming.”

“How many head have disappeared?”

“Ten or so—two different raids.”

“You must stop all insurgence, else you’ll have an uprising you cannot control.”

“No need to worry overmuch about me.” They came to a split in the trail and Sean chose the wider, more traveled path—though he’d rather have taken the overgrown one had he not been accompanied by the older man. “I reckon we’re far enough away from the others. What is so important to make you opt to meet here?”

“One can never know whom they can trust.” Lorn eyed him. “Especially a young chieftain who’s only come into his title.”

Sean gaped. “You no longer trust me?”

“’Tis not you, but rather your men. To prove my point, you just said yourself Dunollie’s suffering from raids.”

Sean opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but Lorn held up his hand. “’Tis always the way when a new pup rises to power. Someone feels thwarted and wants to test your grit. Deal with reivers firmly. In a few months, things will again settle.”

Sean didn’t want to admit he had a few misgivings about the loyalties of some of his father’s men. However, this conversation cemented his decisions. He must weed out the conspirators quickly. “You’ve no cause for alarm.”

“That is what I like to hear.” Lorn plucked another leaf—a birch this time. “I wanted to meet with you in secret because I’ve given it a great deal of thought and have decided to act on your suggestion.”

Sean looked toward the clouds, rifling through his memory of the last time he’d seen Lorn—Beltane. What the devil had they talked about? “I beg your pardon?”

“Must I spell it out?”

With no idea, Sean shrugged.

“Since May I’ve given it ample thought and come up with no other option. I’m to wed Dugald’s mother.”

Sean grinned. Now he remembered the conversation. And that had been the first time in his life he’d realized that at nine and twenty, he was aging. Had his uncle finally come to his senses? “At last you will make your son legitimate?”

“Aye.” Lorn glanced over his shoulder as if he feared someone was following. “But you must keep it quiet, lest my enemies learn of my plans—especially Argyll and the Campbell lot.”

“Heavens, Uncle, the Campbell Clan could be your greatest allies—especially the Glenorchy sect.”

Lorn flicked his leaf into the brush. “Mayhap, however, I’d prefer if you kept it between us.”

“Very well.” Sean stepped around a mud puddle. “What do you need from me?”

Lorn stopped and craned his neck to face him. “Protection. I need your army to provide ample guard during the ceremony and the feast.”

Sean remembered well the lands Lorn had bequeathed him when he reached his majority. The gift was given on the promise a call to arms would be forthcoming whenever needed. “You’ll have my sword and my men. Have you set a date as of yet?”

“Autumn—when the leaves start to turn.”

“Why wait?” Sean asked. “You should have brought Mary MacLaren to the priory and had John Campbell marry you this day.”

Lorn waved his hands. “No, no, that will not do. There are formalities to arrange—the first being a visit to King James to ensure his blessing.”

Sean was no stranger to the dealings of court. “And his sanction of lands.”

“Of course. The only reason I’m proceeding with the marriage at my advanced age is to ensure my title remains with my line.”

Sean chuckled. “And the Earl of Argyll doesn’t inherit the Lordship of Lorn.”

“Exactly.”

Sean glanced toward a raven squawking at them from a tree limb above. “You are aware, the king’s enforcers could add iron-clad protection for you and your bride.” He didn’t want to use the moniker Highland Enforcers. That had originally been the label used by Black Colin Campbell and it had stuck. Everyone knew there was no force in the Highlands that could match the well-trained group of knights led by Lord Duncan Campbell, but Lorn would never admit dependence.

The older man clapped Sean on the shoulder and headed back toward the priory. “Let us keep this quiet for now. The fewer people who know my plans, the less likely my enemies will cross me.”

“Agreed.”

“In the interim, you need to see to it you weed out all backstabbers from your clan.”

Sean balled his fists. “No one wants that more than I.”

“’Tis good to hear.”

***

After seeing the Lord of Lorn off, Sean returned to the garden, but Gyllis was no longer there. He looked at the sundial. The afternoon was growing late and soon the monks would head to the nave for vespers. He turned full circle. Could Gyllis be staying in the dormitory? It wasn’t usual for monks to take in the sick, but he had no idea if Ardchattan had an infirmary.

One thing he knew for certain, he wouldn’t find her whilst turning circles in the garden. When he headed toward the cloisters, John stepped around the corner.

Sean opened his arms. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“Sean MacDougall.” With a hearty laugh, John pulled him into an embrace. “Bless it, ’tis good to see you.”

“Bloody oath.” Sean stepped away and took in the telltale black robes. “How long has it been?”

“Years.” John gestured for him to continue walking. “Word has it you’re the Chieftain of Dunollie now.”

“Aye. Da passed two months ago.”

“I am sorry.” John bowed his head. “I shall pray for his eternal soul.”

“My thanks.” Sean grasped John’s sleeve and rubbed it between his fingers. “So you’ve attained the exalted rank of prior in record time, I see.”

“Aye, I’ve found my calling—no more armor and swords for me.”

“Or women.”

John frowned.

Sean shook his head. “Bloody waste of a fine knight.”

“You sound like my brother.”

“Apologies.” He clapped the priest on the back. “I should be offering congratulations.”

“No need. We live a life of humility here, void of pride.”

That certainly was the man Sean knew. John Campbell never could be accused of suffering from the sin of pride—something Sean envied in his friend. Envy, yet another sin. But he had something of a more serious nature to discuss. “I saw Miss Gyllis when I first arrived.”

“Aye, she mentioned as much.” John frowned.

But Sean didn’t let the dour face dissuade him. “What happened to her?”

“Paralysis.”

Sean gulped. “’Tis worse than I thought. She looks so frail. When did she become afflicted?”

“She fell ill on the journey home from the May Day festival.”

“That long ago? What are her chances of recovery?”

John steepled his fingers. “Who knows? The longer she goes without being able to walk, the less likely she will ever find her legs.”

“My God.” Sean pushed his hands through his hair. “I must help her.”

“What do you think you can do?” John stopped outside the chapel doors and faced him. “She was very upset after she saw you—refused to eat—I couldn’t even get her to take a sip of mead.”

His mind swimming, Sean barely listened. “But we’ve been close ever since we were young. I always thought…” He couldn’t say it, not to her brother. “I want to see her.”

“I’m not certain ’tis a good idea.” John grasped the latch. “Whatever happened between you two?”

“Pardon me? We’ve always been…” He almost said sweethearts, but that wouldn’t sound right confessing to a priest, or to her brother, no less. “Good friends.”

“Something about your visit upset her. What did you say?”

“Me? Nothing at all.” Sean grasped John’s elbow. “Please, I want to see Gyllis again.”

John sighed and looked to the sky. “I should not agree, but you seem emphatic—and I do not approve of leaving things on a sour note. Give her a sennight or two. She’s so frail. Any upset could ruin her progress.”

“Must I wait that long? I’d prefer to return on the morrow.”

“Please, I ask you to heed me in this.” John placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “For Gyllis’s sake.”

“Very well, if your request is for her benefit.” Sean clenched his teeth—Gyllis was exactly who he had been thinking of, but good sense told him not to argue, else he could be banned. “My thanks.”

“No need for gratitude.” John held up a finger. “If she has an adverse reaction on your next visit, I shall have no recourse but to request that you stay away.”

***

Mounted on his warhorse, Sean puzzled while he rode the six miles back to Dunollie Castle. Beltane seemed like it had happened years ago, yet it had only been a couple months. At the feast, he’d danced with Gyllis. She’d never looked so radiant—healthy and lively on her feet. How quickly the paralysis must have come on.

He chuckled, remembering how delightfully forward she’d been. Ah yes, and the kiss he’d stolen in the garden had been sublime. That she had never been properly kissed was a certainty and it made his blood thrum to think he’d been the first gentleman to claim her lips. His grin stretched wider.

She invited me to sit on her plaid—and then Angus and Jinny came to tell me Da had died.

Sean pulled his horse to a stop and slapped his forehead.

God’s teeth, I neglected to send my apologies. Has anyone informed her as to why I’d been called away?

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER NINE

Gyllis sat sideways on her bed, reclining into a mountain of pillows propped against the wall. John massaged the sole of her foot—the feeling must have been returning because it caused a mildly painful sensation of pin pricks.

She squeezed her eyes shut. A picture formed of Sir Sean and how horrified his face had looked when he first saw her in the garden. Every time she thought about Sean MacDougall, Gyllis shook her head and forced her mind to focus on anything else. Presently, the story of how Sir Gawain had opted to allow Dame Ragnelle to choose whether or not she would be cursed by ugliness during the day or at night replaced imaginings of Sean’s azure eyes. Gyllis loved how Sir Gawain’s selflessness resulted in breaking the spell and thus turned Dame Ragnelle into a beauty forever. If only such chivalry existed.

She sighed.

If only Sir Sean could do something to break the miserable spell that plagues me. She tsked her tongue. Curses, there I go again, finding any way to allow that lusty laddie into my thoughts.

“Push the sole of your foot against my hand,” said John, seated upon the stool beside her bed. He had been helping her more as of late, and for the past week, Brother Wesley had been away on an errand to Iona.

Gyllis grasped the bedclothes and squeezed. Though the dexterity in her hands had not fully returned, in the past fortnight she’d become adept at turning the pages of her book. Threading a needle was yet to be accomplished. She grimaced and tried to push against John’s hand with all her might. Though her forehead perspired, he seemed not to be putting forth any effort at all. Gyllis let out a puff of air. “Blast it.”

“Keep trying.”

She wanted to scream. “I am.”

“Good.” John grinned—he could calm an entire room of grumblers with his smile. “Now just a bit harder.”

Gyllis pushed. “Och, you are killing me.”

“Simply trying to make you stronger.” He rubbed his knuckles into the sole of her foot. “You made a good effort.”

“Thank you.” She watched him while he lifted her other foot and started in massaging her leg. He was so different compared to Duncan. Her older brother was a commander of men, a warlord and chieftain. Somehow, John had inherited all the traits to make him Duncan’s opposite. Though they both had inherited the Campbell good looks.

“What do you aspire to, John?”

“Me?” He chuckled. “I suppose to spread the word of God and tend wee lasses like you who come to the priory in need of care.” It was typical of him to respond with something vague.

Gyllis persisted. “Do you ever miss riding with the Highland Enforcers?”

“Not really. I enjoyed the companionship, but I never could stomach living by the sword.”

She adjusted her shoulders against the pillows for added comfort. “I suppose it would be unsettling to ride into battle knowing it could be your last day on this earth.”

“It wasn’t my death I was worried about so much as worry for others. Even vile men who’ve committed crimes have souls. I never believed I had a right to take a life—not ever.”

Gyllis admired his handsome face, now framed by dun-colored locks with the top of his head shaven. “You would have made a fine husband.”

“And you talk too much.” He kneaded his fingers into her thigh. “What about you? You should be thinking about marriage soon.”

She rolled her eyes to the cross on the wall above her head. “Oh, you are full of practicality—all lassies stricken with paralysis leap from their beds and proceed to the altar.”

“I’m serious. You are beautiful and charming.” John looked up and narrowed his gaze. “Why only a fortnight or so ago, Sir Sean MacDougall inquired about you—he showed genuine concern.”

Gyllis harrumphed. “Sir Sean is the last person I’d marry. Besides, he’s the type to take his vows and the following day ride off with Duncan and never look back.”

“I suppose he has an adventuresome spirit—though I’ve not met a more trustworthy friend.”

“I cannot fill my head with thoughts about that man. He’s vile.” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. If only she could actually void her heart of her feelings for Sir Sean. Before she’d fallen ill, he had thwarted her. How would he treat her now that she was a cripple? “Let us talk about something else.”

“Very well.” John reverted to long languid strokes that made Gyllis’s leg tingle. “I’ve been thinking. When you return to Kilchurn, we could move your things to the first floor solar.”

Gyllis shook her head. “When I return to Kilchurn, I will be walking and able to climb the tower stairs.”

John stopped rubbing and looked up. Sadness filled his eyes. “What if…”

“Do not say it. I…I am making progress.” Gyllis strained to pull her foot from his grasp. “I will walk again, whether God sees fit to help me or I am forced to do it on my own.”

“I appreciate your fighting spirit, but….”

“But what?”

“As humans we are only flesh and blood. Sometimes we can picture our bodies doing things they’re incapable of.”

“Enough!” Gyllis scooted to the edge of the bed and inched her feet onto the floor.

John stood and held out his hands. “Let me help you.”

“No. I’ll do it myself.”

His lips formed a thin line, but he took a step back.

She leaned forward until her chin was over her knees. Giving herself a healthy shove, Gyllis attempted to stand. Her legs faltered. With a startled gasp, her weight shifted too far forward. Having given too much of a push, she teetered then fell straight into John’s outstretched arms.

A wail caught in her throat. She balled her fists and pounded them into her brother’s chest. “Curses, curses, curses to paralysis! Why did this happen to me? Why can I not walk away from this damnable bed? I hate this. I hate it, I tell you!” Gyllis had been sick for so long, she couldn’t take it anymore—couldn’t face her miserable life. She was hopeless, useless and without a single prospect.

When she burst into tears, John lifted her into his arms and sat on the cot. Oh his lap he cradled her for what seemed like an eternity, patiently rocking back and forth while she bawled like a bairn. “There, there, Gyllis. Everything will be all right.” His soothing voice calmed until sleep took away her pain.

***

Swaying in his saddle, Murdach, pointed. “There she is, m’laird.”

Sean had never been so happy to see the ominous outline of the Dunollie battlements looming against a sultry summer sky. They had spent the last fortnight visiting every crofter who paid rents. True, Sean relished being on the trail, but this excursion with his factor had no adventure. And though this mission had been extremely important to renewing and securing loyalty, he was relieved it was at an end.

Chatting with clansmen about the rents wasn’t at the top of his list of entertaining subjects. If a crofter’s rents were up to date, the conversation turned to more interesting pursuits. But more often the people who made a living off his lands had fallen behind, and thus it was necessary to sit down and discuss a plan to set their accounts back to rights.

Murdach had been some help, but the aging factor proved to prefer his quill over his tongue.

Sean grinned at the portly man, then turned round to face his guard. “Let us make haste and we shall enjoy Dunollie whisky tonight.” He dug his heels into his horse’s barrel and led the canter along the shoreline to the castle.

Once inside the gates, he led them to the stables and dismounted.

Murdach hopped off his gelding with a grunt. “Will you be needing me for anything else, m’laird?”

“Nay. Put the ledgers in my solar and then go home to your lady wife.”

“My thanks.”

Sean gave his reins to his squire and sighed. Even the air at Dunollie smelled fresher than it did outside her walls.

“M’laird.” The man’s voice came from behind.

Sean whipped around and a grin spread across his face. “Fraser!” He embraced his friend and slapped him on the back. “I was wondering what had happened to you.”

The warrior’s eyebrows drew together and he inclined his head away from the guard. “May I have a word in confidence?”

“Of course.” Sean led him to the rear of the stables. “Did you find Alan?”

“Aye, at least where he’d been hiding.”

Sean rolled his hands in anticipation of more.

“An eyewitness reported he was holding up on Kerrera.”

Sean drummed his fingers to his lips. “That island is chartered MacDougall land.”

“Aye, but Alan told her it was his.”

“Her—a woman?”

“A whore named Osla.”

Sean smirked. “Credible source.”

“She wasn’t the most refined of women even for a whore, but she described him well enough—described his men, too.” Fraser frowned, his gaze darting left then right. He leaned in. “She said he’s amassing quite an army.”

Sean didn’t believe it. “I ken he’s got a following of roustabouts, but an army? She must have been jesting.”

“I’m nay so certain. She kent a number of names—and clans. Said he’s not only got disgruntled MacDougalls, he’s drawn in some lowlife Campbells and it gets worse.”

“Aye?”

“Lowlanders—hundreds of them. Osla said that’s where he is now.”

“In the Lowlands?”

“Aye—training for a reckoning.”

Sean studied the concern on Fraser’s face then swiped his hand over his mouth. “It sounds like the old hen grasped ahold of your ear and gave it a good tug.”

“I ken, it sounds farfetched, but Alan is a snake. I wouldn’t put it past him to be scheming something.”

“True, but I doubt he has the coin or the gumption to command an army. A handful of vagrants, I’d believe but no more.”

Fraser scratched his beard and glanced away. “I’m sure you’re right, but why not let me track him to the Lowlands—see for myself if the whore’s claims have any merit.”

Sean glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “I’d rather have you by my side as henchman. I trust you more than any other in the Clan MacDougall. You’re the best with a sword, too.”

“Thank you, m’laird, but my gut is telling me Alan MacCoul is up to something. I wouldn’t feel content to leave things unresolved with that man and his army.”

Sean reflected on Lorn’s advice. There had been raids and any threat must be investigated no matter how absurd. “Very well, but I do not want you traveling to the Lowlands alone. Choose two guards with whom to ride and I’ll expect to see you return in a month—two at the most.”

***

When Sean retired to his solar, he poured himself a well-deserved glass of whisky. He stood at the window for a moment and gazed out over the Firth of Lorn. A sultry breeze caressed his face and he sighed. Summer had always been his favorite season. The gardens were alive with greens and colorful flowers and the sea yielded an abundant harvest.

Sean sipped his whisky and savored the oaken flavor as it slid over his tongue. Every moment he’d been away, he had thought about Gyllis. I shall set out for the priory at first light. He turned and looked at the ledgers spread out on the table. But first I must make some sense of Murdach’s chicken scratch.

With a sigh, he placed a quill and inkwell on the table and sat in his upholstered chair. He spread a sheet of vellum to his right, opened a ledger and began to record sums, listing them in an orderly fashion as he deciphered the random splotches of ink made by his factor.

Two pages in, Sean had no doubt Murdach was blind. That’s bloody wonderful—how the devil hadn’t Da noticed all the errors?

A breeze blew in from the window and mussed the parchment. Sean glanced toward the sound of the roaring sea. Oh to be shed of responsibility and walking along the shore at sunset. Holding Gyllis’s hand. Warmth spread through him. Paralysis? I want to be the one massaging her thighs, not some recalcitrant monk.

But will she accept my help? She told me to stay away. How can I possibly do that? I’ve cared for her since... He thought back to all the times he and Gyllis had danced or talked or shared a meal together during his fostering. I’ve been such a dolt all these years. I should have asked her father for her hand whilst he was still alive. If only I’d had the sense to do so.

And now she’s…

He shook his head and stopped himself.

Ballocks. I need to see her.

After inking his quill, he calculated the sum of his figures. He then compared it to the balance written on the ledger. Short by five crowns.

The hour was growing late, but he couldn’t rest before he rechecked the numbers. After deciphering Murdach’s entries a second time, Sean again came up with a five-crown shortfall. It wasn’t a huge amount in comparison to his vast holdings, but over the course of a year, such losses would add up. He rested the quill in the silver holder and reached for his whisky.

Shall I confront Murdach first thing in the morning or head to the priory to see Gyllis? His mind made up, Sean closed the ledgers, rolled the vellum of sums and secured it inside his doublet.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TEN

If there was anything Sean hated, it was waiting. How difficult was it for a priest to announce his arrival? Was Gyllis having a bath? He continued pacing. If John doesn’t return by the count of ten, I shall go looking for him—or Gyllis, whomever I find first.

When he reached nine, John stepped into the cloister, looking stern. “I’m sorry. Gyllis refuses to see you.”

“What?” Sean spread his arms to his sides. “I will not leave until I gain an audience with her. At the very least, she must give me a chance to explain why I hastened to away from the fete last May. I’d agreed to sit on her plaid, but before the feast I received word of my father’s death.”

Opening his arms, John strode toward him. “Is that why she’s so upset with you?”

“I can think of no other reason.”

John grasped the cross hanging around his neck. “I do not believe—”

Sean pushed past him and marched ahead. “Where is she?”

John hastened to keep pace. “She is vulnerable.”

“Do you not think I ken?” Sean barreled around the corner and opened the first door. “I’ll find her if I must open every door in the priory.”

John skirted in front of him. “Please. She needs more time—she’s incredibly frail.”

Sean again pushed past and flung open another door. “That is exactly why I must see her now.” Sean slammed it, grinding his back molars. “Damn it all, tell me where she is.”

John’s gaze shifted along the corridor to a door at the far end. “Perhaps I could deliver a missive on your behalf.”

Sean turned in the direction of John’s stare. “There’s no time for that.” He strode directly to the door at the end.

“Please.” The priest scuffled after him. “I have parchment and a quill in my quarters.”

Sean ignored John’s plea and yanked open the door.

Gyllis gasped, her eyes horrorstruck, she clapped a hand over her mouth. A monk had her skirts up around her thighs, his fingers clear up to her…

“Unhand her!”

Shoving her kirtle down, Gyllis scooted back.

Sean grabbed the lecherous monk by his collar and yanked him up. Before the man could raise his arms, Sean slammed his fist into the sniveling maggot’s pasty face. With a high-pitched wail, the monk toppled to the floor. Sean advanced.

“No!” Gyllis shrieked.

John darted between Sean and the monk, seizing Sean’s shoulders. “Have you lost your mind?”

Enraged, Sean broke from John’s grasp. “Did you not see him? He had her skirts hiked up so far I could see—”

“Miss Gyllis requires stimulating massage several times per day. I assure you, Brother Wesley has taken an oath of celibacy.”

Sean glanced at the monk now sitting on the floor, rubbing his jaw.

“Are you all right, brother?” Gyllis asked.

The monk nodded. “Aye.” He stood, giving Sean a wide berth.

“How could you barge into my chamber and accost a man of the cloth?” Gyllis moved slowly, but folded her arms, her face redder than a boiled lobster.

“Apologies, Miss Gyllis.” Sean couldn’t have made things any worse with his bravado, storming into her chamber like a jealous cur. “I did not think.”

Gyllis pursed her lips—God, her face was still as lovely as sunrise. “No, you did not.”

“Miss Gyllis, please,” Sean pleaded. “Allow me a moment of your time, ’tis all I ask.”

John grasped Sean’s elbow and squeezed. “If I must resort to force to make you leave, I will.”

If anyone in this God-forsaken priory could pose a challenge, it was John Campbell. He’d been a damned good knight before he became a priest, but Sean doubted he’d sparred much as of late. He steeled himself for a fight.

“I will hear him.” Gyllis held up a trembling hand. “Leave us.” She looked to John. “Brother Wesley will be standing directly outside the door should I require his assistance.”

Sean tried not to grin.

The bumbling monk, bowed. “Very well, Miss Gyllis. We can keep the door ajar if you wish.”

Gyllis met Sean’s gaze and then looked down as if she were embarrassed. “That should not be necessary.” The high color in her cheeks betrayed her unease.

“A quarter hour. ’Tis all I will allow—even for you,” John said. “And the door shall remain ajar.”

“My thanks.” Sean ushered the two holy men out of the small cell and pushed the door until only a sliver of light shone through. When he turned to face Gyllis, he swallowed, completely at a loss for words. “Uh.” He shifted his feet. God, her face was aglow with fury—and something pained. He guessed he’d hurt her deeply by not sending his regrets at Beltane.

She inclined her head toward the stool. “Will you sit? Looking up at you is making my neck sore.”

She obviously had no intention of making things easy for him. But moving toward the seat gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. He may as well start from where they’d left things in May. “Were you aware my father passed?”

Slowly, she covered her mouth with her dainty hand. “Oh my, I hadn’t heard. When?”

“Beltane. My kin were waiting with the news at the footrace finish line.”

Her delicate eyebrows drew together. “Your kin?”

“Aye, Jinny the healer and her husband, Angus.”

Her hand slid to her cheek. “The woman you embraced is married?”

Sean bit the corner of his lip and grimaced. “You saw that, too?”

“Aye.” Gyllis blushed scarlet. “After Alan slashed you with the blade, I hastened from the curtain wall to see if I could be of assistance.” She cringed. “When I found you in another woman’s arms…I…I…” She blinked in rapid succession. “And then you didn’t come to the feast nor did you send word.”

He reached out and held his hand steady for a moment, then took a chance and grasped her palm. Her fingers were cold. “I must ask your forgiveness. I was distraught with the news. Then things fell into mayhem and I was gallivanting around the countryside chasing after thieves and visiting crofters to ensure their loyalty.”

She stared at their interlaced fingers. “It sounds as if you’ve had a difficult time.”

Touching her calmed the thrumming beneath his skin. “Nowhere near as troublesome as things have been for you.”

Gyllis tugged her hand away and rubbed it, refusing to meet his gaze.

Sean’s fingers throbbed where her hand had been. He wanted to reclaim it and declare his undying love, but that would be nonsensical. If only he could pull her into his arms and make her well again. “I want to help you.”

She smirked. “What on earth do you think you can do that the monks have not already attempted?”

He didn’t have an answer. “What treatments have they tried?”

“Massage mostly, and tinctures that never seem to work.”

“But your hands have more dexterity than since I last saw you. What about your legs?”

She harrumphed. “No good whatsoever. I still cannot take a step without falling.”

“Can you stand?”

“For a moment.”

“’Tis a good sign.”

She looked up. “How do you ken?” The pain in her moss-green eyes was unmistakable.

Sean’s heart squeezed. He was no healer. “I just do. Besides, you promised me dancing lessons.”

“Please.” She covered her face with her hands, her long tresses dropping forward. “You are completely daft if you think I shall ever be able to dance again.”

“Pardon me for being so bold to think you will.” Sean scooted the bench away and kneeled before her. Again he grasped her hand and rubbed it between his warm palms. “Are your hands always this cold?”

“I suppose, aye.”

“Please allow me to warm them.” The corner of his mouth ticked up.

Using her shoulder, she shyly moved a lock of hair from her face. Though the gesture was innocent, it was unbelievably seductive. Had she not appeared so frail, he would have wrapped her in his arms and kissed her lips—ravished them as he’d done in the garden at Beltane.

Moistening his lips, he lifted her hand and kissed it. Her scent’s more heavenly than a field of heather. “If it would bring you a modicum of comfort, Miss Gyllis, it would be an honor to see you again.”

She held his gaze for a moment, her bottom lip slipping beneath her top teeth. “Please do not tease me.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “I would never do anything of the sort.”

“You are a chieftain now. You said yourself you’ve a great many affairs to attend. The last person you should concern yourself with is a silly cripple.”

A lump took up residence in his chest. “Do not say that. You are as beautiful today as you were at the festival.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held fast.

“I want to see you again. Will you please allow it?”

She drew in a sharp inhale and hesitated for a long moment. “Aye,” she whispered.

Sean could have picked her up and swung her in a circle. “Thank you.” Restraining his exuberance, he kissed her hand again rather than risk breaking her bones. “Now, would you like to show me how you stand?”

Cringing, she leaned away. “Oh no, it would cause too much embarrassment.”

That damned lump stretched over his heart again. “Why? Are you afraid I will laugh?”

“Nay.” She looked down.

He lifted her chin with the crook of his finger until her lovely green eyes met his. Ah yes, the irises were still circled with navy blue. He could lose himself in those eyes forever. “Then why?”

“I am afraid you will never come back.” Her voice trembled.

Without thought he slid his hands to her shoulders. “Ah, Miss Gyllis. Nothing could keep me away. Spending time with you is as natural as breathing.” He kissed the top of her head.

“Honestly?” She focused her gaze on his chest.

“Aye. I love you. Always have.” He heard the words bubble from his mouth before his mind realized what he’d said. Sean’s tongue went dry. He did love Gyllis. He’d just never admitted it to himself.

Before she looked up, she gasped.

When her gaze met his, her eyes were filled with life. They were as bright and clear as they’d been when he’d watched her dance at Beltane. “You’d best not be teasing a poor, crippled lass, Sir Sean MacDougall.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The following morning, Sean sat in his solar with Murdach and Angus, but he looked directly at the factor. “Please explain how five crowns went missing from your figures.”

Holding his palms out, Murdach appeared to be completely flummoxed. “Five crowns, m’laird? Are you certain?”

Sean snatched the ledger and slapped in down in front of the fool. “Aye I’m bloody certain. I lost a good amount of sleep over it as well.”

Murdach looked across the table at Angus. Blast it, Sean could have sworn the pair was in collusion.

He shoved back his chair and paced in front of the hearth. “Ballocks! You are two of my most trusted men.”

“We’ve done nothing to incite your ire, m’laird,” said Angus.

Sean whipped around and slapped his palms on the table. “No? Why are both of you sending silent messages across the table at one another?”

Angus sat back and shook his head. “We are doing no such thing.”

“Then where are my five crowns? How long has this been going on? Must I call in others to replace you?” He’d already decided to ask Angus to retire when Fraser returned. Murdach as well—the man could scarcely see past his nose.

“This was my fault. Do not blame Angus,” Murdach said. “I must have made a recording error. Please, if you must punish someone I am guilty as charged.”

Sean threw up his hands. “How long were you my father’s factor?”

“Near thirty years, m’laird.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Eight and fifty.”

Sean resumed his pacing, this time gripping his hands behind his back. “You provided satisfactory service to my father for thirty years?”

“Aye.”

“And how often did he catch your errors?”

“Rarely.” The man scratched his chin. “As a matter of fact, I do not believe he ever complained of errors or my loyalty.”

Most likely because he couldn’t read a damn thing you scrawled on a sheet of parchment. Sean waved a hand in front of Murdach’s face. “How is your eyesight?”

The factor grasped the lapels of his doublet, perspiration beading above his lip. “Not as good as it once was, but I still manage.”

Sean sat in his chair and groaned. “I have decided ’tis time for you to retire.”

“But sir—”

Sean held up a hand. “I’ve made my decision. You will receive a pension and continue to live out your days in the cottage with your missus.”

Murdach stared across the table at Angus, a frown pulling down his jowls. “As you wish, m’laird.”

Sean regarded his henchman who should be seeking retirement as well. However, with Fraser away, it was best to leave things with Angus alone for the time being.

A rap came at the door. “A missive from the Lord of Lorn, m’laird.”

Sean eyed the two men. “I’ll return momentarily.” He crossed the floor and opened the door. Stepping into the passageway, he accepted the note. “Thank you,” he said rather loudly. “Come with me whilst I fetch that for him.”

The messenger looked puzzled, but Sean grasped him by the elbow and inclined his head toward the man’s ear. “This way.”

He clomped his feet on the floorboards, making a show of walking toward the stairwell, then released the messenger’s arm and whispered, “Go to the kitchens and get something to eat. I shall prepare Lorn a reply anon.”

“Very well, sir.”

Sean quietly returned to the solar and stood outside the door. He opened the missive from Lorn. King James had given consent and the wedding was still on track for autumn—fortunately news which didn’t require Sean’s immediate attention.

“You should tell him,” Angus’s deep voice rumbled through the wall.

“But that is not what Alan declared.”

Sean held his breath. Alan?

“I cannot renege on his final request,” Murdach continued.

Sean released a whoosh of air. At first he’d thought they were referring to MacCoul, but his father’s name had been Alan as well. He leaned closer to the door.

“Aye, but he cannot run his affairs from the grave,” Angus argued.

“If he’d set aside a provision, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Well, if ’tis a case between proving my loyalty and support for the living and honor for the dead, I’ll choose the living. Sir Sean deserves our fealty now.”

“You are right as always, Angus.”

“Then we’re agreed. Regardless of what the chieftain requested from his deathbed, it stops today.”

“Aye.”

Sean leaned against the wall. He could hang them both for what he’d just heard. But then they had been acting upon a promise to his father—something Da wanted to keep hidden. Whatever it was, they had called an end to it. Content that the men within his chamber were not trying to swindle him, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Angus and Murdach looked up expectantly. What Sean had earlier interpreted as collusion now looked like faces torn. He hoped to God his hunch was right.

He grinned and strode to the sideboard. “I believe we should toast to Murdach’s retirement.”

***

Gyllis studied Brother Wesley while he circled his knuckles into her calf. “Have you taken a vow of silence in the past few days?”

He looked at her with pinched brows and shook his head.

“You’ve scarcely said a word since Sir Sean was here.”

“Have I not?” He set her leg down and started on the other.

Gyllis cringed. Had she been insensitive? After all, Sean did give him a good wallop. “How is your jaw?”

He opened his mouth and stretched it to the side. “’Tis coming good.”

“I am sorry he hit you.”

Brother Wesley grumbled, “As am I.”

“Honestly, Sir Sean MacDougall is a nice man. He never would have struck out if he hadn’t thought I was in danger.”

“It might save him some trouble if he learned to ask questions before he started swinging his fists.”

Gyllis smoothed her hands over her kirtle. “You abhor violence, do you not?”

“Aye, ’tis why I joined the order.”

“I shall ask Sir Sean to apologize as soon as he returns.”

“If he comes again.” Wesley stopped rubbing. “Besides, there is no need. As you said, he thought he was protecting you.”

When Gyllis looked into the monk’s troubled eyes, she could tell the topic of Sir Sean did not sit well with him. “You should forgive him.”

“I have. ’Tis a vice to hold a grudge.”

Gyllis folded her hands. “But I sense you do not care to talk about him.”

“’Tis because he likes you.”

She laughed. Sean loved her, and thinking about it had tickled her insides with joy for the past few days. Though she wasn’t about to lose her head over it. She had no doubt he loved her as a fostered sister—but still it was enough to make her heart soar. “Is that such a bad thing?”

Wesley grew quiet again. He pulled down her skirts and patted her knee. “I should prepare for vespers.”

“But I haven’t practiced walking yet today.”

“Perhaps we can do that on the morrow.” He stood and bowed. “If you will excuse me.”

Gyllis watched the monk take his leave. It didn’t take a seer to discern something bothered him and she had no doubt it had everything to do with Sir Sean. She couldn’t understand Brother Wesley’s recalcitrance. Since the young chieftain’s visit, she’d actually been happy. She’d also made marked progress. Presently she could stand on her own without wobbling and, if she leaned on Brother Wesley’s hands, she could take a step.

Gyllis was so close to being able to walk, she was anxious to keep practicing. She flexed her feet, yet another thing she’d recently been able to accomplish. She leaned forward and placed her hands on the stool. Perhaps if she supported herself on it, she could practice walking around it and wouldn’t fall. If she wasn’t careful, she could end up on the floor in her chamber alone for hours.

She placed her feet flush with the floor and took her weight on her hands. Once sure she was balanced, she sidestepped. She closed her eyes and pretended she was dancing. Step together, step together around the stool.

After she’d made two circles, she grew more confident. With an inhale, she released her grip and straightened. Her knees quivered a bit. She held out her hands to gain balance and stood still for a moment. She sidestepped just as she’d done when holding onto the stool. Drawing her feet together, she decided she could do it again. Taking the smallest of steps, Gyllis managed to make it completely around the stool without falling. She clapped her hands and squealed with delight.

Excited to do more, she boldly stepped away from the stool. Her knee buckled. With her heart flying to her throat, Gyllis flung her hands forward to break her fall. Collapsed in a heap on the floor, she waited for the pain to come. When it didn’t, she moved her arms and rolled to her bottom. She straightened her right leg, then the left. She chuckled—thank heavens she wasn’t hurt in the slightest.

But the best thing? She had actually shuffled her feet around the stool without help.

Gyllis threw back her head and laughed out loud. Her skin tingled, her belly muscles tightened and she laughed some more. Heavens, it was good to laugh for a change. She’d done so much crying since she’d arrived, Gyllis never thought she’d find the will to laugh again.

She covered her mouth with a gasp when the door swung open.

Before she could blink, Sean dashed inside and scooped her into his arms. “My God, Miss Gyllis. Are you hurt?”

She sucked in a few stuttered breaths. “I-I am quite well. Just had a wee tumble.” After he set her on the bed, she grinned broadly. “I took my first unassisted steps today. The only problem is no one was here to see me.”

“Wonderful news…but you shouldn’t have been so bold without someone to assist you.”

She jutted out her bottom lip. “Please, since I arrived a monk has had to help me with every bodily purpose imaginable. I stepped around the stool on my own.”

“That is exciting to hear.” He sat beside her and clasped her hand. “’Tis quite an impressive feat. You shall soon be dancing.”

The touch of his rugged fingers made her blood rush hot beneath her skin. “I imagined myself dancing around the stool.” Gyllis couldn’t stop smiling.

Sean smiled back. Bless it, he was handsome. His eyes sparkled with the ray of light beaming from the window. He’d combed his dark locks away from his face and his chin was shaved clean. Gyllis brushed her fingers along it.

His eyes grew dark, intense. He moistened his lips with a slow lap of his tongue. “I shaved close this morn.”

She looked closer—not a hint of dark stubble. “I do not believe I can remember ever seeing your chin so smooth.” Or your lips so kissable. Sean’s upper lip was slightly fuller than his lower. But together they reminded her of a ship with two sails—a very sensuous ship that perhaps might take them away to a place where paralysis did not exist.

He grinned—a lazy grin that made her desire a wee kiss all the more. “I took extra care with the sharpening leather.”

Raising her chin, she pursed her lips.

But rather than kiss her, Sean stood and paraded in a grand circle, his arm stretching out before him. Finishing the turn he bowed deeply. “May I have this dance?”

She covered her mouth and giggled. “I said I scooted around a stool, silly.”

He straightened and stepped closer. “In my arms you shall not falter, m’lady.”

Gyllis blinked. “You mean to—”

Before she could finish, he swept her into his embrace and swung her in a circle. Sean’s melodic voice hummed a bard’s ballad as he swayed. Gyllis latched her arms around his neck and held as tightly as she could. Mm. He smelled of cedar and spice.

After her initial shock, Gyllis relaxed into him, closed her eyes and smiled. The way her body pressed against his was scandalous, but who would know? His powerful arms supporting her made her bubble inside.

She laughed and laughed while he swayed and twirled her in circles until her head swooned. “My, I’m dizzy.”

He stopped turning when they reached the wall. “Then we must promenade.” He hummed a slower tune and when he stepped forward, his thigh moved hers back. A tingling sensation swirled up her leg and intensified in her nether parts. How she wished she could wrap her legs around his body and cling to him throughout eternity.

Stopping in the center of the room, he stood still, gazing down at her face. His expression had grown serious, hungry.

“Why did you stop?” Gyllis whispered, breathless.

“I-I do not remember the rest of the tune.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a beautiful singing voice?”

Sean didn’t say a word, the look of hunger intensified in his eyes. He lowered his lashes and shifted his gaze to her lips. Gyllis’s heart thundered so forcefully, she was sure it was pummeling Sean’s chest right through her bodice. Ever so slowly he inclined his head.

Please, kiss me now.

Gyllis lifted her chin and met him halfway. His lips parted with a quick inhale of air. Blinking, his gaze dipped to her mouth. Her entire body came alive with swirling want. With one more quick lick of his lips, he covered her mouth with bone-melting fervor. The intensity and passion behind his kiss sent her mind whirling in a cyclone of rapture. She closed her eyes and melted into him. Aye, kissing at the Beltane festival had been amazing, but now Sean ravished her mouth with unexpected hunger. Together with his woodsy scent, Gyllis’s entire body ignited with fire. She returned his smoldering kiss with vigor. Thank the heavens her tongue had not been affected by paralysis.

When he paused, he drew in a ragged breath. “Forgive me. I must not take advantage.”

The door swung open. “What, in the name of all that is holy, are you doing with my sister in your arms?”

Holding her tight, Sean spun around and faced the prior. “John.” His voice cracked. “’Tis good to see you.”

John hastened inside and shut the door. “I wish I could say the same.”

“We were dancing,” Gyllis explained.

Sean assisted her to ease onto the bed. “Apologies. I took liberties.”

John scowled. “I ought to—”

Gyllis held up her palms. “We must have been overcome. I walked all by myself today, a-and Sir Sean and I danced to celebrate my success.”

John glared at Sean. “You danced?”

Sean nodded. “Aye.”

“He supported me in his arms was all.” And he kissed me. She brushed her fingers across her lips. The most wonderful kiss imaginable.

John shifted his glare to Gyllis. “What would Duncan and Ma say if they knew Sean MacDougall had been unchaperoned in this cell with you in his arms?”

Gyllis sat erect and raised her chin. “Pardon me, but there’s no need to tell them anything except that I’m making progress.”

Sean folded his arms. “John is right, ’tis not proper for me to attend you in your cell. Upon my next visit we should converse in the gardens.”

Gyllis clapped a hand over her heart. Sean is coming back! “I hope you will return soon.”

He smiled, the warmth of his grin making her heart flutter all the more. “Things at Dunollie require my attention, but I plan to visit two days hence.”

John opened the door. “I shall see you out.”

“Very well.” Sean grasped Gyllis’s hand and pressed pillow-soft lips against it. “I’ll see you soon.”

“And I will await your return with rapt anticipation, Sir Sean.”

Gyllis watched him until the door closed. With a loud sigh, she clapped her hands to her chest. Perhaps God had intended for her to contract paralysis.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the following week, Sean visited Gyllis every morning. Riding his horse at a fast trot, he easily traversed the six miles to Ardchattan Priory in under an hour. Today he was especially excited to see the bonny lass because he had something to give her.

When he arrived, Gyllis was in the courtyard working with Brother Wesley. Seated on the bench, the monk held her hands and helped her stand. When he nodded, she sat.

Deep down, Sean was glad he’d hit the monk the first time he’d seen him. Brother Wesley may have taken an oath of celibacy, but he was a man all the same. He was completely unable to hide his adoration for Gyllis, and the piss-swilling swine fed his lust by having his hands all over her limbs throughout each day. John considered it improper for Sean to be alone with Gyllis? He should take a look at his own men and deem the same.

“Sir Sean, I am surprised to see you this day.” Gyllis beamed radiantly as always.

Sean shifted his angry stare from Brother Wesley and smiled at Gyllis. He held up the crutches in his hand. “I commissioned the carpenter to fashion these for you. When I arrived home yesterday, they were awaiting me.” He placed them under his arm, took her hand and kissed it. “I could not wait until the morrow to see you use them.”

She blessed him with a delightfully dimpled grin. “How so very kind of you.”

Brother Wesley cleared his throat. “I was planning to make you a pair myself.” He eyed her and held up his finger. “When you are ready, Miss Gyllis.”

Sean arched an eyebrow at the errant monk. “I believe the lass is ready now.”

“I think not.” Wesley shook his head, black curls jostling. “’Tis still too soon.”

“And what makes you an expert on the matter?” Sean tapped his foot.

The little monk managed to draw upon enough cods to puff out his chest. “I’ll tell you, Miss Gyllis is the second patient with paralysis I’ve tended, and—”

“Enough.” Gyllis reached out for the crutches. “I want to try them.”

Sean shouldered past the monk and held the pegs out to her.

The sext bell rang.

“You’d best go pray,” Sean said over his shoulder.

Brother Wesley pressed his palms together. “If she falls, it will be on your conscience.”

“That it will.” Sean returned his attention to Gyllis and grinned. “Are you ready?”

“Aye.” She batted her eyelashes. “But you weren’t very nice to Brother Wesley.”

“Nay? Well, how would you like it if a nun had her hands all over me day and night?”

“Oh, please. ’Tis not like that.”

“You think not? I ken a lustful man when I see one.”

Gyllis glanced back toward the church. “Honestly?”

“Aye.” Sean balanced the crutches. “Come, grasp the posts and see if you can pull yourself up.”

She bit her bottom lip and looked at the crutches like she was about to mount an untrained horse. Wrapping her fingers around them, she launched her body forward and up. Sean’s arms quivered a tad while he held the pegs steady.

Once Gyllis had gained her balance, he nodded to the armrests. “Now slide them under your arms.”

When they were properly in place, she blew out a breath.

“How do they feel?” he asked.

“Good.”

He gestured forward. “Well then, give it a try.”

The look on her face reminded him of a young lad concentrating on firing a bow and arrow for the first time, but she moved the crutches forward and shuffled up to them. Then she chuckled, a rapt grin spreading across her face. Sean stepped back to encourage her to do more.

In no time, she had moved a quarter of the way across the courtyard.

He hastened beside her. “You’re doing well.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to use these to gain a modicum of freedom?”

“Aye.” She took in a deep breath. “But I’ve grown tired so quickly.”

Sean pointed to the bench. “Can you make it back?”

She nodded and awkwardly crisscrossed the crutches until she had herself turned around. Sean resisted his urge to help, but he followed her with his hands out, ready to catch her at any moment. When Gyllis arrived at the bench, he placed his arm around her waist to give support and helped her sit. He leaned in and inhaled the scent of heaven and heather. He squeezed his arm a little tighter, savoring her supple hip as it molded against his.

“Goodness,” she chuckled.

Pushing away his lustful urges, he sat beside her and crossed his legs. “I think you did quite well for your first try.”

She rubbed under her arms. “It might take me a while to get used to them.”

“Did they cause you pain?”

“A wee bit under my arms.”

He held up a crutch and examined the wooden armrest. “I’d bet we could sew some sheep’s wool around these and make them a mite more comfortable.”

She ran her hand over the hickory. “No need to bother. The carpenter has done a fine job of sanding them smooth.”

“I like to bother—and nothing gives me more pleasure than watching you battle to overcome your illness. I’ll take these with me and they’ll have a cushion of wool when I next return.”

A blush blossomed across her cheeks. “My thanks. You are ever so kind.”

Sean ran his finger over her skin. “Rose petals.” He used the crook of his finger to turn her head to face him. “The problem with the priory is there is no privacy.”

She inhaled a stuttered breath. “I think ’tis designed that way.”

After placing his hands on her shoulders, he glanced left, right and then focused on her lips. “Presently they’re all praying.” His voice trailed off.

Her pink tongue snuck out and moistened her lips. “How fortuitous.” As she pronounced the words, her lips reminded him of rosebuds, better yet, she smelled more heavenly than a basin filled with petals.

Inclining his head, he could no sooner resist those roses than he could stop breathing. She raised her chin, enticing him further—begging him to steal a wee kiss. So fierce the memory of her passion when he last kissed her, his blood thrummed with fire. Closing the distance, he first plied her mouth gently, slipping his tongue inside and tasting her sweetness. Her fingers slid around his neck and drew him ever closer. Then her gentle moan rumbled through his body. Hot and raw, he could never totally control himself when within Gyllis’s arms.

Exploring the silky smooth recesses of her mouth, his entire body craved her, could have devoured her. He cared not if they were on holy ground. The desire flooding his senses was nothing if not sacred. He clutched his arms around her, afraid to let go. God, he wanted to hold her forever—protect her from all the evils of the world.

Heaven help him, he could have lost Gyllis without even being aware of her illness. It was only by a stroke of luck when Lorn had asked him to meet at Ardchattan Priory. Never again did he want to see her sick and in pain. He would do anything to keep the lass safe for the rest of their days.

She pulled back and stared into his eyes. Oh, how Gyllis could control him with her sultry stare, especially when her lips were rouged from a passionate kiss. “What will happen…?” She looked away.

He circled his hand on her back. “Is something weighing on you, lass?”

She shook her head. “I cannot say it.”

“Please. How can I know what is troubling you until you speak your mind?”

She bit her bottom lip and exhaled. “What will happen when I return to Kilchurn Castle?” She placed her hand over his heart. “What will happen to us?”

“Nothing will change—but that day is far off.”

“I am not so certain. John thinks I’ll be able to return home soon, especially if Mother puts my bed in the first floor solar.”

Sean didn’t care for that idea. She’d be further away from Dunollie and then he would have Duncan’s ire to contend with. “I shall speak to John about insuring you’re fully capable of climbing stairs. The solar? ’Tis no place for a highborn lass to sleep. And after dark there are drunken guardsmen everywhere below stairs.”

The doors to the chapel creaked open and the resounding chant from the processing monks filled the courtyard. Sean slid his hands to Gyllis’s shoulders. Closing his eyes, he inhaled her sweet scent once more while placing a tender kiss upon her forehead.

***

Sean left the priory later than he’d intended, something which was becoming a habit. Too many things demanded his attention at Dunollie, yet he continually found excuses to visit Gyllis.

He’d ridden about halfway to the castle when prickles at the back of his neck told him he wasn’t alone. Over the years Sean had developed an uncanny sense, one respected and valued by Duncan and the Highland Enforcers. He’d tracked and eluded many men in his past. Easing off on the reins, he cocked his head and listened. Damn, they were close—riding through the trees off to the right. He palmed his dirk while glancing over his shoulder. A flicker of metal caught the sunlight.

Too close. My senses must be addled.

Sean dug in his heels, spurring his warhorse into a gallop. From the pummeling of the earth behind, at least four outlaws made chase. He pulled on the reins slightly—just enough to give the leader a chance to gain some ground.

Peering over his shoulder, the blackguard wore a great helm covering his entire head, as did the bastard behind him.

Too cowardly to show their faces.

Sean listened and from the corner of his eye, he watched as he allowed the leader to approach. As the man reached Sean’s shoulder, the Chieftain of Dunollie threw a backhand with his dirk. Grunting, the outlaw shirked from the blade and swung a mace. Sean jerked aside, but not far enough. The spike on the iron ball caught Sean’s upper arm, knocking him aside. He squeezed his legs around his horse’s barrel, latched his fingers under his pommel and pulled himself up. His arm throbbed, but he had no time to think of pain.

Still holding the knife, he countered with an undercut and knocked the helm from the scoundrel’s head. The man gaped, blood running down his cheek where the dirk had slashed.

Sean recognized the face and his gut squeezed.

Hoof beats thundered. The others had gained ground. Sean dug in his heels with a bellow. Faster than a Highland wildcat, his stallion launched into a thundering gallop. Relentless, Sean urged his horse faster while the beast took in steady snorts of air through enormous nostrils. When they cleared the forest, Sean glanced behind. The brigands had dropped speed—smart enough to know if they chased him all the way to Dunollie, they’d be dead men for certain.

Haste, you bastards.

He slowed his horse to a canter as the castle loomed on the horizon. He’d seen the outlaw before, and by the shocked expression when he exposed the brigand’s face, Sean had no doubt the man knew who he was—perhaps even feared him. Sean rifled through his memory—yes, he’d seen that ugly face at Beltane. He was one of the bastards who’d attacked him during the footrace. The man wasn’t a MacDougall and Sean hadn’t recalled seeing him in Lorn’s retinue a few sennights past. Was the ugly boar a Campbell? He didn’t want to come to conclusions, but needed to find out what the hell was afoot. Were these petty thieves, or was something more sinister stirring?

Clomping across the wooden bridge, he raced his mount through the barbican gates and rode straight to the keep.

Angus met him with a groom on his heels. “What the devil, m’laird? You rode in here like you were being chased by Satan.”

Sean dismounted and glared at him. “Perhaps I was.”

Angus gaped at the blood dripping from Sean’s sleeve. “Lord Almighty, what happened to your arm?”

Sean handed the reins to the groom. “A sniveling maggot and his helmed accomplices thought they’d bludgeon me with a mace.”

Angus examined Sean’s arm, his shirt thick with blood. “I’ll bring Jinny up to you at once.”

“Nay. First send out the guard to track the bastards—they attacked two miles from here on the path to Ardchattan Priory.”

“Ardchattan? Is that where you’ve been off to?”

“Bloody hell, you’re worse than an old woman.” Sean dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. “Send the men after them before the trail grows cold.”

Once inside his chamber, Sean strode directly to the table and poured himself a cup of whisky. He tossed back a gulp and waited until the fire flowed down his gullet and pooled in his empty stomach. It took only a moment for the calming spirit to spread through his blood. He yanked his shirt off and examined the gash in his arm. The cut was jagged and a purple bruise swelled around it.

I’ll send every last one of them to hell.

As master of Dunollie lands, it was Sean’s responsibility to ensure the safety of his clan—a responsibility that had taken second place as of late—a folly. He’d been spending too much time doting over Gyllis. Worse, every time he went to the priory, he ended up staying far longer than he planned. He was a chieftain, damn it all.

He took another sip of whisky and winced. By God, he needed to stop acting like a lovesick fool. Aye, he’d win Gyllis’s hand in time, but he could no longer shirk his duties. He crossed to the ewer and bowl and poured in water. Splashing water over the gash, he hissed at the stinging burn.

I must limit my visits to Ardchattan to Sundays and Wednesdays. He reached for a drying cloth and clamped it over his arm. He hated the thought of waiting to see her. At least today was Friday. He need only make it through tomorrow and he could again be with the lassie. If only I could meet with her alone.

“M’laird?” A rap came at the door.

“Come.”

Jinny bustled into the chamber with Angus on her heels. “I came as soon as I received word.” She set her basket on the table and gestured to a chair. “You’d best sit and let me have a look.”

Sean frowned at Angus. “Is the guard away?”

“Yes, m’laird.”

“Why are you not with them?”

“I felt it best to bring Jinny up here to tend your wound.” He peered around for a look. “Good Lord, we must bandage that straight away.”

“Aye.” Jinny placed her fingers on either side of the cut and cringed. “’Tis a nasty gash. We’d best put some leeches on it while you’re still bleeding. Then I’ll have to sew you up.”

Sean took another draw on his whisky. “Do what you must. I’ve no time to be waylaid by a wound of the flesh.”

Angus grumbled under his breath. “Do you ken who attacked?”

“Nay. They wore bucket helms. I managed to knock one off—thought I recognized the brigand from the fete—one of the snakes who attacked me during the footrace.”

The man-at-arms combed his fingers through his unruly grey hair. “You mustn’t keep leaving without a guard. ’Tis dangerous for any man, especially a man of property such as yourself.”

Sean didn’t care to be lectured by someone who’d been withholding secrets. “And whom do you think attacked me?”

“I’ve no idea, m’laird.”

“Nay? For all I know you had a hand in it.”

Jinny stopped with a leech held in her fingers. “Angus would never do anything—”

“What are you saying?” Angus held up his hand to stifle Jinny’s rebuttal. “Are you accusing me?”

“I heard you talking to Murdach in my solar. I ken there was no error when my coin went missing.” Sean batted Jinny’s hand away. “I ken an ugly deception has taken root under my own roof.”

Angus stammered and spread his palms.

Sean stood. “Tell me I am wrong.”

The older man hung his head. “I made a promise to your father I would never reveal his secret.”

Sean smashed the cup of whisky and sent it flying into the hearth. “Bloody secrets!” he bellowed. “Are they what nearly got me killed?”

“N-no, m’laird.”

Sean drew his dirk. “My father had secrets that he could not relay to me, his only son?”

Angus pulled down his collar and offered his throat. “I made a promise to a dying man.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “His son has my fealty and I will gladly lay down my life for him, but I will not renege upon his father’s wishes.”

“Merciful Lord.” Jinny crossed herself while her voice trembled. “Please, m’laird.”

Sean watched the blue vein in Angus’s neck pulse. If he sliced his blade across it, the henchman would bleed out before his face hit the floor. “I will tolerate no backstabbing in my clan.”

“Nor will I, m’laird.”

Jinny tugged on Sean’s arm. “Please sit. You’ve had a terrible ordeal.”

“Quiet, woman.” Sean narrowed his eyes at Angus. “Because my father requested your silence upon his death bed, I shall make this one allowance. But moving forward, there must be no secrets between us. If I discover one more deception, you will be hanged, make no bones about it.”

Angus released his collar and bowed his head. “Yes, m’laird.”

Glancing between the two, Sean frowned and took his seat.

Without a word, Jinny applied the leeches while Angus stood at attention. Sean studied the man he’d known all his life. As before, he didn’t believe him a traitor, but something wasn’t right. By God, he would tolerate no deception within the clan. Sooner or later, someone would make a mistake. That’s when Sean would attack and heaven help anyone caught. They would not be long for this world.

Unrest twisted in his gut. He would not sit idle while the Dunollie guard chased his attackers. “Make haste, woman. Angus and I shall follow the guard at once.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gyllis was a tad disappointed when Sean didn’t pay a visit the next day. Brother Wesley had kindly propped her up on the pillows for the afternoon, where she leafed through John’s Bible. After having read her storybook a dozen times, she relented and gave in to her brother’s urging to read something to enrich her soul.

She looked up when her door opened, her stomach fluttering in hopes that it would be Sean, but Helen’s radiant smile brightened the cell. Gyllis put down her book and opened her arms. “Praise the heavens. I’d thought you’d forgotten me.”

Helen wrapped her in a warm embrace. “Not at all. Have you not received the missives we wrote?”

“Aye, I have, but ’tis not like seeing you.”

“I ken.” Helen sat on the stool beside the bed. “Unfortunately there aren’t any inns nearby, or I’d spend an entire sennight with you.”

Gyllis adjusted her shoulders so she wouldn’t have to twist her neck. “How long will you be able to stay?”

“Just the afternoon and Mother sent an entire army to escort me across Loch Etive and home again.”

Gyllis laughed. “At least you are in the company of a retinue of brawny knights.”

Helen twisted a lock of her dun hair around her finger—the color always reminded Gyllis of honey. “I suppose so.” She lowered her gaze along with her frown.

“Whatever is wrong?” Gyllis hadn’t seen that woeful visage on her sister’s face often.

“Nothing, really.” Helen smiled. “’Tis just Ma didn’t send any noble knights along—just the same old dreary guards from Kilchurn Castle.”

Gyllis laughed. “You mean Sir Eoin MacGregor isn’t with you?”

She unwound her hair. “Afraid not.”

“Why, how utterly heartless of him.”

Helen sighed. “Honestly, I haven’t seen Sir Eoin in some time.”

“Where has he been?”

“How should I know? No one tells us lassies anything.”

“Some things do not change.” Gyllis chuckled and placed her hand atop Helen’s. “My, ’tis good to see you.”

Helen smiled, but it wasn’t her usual sweet grin. It was guarded. “And how are you, my dearest?”

Gyllis bit her lip. Though she and Helen could always tell each other their deepest secrets, a tickle at the back of her mind told her not to talk about Sir Sean. Things were only beginning to blossom between them and, presently, she didn’t know if his attentions were because they had been dear friends and he felt sorry for her. Yes, she’d sensed his genuine fondness and delightful kisses, but things were so different now. She had an illness that very well could leave her a cripple for life. No man would ever want to marry a cripple. No. She would keep her meetings with Sir Sean to herself. She’d lock away any happiness that he imparted and, for the first time in her life, would refrain from thinking about the future.

She ventured to look at her legs, covered by a blanket. “I’ve gained a bit of use of my hands, but my legs are generally worthless.”

“That is awful.” Helen folded her hands in her lap. “Do you think the monk’s treatments are helping?”

“Gradually—but not fast enough for me.” Gyllis clapped. “I would prefer not to talk about me. How are things at home? Mother?”

“Mother is worried half to death about you, but recently she’s been busy running the keep. Duncan took Lady Meg to Edinburgh to spend midsummer at court with King James. It seems the king always requires something from our brother.”

“Aye, and his wife could no longer bear for them to be separated, I’m sure.”

“I’d agree. Being apart makes it rather difficult for them to produce…ah…more bairns.”

Gyllis burst out with laughter and cupped her hand over her mouth. “You do surprise me at times, Helen.”

“Well, ’tis the truth.” She smiled—now a warm, genuine smile. Gyllis realized all her sisters were rather pretty—funny she hadn’t thought much about it before. “Alice and Marion are the same, still at that age where they’re driving Mother mad with their silly remarks and back talking.”

“Aye, I remember when we were ten and six.” Gyllis chuckled. “We were hellions.”

“We were for certain. God bless Ma, she lived through it.” Helen glanced to the corner where John had rested the lute sennights ago. “Have you been playing?”

Gyllis held up her hands. “I’m afraid my fingers have not yet found the dexterity they once had.”

“Perhaps it would be soothing if I played for you?” Helen’s eyebrows raised, as if asking for permission.

“Please do.”

Easing into the pillows, Gyllis closed her eyes and listened to Helen’s magical fingers. Of all her sisters, Helen was definitely the most talented with the lute. She plucked the strings with such lithe grace, the music came alive. And when she sang, it was as if larks had joined together in a heavenly chorus. The music moved Gyllis, sent tingles up her spine. She had missed Helen’s company, though she wasn’t yet ready to return home. Besides being an invalid, she’d rarely see Sir Sean if she went back to Kilchurn Castle.

Mid-strum, John entered with Mevan, Kilchurn Castle’s man-at-arms. Helen rested the lute on the bed and greeted John with a warm embrace. After they’d exchanged pleasantries, John gestured to the guard. “’Tis time to away home. I’ve arranged for your transport to ferry you across Loch Etive giving Fearnoch Forest a wide berth.”

“Has something happened in the forest?” Gyllis asked.

John gave her a stern look as if she hadn’t the right to ask her question. The intensity in his eyes made her shoulders rigid. Something had happened for certain.

Helen bent down and embraced her. “Next time I’ll see if we can stay longer.”

Gyllis kept her eyes on John. “I’d like that.” She held her tongue until Helen’s footsteps echoed down the passageway. Thank heavens John didn’t leave her to fret alone in her cell. “Tell me what happened.”

“We received word of an outlaw attack in the forest.”

He was going to force her to draw it out of him, but she had to ask. The gooseflesh rising on her skin was warning enough. “Is Sir Sean all right?” Gyllis nearly choked on the words.

John let out a long breath. “He escaped with only minor injuries. The crier stopped by to warn us of the danger. Dunollie men are after the culprits now. If I ken Sir Sean MacDougall, they will be brought to justice before this week is through.” John pulled the latch.

“But—” Before she could finish, John closed the door. Gyllis stared for a moment, hating her damned legs. What on earth could she do to help? Balling her fists, she pounded her useless thighs. There she sat, incarcerated within the walls of a priory while Sean rode into unimaginable danger.

She smoothed her hand over the Bible in her lap and closed her eyes, offering a silent prayer for his well-being. What did John mean by minor injuries? And when would she see Sir Sean again? Please, dear God, watch over your servant Sean MacDougall, and lead him home to safety.

***

Sean wasn’t one to let a few stitches and a bruised arm set him back. Besides, spending a night tracking was what he needed to cement his priorities. He’d not taken the cattle thieving seriously enough and the brigands had the gall to attack him. It was the slap in the face he needed.

With the dawn, Sean and Angus lay on their bellies, staring down at the outlaw’s camp.

“Only four,” Angus said.

“If I’d just attacked the Chieftain of Dunollie, I’d be a bit less conspicuous,” Sean growled.

Obviously they didn’t expect retaliation. The bastards were sloppy. Nestled within a glen, their morning fire was like a beacon flickering through the light mist. For the past half mile, Sean could practically smell the roasting meat. The MacDougalls had them surrounded. All Sean needed do was give the signal. But he was more cautious than that. Were they stupid or were they luring Sean and his men into a trap?

Only four men. Regardless, they do not stand a chance.

Sean slid back and mounted his horse. Drawing his sword, he gave the signal by holding it straight up above his head. Bellows erupted from the men charging down the hillside. The bastards barely had time to draw their weapons and face the onslaught. Fifty to four were unbeatable odds.

Sean called a halt before the fighting began. “Throw down now.”

The leader faced him. “Throw down so you can run us through? I’d rather you gave me a fighting chance.”

Once again, he recognized the man’s face—aye, he was sure of it now. This was the same man who’d attacked him during the footrace. “I’d be running you through this day regardless.” Sean dismounted and Angus followed suit, sword at the ready.

The man’s gaze darted to the right. Sean followed that gaze, straight to a MacDougall guard—Gawen was his name. Sean gave the guard a stern stare to let him know he’d not missed the interchange, then he focused on his prisoner. “Why did you attack me in the forest?”

The scoundrel spread his palms and smirked. “I see a man with a horse as finely outfitted as yours and I ken he has some coin in his purse.”

The smug look on the bastard’s face made Sean’s blood boil. He closed his fist. With a roar, he slammed it across the animal’s face. The man careened to his arse, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. He swiped an arm across his lips and eyed Sean. With a bellow, he jumped up, brandishing his sword. Sean skittered aside and disarmed him. The laggard was no match for Sean’s years of training. The other mongrels dropped their weapons. A mangy lot of mutts they were. Sean yanked the bastard’s arm and spun him into a hold with his sword leveled against his neck.

“I’ll be paid my due respect the next time you address me,” Sean growled. “I’ve seen you afore. Now tell me why you attacked me during the footrace at Dunstaffnage.”

The man spat blood, squirming in a futile attempt to break free. “Don’t kill me.”

“I need to know. Why?”

“He paid us a crown.”

Sean pushed the blade until it drew blood. “Who?”

“Jesus Christ.” The man’s fear stank like a steaming pile of cow dung. “I don’t ken his name. Black hair—an ugly bastard—wore leather breeks.”

Sean nodded to Angus. “Tie them up. We’ll take them back to Dunollie and hang the lot at dawn on the morrow. Give them a chance to atone to the maker for all their evil deeds.”

“Please, m’laird, have mercy on a poor beggar,” the miserable leader whined.

Sean threw him to the ground. “Would you have been merciful had your mace knocked me from my mount last eve?” A guard wrapped a rope around the man’s wrists and Sean sheathed his weapon. “I think not.”

***

By the time the Dunollie guard arrived at the castle, the sun had set. As a warrior, Sean had gone days without sleep before, but his limbs were heavy with exhaustion. His shoulder throbbed—hurt like the devil. “Take the prisoners to the dungeon,” he bellowed, then he pulled Angus aside. “Do not allow Gawen anywhere near the prisoners. If he tries to visit the dungeon, throw him inside and he’ll hang with the others.”

“Gawen, m’laird?”

“You heard me.”

Pushing into the keep, he yelled louder, “Jinny, I need your salve and a flagon of whisky in my chamber. Now.”

He loosened his sword belt as he climbed the stairs. When in God’s name had he aged? He strode into his chamber and tossed his weapons on the bed. Life had been a mite easier before he’d become a chieftain. Chasing a mob of thieves provided good sport, but digging into the Dunollie coffers and acting the part of lord-high executioner soured his stomach.

Jinny dashed in with her basket. “Do not tell me you’ve torn your stitches, m’laird.”

“What would you do if I had?” He pulled off his doublet and shirt and sat in the chair in front of the hearth.

She set her basket on the table and crossed her arms. “Don’t you be patronizing me, m’laird. You may be lord of this keep, but ’tis my duty to see you do not succumb to the fever or worse.”

Groaning, Sean leaned back. “’Tis but a scratch, woman.”

“Aye? You should have let my Angus track down the brigands. Look at you, you’ve purple bags under your eyes,” she hissed. “Goodness, oh my goodness. Your shoulder is a sight.”

Sean glanced down at the swollen mass of purple flesh. “Quit your bellyaching and slap some salve on it—you ken, the concoction that eases the pain.”

She fished in her basket and pulled out a pot. “You need to rest your blessed shoulder.” She leaned forward and sniffed. “At least it is not putrid—yet.”

“Did you bring up the whisky?”

“Aye.” She swabbed on a glop of smelly goo.

“Well, are you planning to keep it to yourself? A man could die of thirst whilst you dawdle.”

She reached into her basket and pulled out a flagon. “Here, since you cannot wait.”

“You’re a good matron. A swipe of your ointment and a few strong tots of MacDougall whisky, and I’ll be fit to fight on the morrow.” He pulled the stopper and took a long drink.

“Bloody men,” Jinny whispered under her breath.

“Aye, that’s too right. Where would the lassies be without men to look after them?” The whisky hit his empty stomach and burned.

Jinny finished rubbing and examined her work. “You’re going to have a nasty scar.”

“Good.” He took another healthy swig. “The lassies like scars.”

“Oh do they now? I thought you might be done with your womanizing.” Jinny stoppered her pot. “And what about Miss Gyllis Campbell?”

Sean’s eyes flew open. “What about her?” If Jinny had been a man, Sean would have jumped to his feet, fists ready for a fight.

But Jinny chuckled. “Look at you, you big bear of a man. You’re smitten. You used to be quite free with the lassies, but I haven’t seen a one catch your eye in months.” The matron looked mighty proud of herself. “And I’d reckon all those trips to Ardchattan have had something to do with it.”

He grumbled into the flagon and drowned his next words. So what if he liked her? Christ, he’d already said he loved her. But did he love her like that? Sean glanced up at Jinny. The damned woman looked like she’d just swallowed the best plum duff ever made. “So? Gyllis needs me.” Her crutches were leaning against his clothing trunk with the sheepskin pads around the armrests. Thank God something was working as it should.

“Aye?” Jinny didn’t let it rest. “And how is she recuperating? You ken, some folks are never the same again after a bout of paralysis.”

“Gyllis will come good, mark me.” He flicked his hand toward the door. “Off with you now.”

***

The next morning, Sean couldn’t say what throbbed more, his head or his blasted shoulder. But he wasn’t about to call Jinny and ask for another application of her salve. Listening to her bloody opinions was worse than the pain. Besides, he had an ugly duty to perform and he might as well be in a foul mood for it.

He grimaced as he pulled on his shirt. He could scarcely lift his left arm. He reached for the flagon, but he’d drunk the damn thing dry. The chambermaid brought in a tray. “Angus said they’ll be ready once you’ve broken your fast, m’laird.”

“Is everyone looking after my health?”

“Aye. Everyone kens you didn’t eat a thing all day yesterday and your shoulder is on the verge of turning putrid, and if you do not take care of it you’re going to end up like your da and we’ll not have a chieftain to replace you.”

Sean stared at the lass. Now a skinny wisp of a girl was spewing the same rubbish he’d heard from Jinny?

She handed him a spoon and curtsied. “For your porridge, m’laird.”

He snatched it from her and pointed to the door. “Go. Tell Angus I’ll be down momentarily.”

Sean had half a mind to leave the food, but it smelled too good. His stomach rumbled. Cook hadn’t missed a thing, porridge, eggs, bacon and haggis. Suddenly ravenous, he ate every bite and then headed down to face his duty.

By the time Sean walked into the courtyard, Angus had the prisoners lined up on the gallows with their hands bound and nooses around their necks. The man-at-arms had carried out his duty efficiently, without a qualm.

Sean surveyed the faces of his men, all standing as witness to the hanging. Gawen stood away from the others on the far end. “Gawen, how do you know these men?” Sean asked.

The lad looked up as if shocked the chieftain knew his name. “Pardon, m’laird?”

“You heard me.” Sean scowled. “Come forward and tell us about these scoundrels.”

“I-I do not know them.”

“Very well. Then you’ll have no qualms kicking the stools out from under these outlaws’ feet?”

The lad blanched. “N-no, m’laird.”

Sean nodded at Angus who grasped Gawen by the arm and led him up the gallows’ steps.

The cleric stepped forward and opened a scroll. “For the crime of attack on Sir Sean MacDougall, Chieftain of Dunollie with intent to do harm, you are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Gawen hesitated at the first stool. The lad glanced at Sean over his shoulder with fear in his eyes. Sean gave him a thin-lipped nod. Turning slowly, Gawen kicked the stool, followed by a clatter, a twang of the rope and a crack, breaking the man’s neck. Death was never a pretty sight, even when it was done to rid the world of murderers—men who placed no value on human life. Sean had no idea how many people these men had killed or how many women they might have raped.

In the somber moment of the misty dawn only one thing was certain. Not one would live to pillage another day.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sean mounted his horse and drove the beast like he was running from the devil. Aye, he’d attended hangings before, but he’d never presided over one as Chieftain of Dunollie. The image of the men swinging from their nooses, their feet kicking like beheaded chickens would be seared on his memory forever. Would he pass such severe punishment if again faced with the same circumstances? Yes. There would be no question. If not dealt with relentlessly, lawlessness would pervade Dunollie lands and his clan would suffer the consequences.

He rode full tilt all the way to Ardchattan Priory. When he pounded the knocker, the monk who answered didn’t even ask him his purpose—one look at Sean’s face and the man opened the door. “Miss Gyllis is in her cell.”

“My thanks,” Sean mumbled, carrying the crutches as he strode past.

Though he wanted to rush in and gather her in his arms, hold her for hours and ask her to take away the agony caused by hanging four brigands, he stood at the door and watched. She worked the embroidery needle, making painstakingly small stitches—something he knew would be difficult for her. The concentration on her face made his heart squeeze, but it wouldn’t be right to try to help. She was a determined lass and would regain her strength as a result.

Something in her determination, her concentration soothed him. When he watched Gyllis, the evils of the world faded as if they no longer mattered. With Gyllis, his soul sailed to an island of peace.

When Sean rested the crutches against the wall, she looked up. “Sean!” She cast her sewing aside. “Thank heavens you’re safe.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “You heard?” He had hoped she would have been spared the burden.

“I’ve been so worried, I could scarcely think of anything else.” Gyllis reached for his hand. “John reported you had injuries.”

He kissed her hand and sat on the stool. “Just a bruise to the shoulder.” He kept her palm in his. The softness of her skin soothed him as did the depth of the concern reflected in her eyes. The tension in his neck eased. “I hanged four outlaws today.”

“My God.” Gasping, she clapped her free hand over her mouth. “How awful.”

“I hope ’tis not something I have to do often. I’d much rather fight a man than tie his hands and hang him—even if he is a scoundrel.”

“But you risk injury by fighting.”

Sean said nothing. Painfully aware of the open door behind him, all he could do was stare into those eyes. Gyllis could caress his soul with a single look. And from her expression, he could read so much. She cared as deeply for him as he did her. So intense was the current holding their stares, he could not bring himself to look away.

Gyllis smiled, her dimples melting the tension from his shoulders to the base of his spine. “And what are you thinking about, sir knight?”

Sean grinned. “Why, the winsome maiden seated before me, miss.” With her tiny gasp, his blood rushed like a white-capped river.

He raised her hand to his lips, closed his eyes and kissed. There in that room with monks wandering about the halls, he was completely and utterly entranced with this woman. He’d never met anyone who could calm his deepest agony with a look. Her pulse thrummed a steady rhythm beneath his lips. If only they could be alone.

Long lashes shuttered those green eyes and for a brief moment, Sean felt lost.

“I know not what to say,” she whispered, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

He raised her chin with the crook of his finger. “Sometimes more is said with a look than with words.” He gestured to the wall behind. “I’ve returned your crutches complete with sheepskin armrests.”

She looked past him and beamed. “They are marvelous, and I’m certain I’ve grown stronger since your last visit.”

“Do you think you can make it out to the garden?”

“I’m sure I can.” She clapped her hands. “If I could use those things to walk outside the cloistered walls I would. I’ve felt so cosseted, what I wouldn’t do to sit a horse with the wind in my hair.”

Sean fetched the crutches. “Well, let us start by taking a stroll out into the sunshine.” He chuckled. The Gyllis he’d grown up with had gradually returned and gone was the skeletal, bitter lass. She’d put on a wee bit of weight and maneuvered her crutches with lip-biting determination. Aye, she indeed was a woman to be admired.

***

Though Sean hadn’t been able to visit the priory as often in the past few sennights, Gyllis’s heart swelled every time she saw him stride through the cloisters. Long legged, tall, and incredibly handsome, her problems faded into oblivion when the young chieftain came to call.

And on account of his generosity, in the past fortnight she had become more adept with her crutches. How wonderful it was to regain a modicum of freedom and tend to her most personal needs without a monk’s aid.

Today she and Brother Wesley were working in her tiny chamber due to a bout of morning drizzle. After John and Sean had their disagreement, her brother required the monk to keep the door ajar when he ministered to her within. Gyllis pulled her woolen mantle around her shoulders. “’Tis difficult to believe only yesterday the sun provided a balmy day.”

“Are you cold?” Brother Wesley asked. His voice always sounded so serene, it calmed her directly.

She tried not to shiver. “A wee bit.”

“Shall I light the brazier?”

“Oh no, ’tis early yet, I’m sure the day will warm. Mother always says ’tis a waste of peat to burn it during the summer months.”

“Your mother is a wise woman.”

Gyllis reflected on her carefree upbringing at Kilchurn Castle. Ma had a way of running an efficient keep for certain. “I suppose she is.”

“I have no doubt of her wisdom. Your brother is still young and is already a prior.” He stopped massaging and arched his eyebrows. “Then there’s Lord Duncan. He’s one of the most powerful men in the Highlands—both men raised by your mother.”

Gyllis smiled, though her heart squeezed. “Do not forget our father was Black Colin of Rome. He had something to do with our rearing for certain and his legacy alone will transcend generations.”

Wesley grinned. “That it will.”

“Good morrow,” a deep voice came from the corridor.

Gyllis’s heart leapt. “Sir Sean, what a pleasant surprise.”

The good-looking laird strode inside, barely acknowledging Brother Wesley. “I have a surprise for you, m’lady.” He grinned, his teeth flashing white, framed by the shadow of his beard. The chieftain’s dark features and crystal blue eyes could stop her heart.

Her cheeks grew hot. She loved it when he referred to her as m’lady, though as a baron’s daughter, her proper title was miss. Perhaps one day she would be able to again hope to marry into nobility. Gyllis’s insides fluttered with anticipation. “Do tell me what it is.”

Sean held out a lady’s riding crop. “I’ll wager you are well enough to sit a horse.”

Gyllis clapped her hands. “Oh my, I’d love to ride again.”

Brother Wesley stood. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

“Why ever not?” Gyllis asked.

Spreading his palms to his sides, the monk looked incredulous. “Do you realize how dangerous it is? What if the horse rears and you were to fall? Besides, it takes strength of arm to ride.”

Sean’s fists snapped to his hips. “I assure you, we will exercise the utmost care.”

“My arms have nearly made a full recovery.” Gyllis grasped the crop. “Besides, it isn’t as if I’ve never ridden before.”

“But ’tis raining,” Wesley persisted. “You could catch your death.”

“Hardly a drop fell from the sky during my ride from Dunollie.” Sean collected the crutches from where they were propped against the wall. “Come, Miss Gyllis. Your gelding awaits.”

With a huff, Brother Wesley strode toward the door. “Do not complain to me if riding a horse sets you back sennights and ruins all my work.”

Gyllis watched the monk walk away, mumbling something akin to “ungrateful lass”. But his uncharacteristic chagrin didn’t dissuade her. She smiled up at Sean. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen him irritated. I’m afraid he’s none too happy about your idea.”

Sean offered his hand. “If it were up to that pasty monk, you’d still be abed so he could run his fingers along your thighs through eternity.”

Gyllis placed her palm in his and allowed Sean to pull her up. “Oh please, Brother Wesley wants to see me well just as you do. He just doesn’t have an adventurous spirit like yours.”

Sean kissed her hand before giving her a crutch. “I doubt that.”

“You are insufferable.” She grasped it.

“How so?”

“You think that poor monk ogles me at his every chance.”

“I don’t think it.” Sean slid the second crutch under her arm. “I ken he does.”

Gyllis giggled. “Take me to this horse before I’m forced to wallop you with one of these crutches.”

He bent down and nuzzled into her ear. Goodness, he smelled fresher than a pine forest. “A fine lady like you wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Tickles flitted all the way up her neck. If only her confidence would return, she might steal a wee kiss. “I cannot wait for you to spirit me away.”

Performing an exaggerated bow, he gestured toward the passageway and pulled her cloak from the peg on the wall. “Very well, m’lady.”

When they reached the stables, Sean’s man, Angus, led an old gelding up to them. Holding her hand to his nose, Gyllis let the horse smell her and then ran her fingers through his sorrel mane. “You’re a kind fella, are you not?”

Sean placed his warm palm on her waist. “If you’ll pass Angus your crutches, I’ll give you a lift.”

Her insides jumped like a swarm of butterflies had taken to flight. Leaning into him, Gyllis relinquished her crutches and held up her arms.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She swallowed down her excitement. “Aye.” Sean’s large hands squeezed ever so gently as he lifted her into the sidesaddle. The tang of pine and rugged male curled through her nostrils, making her head swoon. The horse sidestepped, bringing her back to earth. Once situated, Gyllis tried to raise her knee over the upper pommel, but she couldn’t raise the miserable appendage high enough. She cringed.

Sean closed his fingers around her thigh. “Allow me to help.”

Even through her skirts, his simple gesture made her shudder. A jolt of pleasure and need spread through her entire body. His touch was so different than Brother Wesley’s, so much more rugged, yet reassuring…and exciting.

Not trusting her voice to speak, she nodded.

He grasped her ankle and grinned. Oh how incredibly handsome he was when he smiled. His azure eyes narrowed slightly with a wee crinkle at the corners, and his teeth gleamed healthy and white. Sean’s gaze darkened as if he had a secret he wanted to share. Hot, raw energy passed between them while he took his time bending her knee and lifting it over the pommel. All the while, his fingers plied her thigh.

Gyllis caught her breath on a gasp and fanned her heated cheeks. “I think you rather enjoyed that.”

He patted her knee. “I did.” If his grin could grow more devilish, it did.

“You are bold.”

When he leaned within a hand’s breadth of her chin, his smile stretching his features, it was all she could do not to clasp his face between her palms and kiss him. But Sean’s retinue of guards surrounded them. Gyllis sat upright and adjusted her skirts while watching him from the corner of her eye. Aye, she’d enjoyed the few kisses they’d shared, but she wouldn’t lose her head. Things had grown so different. At one time she’d been awash with confidence, but her illness had stripped that away too. A lead ball suddenly sank in her stomach. She would never be able to bear it if Sean rejected her.

Of course ages ago, he’d said he loved her—words Gyllis would never forget. It wasn’t as if he’d said it again, though. Yes, he did kiss her rather passionately. His love couldn’t exactly be compared to brotherly love, but she was too clumsy for it to be real man and woman love. Is there such a thing as kissing friends love? She didn’t know, and right now she didn’t want to think beyond spending the afternoon with Sean.

He brushed her nose with the back of his knuckle. “Is boldness such a bad thing?”

A fire inflamed her cheeks and she fixated on the reins. “Nay,” she admitted in a whisper.

“Exactly what are you doing?” John marched into the stable.

Gyllis lifted her reins. “Sir Sean is taking me riding.”

John crossed his arms and glared at the chieftain. “Not through Fearnoch Forest, ’tis not safe.”

Sean faced him. “I assure you my men have cleansed the forest of all outlaws.”

“Are you certain? You suffered attack yourself. Have you caught the culprits since we last spoke?”

“Four men hanged.” Sean placed his palm on John’s shoulder. “Has it been so long since we rode together you have forgotten our oath of brotherhood? You may have become a priest, but our bond of kinship will endure for a lifetime.”

John stopped and stared, then his shoulders dropped. “You are right. I would trust you not only with my life, but the lives of every soul in Ardchattan Priory.”

The two men grasped each other at the elbows—a sign of Highland kinship. Sean held firm. “I’ll have her back before compline.”

“I’d expect no less.”

Once Sean had mounted his stallion, they rode straight out the gates. The rocking motion of the horse beneath her gave Gyllis an enormous sense of freedom. “’Tis wonderful to ride again.”

Sean walked his horse alongside hers. “I thought you’d enjoy a jaunt away from the cloistered halls of the priory.”

A breeze picked up the hood of her cloak. “I couldn’t have thought of anything more invigorating myself.”

Thunder clapped overhead. Sean arched his brow and gave her a sideways glance. “I’d hoped to picnic beside the babbly burn at Glen Nant.”

Gyllis peered at the sky, swirling with grey clouds. Please withhold the rain, if only for a little while. She grinned. “What a lovely idea.”

Thunder rolled and Sean cringed. “I’m not so certain. I wouldn’t want to see you end up with the sweat or worse.”

“Perhaps if we increase our speed to a fast trot, we shall arrive sooner.” She glanced back toward the priory. The grey stone walls were as foreboding as a prison. In no way did she have any intension of turning around.

He stared at her for a long moment and then clicked his tongue. The entire retinue sped the pace to a trot. Droplets started falling, but this was Scotland. It always rained, but rarely did they have a lasting downpour.

“Thank you,” Gyllis said.

“A faster pace is going against my better judgment.” He flashed a wicked smile that tickled her insides. “But from the excitement in your eyes, I’d wager it would be too much of a disappointment not to give it a go.”

She giggled and slapped her riding crop, demanding a canter.

“Gyllis.” Sean hastened after her. “You could fall.”

She shot him a challenging grin. “Sean MacDougall, I swear you are the most adventurous man I know. Do you honestly want to amble along when there’s a picnic to be had?”

His eyebrows waggled with his grin. “Since you put it that way…” His stallion lurched ahead.

Gyllis laughed. This was the wild lad she’d admired whilst she was growing up. She slapped her crop and loosened her reins, giving her horse his head. Together they rode at a moderate canter for miles, Gyllis unable to stop giggling. Though she knew Sean could ride much harder, she dared not try to push more. As it was, her legs bounced with the motion of the horse. One errant move and she might be flung from her saddle.

A sloppy raindrop splashed her face.

Lightning streaked and lit up the sky.

Sean slowed and Gyllis pulled up beside him, the sentries circling around. “A storm’s coming for certain.”

“Dunollie’s only a mile away. ’Tis the closest shelter,” said Angus.

Sean frowned as if he didn’t care for the idea, but then he nodded. “I hope you do not feel it improper, seeing you are unaccompanied.”

Gyllis scanned the staring faces. “You’ve an entire retinue of men.” She slapped her crop and headed west as the skies opened up and doused them with a torrent.

***

When at last they rode through Dunollie’s gates, Gyllis was soaked clean through and shaking like a sapling in the wind. Sean drove the horses past the stable, straight to the keep’s huge, oaken doors. After dismounting, he strode directly to Gyllis’s horse, his face awash with rainwater. Pushed away from his face, droplets splashed from his dark hair, soaking his cloak and linen shirt beneath. Her gaze dipped to the laces of his collar. Curls of hair peeked through the opening, the wet fabric plastered to his chest. God help her, she wanted to tug open the laces and gaze upon the treasure beneath. Raising his arms, his cloak opened, revealing more. The linen hugged every curve of his rigid chest—chiseled as if carved in stone. Dropping her gaze further, the cloth clung to undulating abdominal muscles akin to those hammered into the iron breastplate of a Roman god.

Before she could blink, he placed a hand upon her waist. “Come, we must see you warmed by the hearth.”

Teeth chattering, she braced her hands on his shoulder while he slipped an arm beneath her knees and carried her up the stairs. Once inside, Sean turned full circle. “Light the fire in my mother’s chamber,” he bellowed.

“Straight away,” said Angus. “But it will take some time to warm the chill from the air.”

Sean tightened his grip. “’Tis summer, blast it all.”

A matron pattered across the hall. “You’re soaked to the bone, m’laird.”

“Miss Gyllis needs a change of clothes. Can you arrange a kirtle and shift?”

The woman wrung her hands. “Perhaps I can find something suitable.”

“Good. Have them sent up to my chamber forthwith.”

She clapped a hand to her chest whilst her eyes bulged. “Your chamber, m’laird?”

“Aye, Jinny,” Sean barked. “’Tis presently the only room without a draft. Angus, follow us with the basket. I’ll not be returning the lady to Ardchattan with even a hint of fever.”

Gyllis sneezed.

“Quickly!” Sean hastened toward the stairwell.

“Apologies.” She tried not to shiver and snuggled into him. Dripping wet, he was still as warm as a brazier. “I’m feeling well, honestly.”

“I’ll take no chances.” Skipping two steps at a time, at the first landing Sean proceeded through the passageway and pushed through the door. He carried Gyllis to a chair beside the hearth and gently set her down. She shivered when he pulled away—the warmth of his body no longer soothing her. But the smell of the chamber washed over her in a delicious fragrance of pine and musky male. Sean’s scent.

“The coals are still smoldering. I’ll just toss on a few sticks of wood and you’ll be toasty warm in no time.”

“Th-thank you.” Her teeth again chattered as she glanced back at the enormous four-poster bed across the room. Festooned with a green satin comforter and canopy, she wondered if Sean’s favorite color was green. She hoped so.

Sean brushed her cheek with the back of his finger. “Your cheeks are rosy.”

She clapped her hands to them. “Are they?”

“Aye.” His voice grew deeper. “I like them with a bit of color.”

When he turned and reached for the wood, a rap sounded at the door. Angus walked in, a basket slung from his elbow while he held a bundle of clothing at arm’s length so not to get it wet. “Jinny sent these up for the lady, m’laird.”

Sean tossed another stick of wood with a thump and straightened. “Where the devil is your wife?”

Angus shifted his weight between his feet, with water squishing out his boots. “Called to Morag’s cottage. The bairn is coming.”

A clap of thunder sounded beyond the stone walls, so loud the castle shook. Gyllis shuddered.

Sean gestured toward the bed. “Of all the miserable times for a woman to birth a wee one. Please set the things on the bed and go dry yourself.”

“Aye, m’laird.” Angus did as told and gave Gyllis an apologetic look. “Will you be needing anything else?”

Sean brushed off his hands. “Nay. I reckon all the womenfolk are at Morag’s?”

Angus nodded. “I guess I’ll leave you be, then.” But the old henchman didn’t make a move until Sean showed him to the door.

“No need to worry. I’ve managed far more difficult tasks.”

The corner of Angus’s mouth turned up. “You reckon?”

Gyllis knew what the henchman meant. It wasn’t easy for a cripple to dress. She pulled the wet hood from her head.

Sean clapped his back. “Off with you. Put something warm in your belly to stave off the cold.”

“I’ve just the vintage of whisky—”

Sean closed the door behind Angus and turned. Gyllis rubbed the outside of her arms, her teeth chattering.

“We must warm you.”

“I am c-coming good. The fire is crackling.” If only the hearth were emitting a modicum of warmth.

Sean gestured to the bed. “I should leave you to change.”

Gyllis glanced toward the pile of clothes all the way over on the bed and then the door. “I d-don’t think I can.”

“Pardon?” His eyes trailed down to her shoes, then he hit his head with the heel of his hand. “Forgive me. I’ll fetch them for you.”

A slow exhale whistled past Gyllis’s lips. “My thanks.”

He set the bundle on the small table beside her. “I had hoped Jinny would’ve come up to help you dress.” He shifted his feet. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“I think not. I should be able to manage.”

“Very well. I shall be right outside the door if you should need me.”

Gyllis bobbed her head in time to her chattering teeth.

Sean sidestepped to the door. “You’re certain you’ll be all right?”

“A-a-aye.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and sneezed.

“Bloody hell, Gyllis, you best not be coming down with a fever.”

She flicked her hand through the air. “Would you be off? I’ll catch my death with your dawdling.”

He grasped the latch. “Apologies.”

She waited until the door clicked shut. Then the realization that she was alone sunk in. No one had brought her crutches above stairs. Gyllis studied the pile of clothes. Once the dexterity of her fingers had returned, she’d been able to do most everything herself—aside from anything that required her to stand. She wiggled her bottom and tested the chair. It was indeed sturdy.

After shrugging out of her cloak and loosening the laces of her kirtle and shift, she had an easy enough time gathering her skirts and pulling them up to her hips. She planted her feet firmly on the floor and bore down while using her hands to lift herself with the armrests. Once up, she released one hand and grasped her skirts. Her legs shuddered under the strain and cold. The damp cloth stuck to her skin and the harder she tugged the more it seemed to stick.

With a grunt, the muscles in her thighs gave out and she collapsed back into the chair with her kirtle up past her knees. Gyllis took a deep breath. I’ve been pulling myself to a stand and walking with crutches. Surely it will be easier if I stood. I’ve the chair to lean on if need be. Goodness, ’tis more difficult trying to brace myself in a crouch.

Again she grasped the armrests. With one deep inhale, she pushed herself up. Once certain her legs would support her weight, she released her hands and tugged the kirtle over her head. Knees wobbling a bit, she gathered up her damp shift. After she pulled it off, the warmth from the hearth radiated across her skin and her teeth ceased their chattering.

Enlivened by her ability to stand unassisted, Gyllis faced the table and reached for the dry linen shift. The kirtle tumbled to the floor, revealing a set of modern stays. She hadn’t worn stays since she’d come down with paralysis. There’d been no need. But she would look so much prettier with her bosoms supported with fashionable wooden slats.

Stepping forward, she reached her hand out to brush her fingers across the feminine garment. The table teetered. Her knees buckled. Before she could fling her arms out, she crumpled to the floor with a shriek.

“Curses.” She cringed at the throbbing pain in her hip. I shall never be able to fend for myself.

The door burst open. “God’s teeth, are you hurt?” Sean dashed across the floor.

Gyllis clutched the shift atop her breasts and hastened to cover her nether parts. “I had a wee fall. Leave me.” She turned her face to hide from him. There was nowhere to run even if she could spring up. Dear Lord, why must she bear this humiliation in front of Sean?

Without moving, he gaped at her, his eyes huge. This wasn’t like having a monk help her with necessities. Without a stitch of clothing aside from the garment in her arms, Sean could see every inch of her naked flesh. Yes, concern stretched the features of his face, but something deeper smoldered in his eyes.

Revulsion came to mind.

Gyllis wanted to curl into a ball and crawl under the bed. How utterly devastating to have Sean see her in a state of complete undress, totally helpless, sprawled on the floor. Her spine curled. “Please do not draw out my humiliation. As soon as I am covered you can return me to Ardchattan.”

He stepped closer. “Why would I do that?”

“How can you possibly want to keep company with the likes of me?” She turned her face away. “I am a useless cripple.”

“Nay.” He kneeled beside her. Why he wouldn’t flee the chamber and leave her in wretched peace, Gyllis couldn’t fathom. “When I look at you I see an extraordinary woman who was stricken by infirmity. A beautiful lass who has the strength to fight, who will not remain abed and give up.”

She grimaced, clutching the shift tighter to her body. “How can you stand the sight of me—an enfeebled, worthless lass? You are strong and full of life. You are brave.”

“You think I’m brave? My courage is nothing compared to yours. Before me I see a woman who will not be cut down by a devastating illness, who will look it in the face, grasp it with both hands and fight. Not only today, but you continue to fight, to work through your pain and agony so one day this will be behind you.”

A tear slipped from her eye and dribbled down her face until it dropped from her chin and splashed her chest. “You cannot possibly mean that. I’m hideous.”

“Look at me,” he whispered in her ear.

She shook her head. “I cannot.” She was wretchedly naked for heaven’s sake.

“Please.” He placed his fingers on her far cheek and lightly kissed the other. “Look into my eyes, Gyllis.”

Oh heavens how she wanted to, but if she gazed into his crystal blue eyes, he’d see the fear in her own.

Thunder clapped outside and the rain slapped against the stone outer walls.

Sean leaned forward until Gyllis could no longer hide her face. He smelled of wood smoke and fresh pine. Her lips trembled as she slowly raised her lids. Though her vision was distorted by tears, she’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

“Why do you think I’ve been to visit you so often?” he asked.

“I don’t know…”

He arched a single brow. “I think you do.”

Gyllis wouldn’t succumb to his handsome face. She was wretched—helpless. “We were childhood friends. You feel sorry for me.” That’s what she’d told herself over and over.

He brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “I love you, Gyllis Marietta Campbell. I said it before and I meant it.”

Oh God in heaven, she wanted to believe it. “How can you? I am despicable.” Streams of tears dribbled down both cheeks. Yes, she wanted to believe him, but she couldn’t. “I cannot even manage to pull a shift over my head.” She again turned her face away. By the stars, I love him more than life itself and want nothing more than to pledge my love, but not here. Not like this.

“Allow me to assist you.” His voice was softer than a kitten’s purr.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sean clasped his hand over Gyllis’s fist. She had it clamped so tightly around the shift, he wondered if she’d ever be able to let go. Truth be told, he was damn cold himself, but Gyllis came first. In no way would he be the cause of a setback to her health. She’d come so far in the past month, he couldn’t bear to think of a relapse or worse. “Let us pull the shift over your head. Once you are covered, I’ll lift you back to the chair.”

She pursed her pouty lips. “I can do it.”

“Are you certain? I promise to uphold the laws of chivalry.” Though it would most likely kill him to do so.

She smiled for the first time since he’d entered the chamber. “Avert your eyes please.”

Heaven help him, she could melt a heart of stone with her dimples. But Sean obediently stood and faced the hearth. “I am your servant, m’lady.”

A muffled giggle came from her direction. Sean heaved a sigh. Thank heavens she wasn’t completely devastated that he’d barged into the chamber whilst she curled up naked on the floor. A fire flared in his groin. Once he’d realized she wasn’t hurt, it was all he could do to keep from scooping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed. Blast his hot-blooded urges. Did she have no idea how alluring she was? He cared not about her illness. Gyllis’s charm grew every time he laid eyes on her.

Sean’s gaze darted toward a flicker. He forced himself to choke back his gasp. Her reflection in the mirror caught him completely unaware. The cloth rustled behind him, but across the room, he had a delectable view of creamy white skin. Her breasts were round and pert, tipped by buds of rose. He licked his lips and stretched his fingers. Desire shot through him so strongly, he swayed in place. Damn it all, control yourself. No matter how much he wanted to collect the lass in his arms and shower her with adoration, he must refrain. He was a knight, a man of honor. In no way could he show Gyllis disrespect. She was an angel from God, her body a temple.

The shift dropped over her head and concealed her breasts while she worked to push her arms through the sleeves. Before her head popped through the neckline, Sean averted his gaze from the mirror and rubbed his eyes. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to look, but the lass was too beautiful for any mortal man to resist.

He shivered, suddenly remembering he, too, was soaked through. Stepping closer to the flame, he held out his hands and savored the warmth.

“If you’d be so kind as to help me up,” she said in a voice smoother than honeyed mead.

Sean turned. Gyllis had not only pulled the shift on, she wore the kirtle atop, laced as if she were ready for Sunday mass. She glanced toward the stays on the table and bit her bottom lip. “I nearly have everything in order.”

She needn’t apologize. He remembered seeing her at Beltane. She’d been cosseted by one of those newfangled contraptions. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but holy mother, why would she want to crush her breasts now? And why had Jinny sent the miserable garment up? He couldn’t help his lopsided grin. “I prefer you without the stays.”

In the blink of an eye, her face turned scarlet. “’Tis said they keep a woman’s bosoms from sagging.”

He chuckled. “Oh do they now?” If only he could tell her how perfectly round her breasts were, but then she’d know he’d stolen a peek. Instead, he knelt. “Shall I lift you?”

Gyllis pinched the sleeve of his shirt and rubbed it between her fingers. “You’re so wet, you might soak me through again. Are you not cold?”

An involuntary shiver shuddered across his chest. “I am a bit.” He straightened, pulled off his shirt and cast it aside. “That’s better.”

Gyllis gulped, her eyes blinking. “I-I-I. Oh my goodness.”

Afraid he had a leech attached to his belly, Sean glanced down but saw nothing but muscle. “Is something amiss?”

She clapped a hand to her chest. “Nay, but it has been a long time since I saw you sparring in the courtyard without your shirt.”

He liked her reaction. It made him want to beat his chest and bellow. The look on her face was perfect. Rosy cheeks, red lips and green eyes as round as gold sovereigns, Sean could have scooped her into his arms and ravished her. Instead, he grinned dumbly. “Shall I lift you now?”

She smoothed her hands over her skirts and looked up with a coy grin. “Weren’t we planning to picnic?”

He glanced at the basket on the bed. “Aye.”

“Why not eat here in front of the hearth? Then your breeks can dry as well.” She fanned her face as if she’d had an errant thought. Sean hoped she had—thoughts akin to his own.

“Wonderful idea.” He jumped up and fetched the basket. “I’ve some wine to warm our insides.”

She clasped her hands. “Splendid.”

Sean moved to the sideboard and poured two goblets of wine from the ewer, thanking his stars the master brewer had brought him a new vintage only the day before. When he returned to the hearth, Gyllis lifted the cloth from the basket. “And what did Cook prepare for us?”

Sean set the goblets on the floor and sat on the plaid rug beside her. He peered inside the basket, not sure. “Looks like sliced mutton, bread and cheese.”

She reached in and pulled out a sprig of red grapes, pulled one off and popped it in her mouth. Her eyes widened as she chewed. “Mm, a burst of tartness.”

Sean glanced at the fruit in her hand. As if she read his thoughts, she plucked the plumpest grape and held it to his lips. “You must taste.”

The fire in his groin inflamed while she placed it on his tongue. Then the vixen kept her finger on his lip as he closed his mouth. She giggled and ran her finger across his bottom lip. Christ almighty, did she know how seductive she looked?

Biting down, tart juice spurted throughout his mouth, tickling the underside of his jaw. “Delicious.”

She leaned closer. “I want to taste it too.”

Sean needed no more encouragement. He slid his hand behind her neck and cradled her head. She smelled sweeter than the grape he held in his mouth and the closer her lips neared, the hotter the flame beneath his breeks grew. He hardly noticed the damp wool—for all he could tell, it had already dried. God knew his flesh was hot enough to singe it.

When their lips met, Gyllis’s gentle moan vibrated through his chest. Her cool fingers smoothed up his abdomen and around his back as she entwined her tongue with his.

The lass learns quickly. “Do you ken what that does to me?”

Her inhale stuttered. “Nay, but if it makes heat flare deep inside your body, I’ve some idea.” Her voice grew breathless.

No stranger to the temptations of the bedchamber, Sean tightened every muscle in his body to bring his lustful urges under control. He would not take advantage of Gyllis, not ever. She was as fragile as a glass ornament, to be put on a pedestal and admired.

“You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Holy Christ. He took a deep breath. I must resist. Then he looked into her eyes—moss encircled by dark blue. She smoothed her delicate fingers back and forth over his chest. With each feathery caress, his nipples grew harder, sending shocks of heat straight to his cock—now as rigid as an iron pole. In one motion, Sean pulled her onto his lap and covered her mouth with a smothering, claiming kiss. He wanted Gyllis like he wanted no other woman in the world and now her supple bottom cradled his ravenous cock.

She moved her hips, rubbing along his length. He hadn’t been with a woman in so long, he’d lose control with one more shift of her hips. But he could not bring himself to stop kissing her. Gradually, he lowered her to the floor and lay her down. His hand slid from her waist and cupped her breast. In unison they moaned. Round and full, he kneaded her all the while joining with her mouth.

Trailing his fingers to her kirtle laces, he tugged the bow free and slipped his fingers beneath her neckline. Pushing it aside, he exposed her rounded flesh. With one more tug, the succulent nipple he’d seen in the mirror stood erect for him.

He barely noticed the rumbling thunder outside.

Gyllis gasped. “I cannot resist you.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Sean flicked out his tongue and tasted the sweet rosebud standing proud before him. He took her fullness into his mouth and savored her taste. Heaven help him, his cock jutted against her hip, ready to burst with a single stroke.

Gyllis writhed beneath him, mewling like a virgin goddess. “This is the most diverting picnic I have ever attended.”

Sean swirled his tongue around her blessed nipple. “I must agree with you there.”

A rap came from the door. “M’laird?” It was Angus’s voice.

“A moment.” Sean helped Gyllis resituate her shift and kirtle then crossed the floor and opened the door.

Angus stood with Gyllis’s crutches in hand, his expression grave. “The burn’s flooded. Worse, the keep’s surrounded by water. There’s no way out.”

“So quickly?”

“You’ve been up here for ages and all the while the rain’s been coming down in sheets.”

Sean glanced back at Gyllis.

“Is everything well?” she asked.

He told her about the rain. “’Tis looking as if you may need to stay at Dunollie.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth and looked toward the window. “Oh heavens. John will be furious.”

“He’d be a might angrier if we tried to cross a flooding river in a downpour.”

Angus handed him the crutches. “The lassie’s chamber is warm and ready.” He glanced sidewise and leaned in. “It might be best for her reputation if you moved her straight away.”

“Are the men talking? Already?”

“Cook’s served the evening meal—aye, the rumblings started when you didn’t come down, m’laird.”

By the looming grey sky beyond the narrow window, Sean couldn’t tell what time of day it was. “I’d best inspect the extent of the flooding.”

“’Tis grave, m’laird. There’ll be a number of crofters in need of help for certain.”

Sean started to close the door. “I shall meet you in the great hall after I have Miss Gyllis settled in her chamber.”

“I’ll inform the guard.”

“My thanks.” Crutches in hand, Sean faced the lady. He hated to put an end to their picnic, but it was for the best. In no way could he sully her reputation. “We’d best see you to the guest chamber, or we’ll nay avoid a scandal.”

“Oh dear.” She slipped her fingers to her well-kissed mouth. “I’m afraid I was so overcome, I considered not the consequences.”

“I should have thought of it.” He ambled toward her. “’Tis my responsibility. But fear not, I’ll ensure no ill befalls you on account of my folly.”

He knelt beside her and gestured to the crutches in his hand. “Would you prefer to use these, or should I carry you?”

“As much as I’d prefer to be in your arms, I fear someone may see us.”

“Och, aye. That would help your reputation not at all.” He winked. “But there’s a secret door that adjoins the lady’s chamber to mine.”

“Truly? A secret passage akin to one in a storybook?”

Sean pointed. “’Tis behind the tapestry.”

She stroked her chin. “Do the servants ken about it?”

“Not likely. I only discovered it when I moved into the chamber after Da passed.”

“How scandalous.” She giggled. “Do you think your parents used it?”

“Perhaps.” He’d never really considered it, and as an only son, he now wondered if his parents had a happy marriage. His mother was an Irish lass, married to Sean’s da by an arrangement, as marriages often are. Presently there was no time to ponder it. He stooped to help her up. “Though I doubt we’ll see a soul in the passageway, let us make a show of walking to the outer door.”

She held on to his arm with one hand and reached for a crutch. “Very well, but I shall miss you.”

“I’m afraid there won’t be much to entertain you whilst I’m making the rounds.”

“Have you anything to read?”

He looked at the leather-bound Bible on the sideboard and pointed. “Only scripture.”

She smiled. “’Tis better than doing nothing.”

Once he retrieved the book, they proceeded to the lady’s chamber. Sean hated to leave her alone, but he had a clan to look after. He opened the door. “I’ll have Cook bring you a tray.”

She’d become quite adept with her crutches and easily moved inside. “Thank you.” Gyllis regarded him over her shoulder, her tongue sneaking to the corner of her mouth. “Will you check on me when you return?”

“Not sure. I’m afraid it will be too late.” Besides, if he came to her later, he might not be able to control himself. Indeed, Lusty Laddie could rear his lovesick head and Duncan would be fully within his rights to chop it off. Sean fingered a lock of her chestnut hair. “I wish I could stay, but my clan must come first.”

“I ken.” She nimbly turned and stepped up to him, her face a hand’s breadth away. “I like kissing you, Sir Sean.”

She placed a palm on his cheek and turned up her mouth. Thank God they’d seen no one else in the passageway because there was no way in heaven Sean would be able to resist those succulent lips. He paused and drew in a ragged breath. Then he slowly lowered his lips until they met hers. Sliding his fingers around her waist, he didn’t want to hurry. With languid licks of his tongue, he savored her, enjoying the lingering tartness from the grapes. She melted into him, her pliable breasts caressing his chest, bringing on another torturous erection. If only he could take her inside and explore every inch of her silken flesh with his tongue.

He forced his hand to stray to the latch. “I shall see you on the morrow.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Gyllis smoothed her fingers over the page. Randomly she’d opened the Bible to II Samuel and read about how King David watched Bathsheba bathe. Doubtless, she couldn’t have opened it to the Book of Job. Sean had held her in his clutches and she’d needed no constricting stays to swoon in his arms. Who knows what would have happened had Angus not come to the door when he did. As it was, she’d allowed Sean to bare her breasts and fondle them. Her nipples still tingled at his heavenly touch.

As sure as she’d opened the Holy Book to King David’s sin, God would punish her severely for enjoying Sean’s touch so much. And now she craved it. Worse, reading about King David’s lust served to further ignite the flames smoldering at such depths of her body, she’d never imagined so powerful an emotion.

She set the Bible beside her on the bed and reclined against the lush pillows. Appointed with a large four-poster bed, the lady’s chamber was twice the size of her rooms at Kilchurn. Across the floor, a fire crackled in the hearth. They had even drawn the furs across the window to keep out the chill.

Gyllis let out a long sigh and trailed her fingers over her breast. It still tingled as if Sean’s lips continued to suckle her. How on earth would she ever forget this day? That she didn’t want to forget was a certainty—nor had she wanted it to end. I am a wanton woman. God will strike me down for this.

She rolled onto her side and covered her face with her hands. Why does sin feel so good if it is a terrible thing? A person should feel awful if they sin—like I do when I tell a fib or something akin to that.

Watching the crackling fire, she was well aware the hour had grown late. Ages ago, a serving boy had brought up a tray of food. But sleep eluded her like a rainbow’s end. How can I sleep when so many thoughts fill my head? Heaven help me, my entire body is tingling with happiness for the first time in ever so long.

A door slammed. She sat upright. The candle beside her bed had nearly burned to a nub. Footsteps came from behind her headboard. Sean’s chamber. Gyllis held very still and listened. Something clattered to the floor that made her jolt. She held her breath. Rustling, perhaps cloth, followed by footsteps.

She couldn’t mistake the sound of the bed creaking. Gyllis swallowed and clutched the bedclothes to her chin. The image of Sean in his bed did unholy things to her mind. Does he wear a nightshirt? Does he keep his dirk under his pillow? What does his face look like when he’s sleeping? Is it as beautiful as when he’s alert? Does he sleep on his back or otherwise?

The bed creaked—louder this time. Still clutching the bedclothes, Gyllis scooted to the edge of her bed. Heavy footsteps clapped the floorboards followed by a hiss. She inclined her ear toward the wall. Is he dancing? The floor groaned as if he were moving in a rhythmic pattern. I do not recall a rocking chair in his chamber.

Gyllis reached for her crutches. As quietly as she could, she slid behind the tapestry and felt for the latch. When it clicked, she gasped and froze in place. Something hissed through the air, followed by more footsteps. But the sound wasn’t up close. It came from across the chamber, near the hearth. After opening the door far enough to slip inside, she maneuvered the crutches out from behind Sean’s tapestry and popped her head out from beneath it.

In the blink of an eye, she couldn’t breathe, and the thrumming of her heart consumed her entire body. Now she knew exactly how King David felt when he gazed down upon Bathsheba. The great Chieftain of Dunollie wore not a thread of clothing.

Sean swung his sword in an arc over his head, lunging into a crouch where he stopped, the sword and his arm forming perfectly parallel lines.

Lit by a candelabra and the fire from the hearth, the room glowed amber and smelled of beeswax and wood smoke. The flickering light cast a dreamy shroud over the chamber and filled it with dark shadows, but nothing appeared more surreal than Sean’s naked body flexing with his every move.

Gyllis’s hands trembled as she stared at Sean’s chiseled back. He mustn’t have heard her, because he held the crouched position like a statue. His dark, wavy locks brushed broad shoulders, rounded by thick muscle. He straightened slowly, the undulating muscles in his back contracting until he stood straight. His waist narrowed, supported by hips that appeared chiseled from pure marble. His rounded buttocks dimpled at the sides and curved down to long, slender thighs, peppered with dark hair.

He lunged to the right, the big sword hissing through the air. But this time he thrust his weapon as if defending himself from attack. On and on he fought the demons, slashing, thrusting and spinning with his blade. When he next straightened, he faced her holding the sword high above his head.

Gyllis had seen his chest only that evening, but the muscles rippling over his abdomen appeared even more defined in the glowing light. A line of black hair trailed from his navel, pulling her eyes lower. That a man had a splay of curls over his sex as she did surprised her, as did the alabaster length of this manhood at his apex. Aye, she’d seen animals mate, and was aware men were different, but never guessed they were so amazingly so. She had never gazed upon pure beauty before this moment.

Clapping a hand over her mouth, Gyllis tried to muffle her gasp.

Sean’s gaze snapped to her face. Before she could blink, he bellowed an inhuman roar and barreled toward her. In one motion, he spun her around. The crutches clattered to the floor as he leveled the sword against her neck. “I’ll not tolerate a spy.”

“I-I heard…I-I did not—”

“Gyllis?” Immediately he dropped the sword with a resounding racket and released his hold. “I’m sor—”

She tried to pull away but crumpled to the floor. “Forgive me.” Tears welled in her eyes as she shook with mortification. “I did not mean to intrude. I was awake and heard…”

“Nay, nay, nay.” Sean dropped to his knee beside her. Gyllis tried to avert her gaze, but he was so amazingly naked. He lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing and ran kisses along her cheek and neck. “I am the one who must ask for forgiveness. I’ve no idea what I was thinking. I saw movement and assumed someone had spirited inside.”

Gyllis looked into his eyes and began to tremble. It was as if he hadn’t recognized her, as if he were in some sort of trance. “You were like a madman for a moment.”

“Apologies. I was concentrating—not thinking straight. No one has ever entered my chamber when I’ve been—ah—sparring with the devil.” He nuzzled into her tresses. “You ken I would never do anything to hurt you.” Still cradling her to his bare chest, he stood and walked to the bed. Gently he set her on the mattress then kneeled before her, holding her hands between his palms.

Filled with concern, his eyes flickered gold, reflecting the fire from the hearth. Her overwhelming curiosity had led her straight into the fabled lion’s den. And now the gentle beast had lured her under his spell of beauty. My stars, he even smells as wild as a pine forest. Gyllis stared for a long while, then moistened her lips and nodded once, never breaking their gaze. That he was naked before her seemed as natural as breathing, except for the tight yearning that ached so badly, she had to steal at least one more kiss. Even her breasts were afire. He’d kissed them earlier and it had been sinfully delectable.

Will God forgive me as he had his servant King David?

Continuing to hold his gaze, she slipped her hands from his and untied her shift’s bow—just as he’d done earlier. She took in a staccato breath, aware of what she was doing, but not fearing the consequences. Sean watched motionless as she slipped the linen from one shoulder and then the other. Then he reached up and tugged the cloth down to her waist, fully exposing her breasts.

A feral growl rumbled from his throat. “God help me, you are the most beautiful woman on earth.”

His features were shrouded by the dim light, but the darkness made the world seem like a dream. With a low moan, Sean cupped her breast and joined his mouth with hers. Gyllis kissed him back with all the passion she could muster, allowing him to guide her. She grew bolder and lightly suckled his tongue while he swirled it deeper in her mouth.

As he eased the kiss, Sean trailed his lips down her neck. Gyllis sank her fingers into the thick bands of flesh on his shoulder while he continued lower. Met with jagged flesh, the wound he’d sustained when attacked in Fearnoch Forest was no scratch. Rather than spoil the moment with a gasp, Gyllis inclined her head and ran kisses along his puckered flesh. “I shall ease your pain.”

“I feel no pain when I am with you.”

She gasped when his tongue circled the tip of her breast. So sensitive, a flame burst inside as if it were fanned by a blacksmith’s bellows. Gyllis threw back her head and moaned as he kneaded her breasts and plied them with his tongue. “Your wiles seduce me to the point of madness,” she managed a breathless whisper.

“’Tis only a sampling of what is to come.”

Gyllis ran her fingers through Sean’s hair, wanting more of something she knew nothing about. When she could take no more she pulled his face to hers and kissed him. Showed him how the passionate urges churned within her. And now she’d seen him bare, she wanted to know what it was like to be taken by not just a man, but by Sean MacDougall, the man she’d adored all her life. “I want to lie with you, Sean.”

“Sweeter words I have never before heard.” Again his lips trailed down the length of her neck, but this time he didn’t stop at her breasts. No, Sean’s feather-light kisses continued down her flesh. Gooseflesh rose across her skin when he swirled his tongue in her navel. Then he grinned and glanced up at her, his white teeth glowing through the dim light.

With a devilish chuckle, he pulled the pillows behind her. “Ease back and I will take you to heaven.”

“What…”

“Wheesht.” He placed his palm on her shoulder and encouraged her to lie against the pillows. “Are you comfortable?”

“Aye.” Though her breasts were exposed, her flesh tingled everywhere.

Sean tugged up her shift.

“No.” Gyllis shoved her hands down. “Sean.”

He eased her fingers away. “I cannot take you to heaven without kissing the treasure between your legs.”

Gyllis sat up. “You’re planning to do what?” She squeezed her knees together. “Is that done?”

“Not often.” He grinned again, looking like a temptation on a silver platter. “But I guarantee you will be begging me for more.” He kissed her mouth and eased her back into the cushions. The length of his naked body pressed against her. His warm chest molded into her breasts, but that was nowhere near as shocking as the length of his manhood filling the crux of her body. Moaning, she rocked her hips, seeking more friction. Agony that good absolutely had to be sinful.

But Sean didn’t remain atop her for long. Again, he slid down to his knees and tugged up her shift. This time Gyllis didn’t fight him. Cool air caressed her womanhood. Sean’s deep, rumbling sigh made dampness pool between her legs. “Your scent is so bonny, it will bring me undone.” He placed a palm on her abdomen and spread her legs wider with his shoulders.

Gyllis had never felt so wicked. She grasped the bedclothes on either side. When his tongue stroked her, a shrill gasp erupted from her throat. Holy Mother Mary, she’d never experienced anything so erotic in her life. Again he licked her. Gyllis bucked. Yes, more. Please, more. Sean complied with swirls of his tongue.

He slid his finger down and circled it below—yet another action that sent her mind into a maelstrom of hot, driving need. His finger slid in and out while his tongue performed pure magic. Gyllis could no sooner pull away than she could run a mile. With uncontrollable shuddering, her voice made high-pitched noises while she succumbed to his touch. Suddenly her entire body went taught. A cry caught in the back of her throat. Sean rumbled a groan that spread tremors through her body. With a shocking gasp, the entire world shattered into pulsing bursts of euphoria.

By the time Gyllis recovered her senses, Sean had pulled her shift down over her knees. He stood and grinned. “Was it good for you lass?”

“Good?” she asked. “There are no words…”

“I ken.” He grinned—the devilish one that made her heart leap.

When Gyllis’s gaze slid down to his erection, Sean almost lost his seed. Her face was so seductive, yet innocent. Her wide-eyes made him want to roar like a lion, climb between her legs and make his conquest. But Gyllis was no alehouse tart who could warm his bed at night and be forgotten by morning.

Though it did unholy things to him to have her watch him, he would be no kind of knight if he took advantage.

Her lips parted almost as if she were planning to place her mouth on him. Sean’s knees buckled.

“But you are not satisfied?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder.

He cleared his throat so as not to expose his lust. “I cannot take your innocence, lass.”

“I do not understand.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, shielding them from him. “I give you my maidenhead. There is no other man on earth I wish to possess it.”

’Twas a bold statement, even coming from Gyllis. “’Tis a gift I cannot take lightly.”

“I do not give it lightly.”

His mouth dried as if he’d been a week without water. “Do you ken what you’re saying?”

“Aye.” Her gaze drifted to his manhood again, then she did something completely unexpected. Without his bidding, she wrapped her lithe fingers around his shaft. “Show me.”

God save him, no mortal man could resist the tug of her hand. He threw back his head and leaned his hips into her. “You will drive me to the brink of madness.”

She had the gall to chuckle. “Like you did me?” She smoothed her fingers down and then back up. Where on earth did she learn to do that? “Come, I’m not completely unwise. I’ve seen a guard hidden in the shadows with a serving maid. Please, Sean. Show me.”

He couldn’t think with her hand milking his cock. With a feral growl, he nudged her deeper onto the bed and climbed between her legs.

She cupped his face in her hands. “Who were you sparring with?”

“My inner demons.”

“I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight.”

Sean chuckled. “You are the beautiful one, lass, and I’ll nay let you forget it.” He slid his member up the crux of her legs, allowing her moisture to spread over him. She shuddered. He lowered his head and kissed her. “Can you taste yourself on my lips? ’Tis the scent that attracts me every time I’m within arm’s reach of you.”

“You are a lusty laddie, are you not?” She rocked her hips beneath him, mewling softly. “Show me how lusty you are.”

Her hips arched up and caught the tip of his cock. Sean held his breath. Hot moisture brimmed around him. God, he could come right now, but he wanted to make this good for her. Show her exactly what she’d been missing all these years. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

She nodded, her hips continuing their seductive rhythm. Christ, he was supposed to be the one seducing Gyllis, but without a lick of schooling she’d proven an expert. Slowly, he pushed inside. She sucked in a shocked gasp.

Sean froze. “Am I hurting you?” He started to pull away. “If you want to stop…”

Her fingers clamped into his buttocks. “No.” With a firm tug, she urged him deeper. God, he loved this woman. Gradually he slid the length of her, and when he reached a wall he gazed into her sultry eyes. Even in the dim light he could see the moss encircled by dark blue. “Are you all right?”

She wriggled beneath him. “Heavenly.”

“Once I start, I’ll not be able to stop myself.”

“There’s more?”

“Aye lass.”

Her fingers again dug into his buttocks. “I want to experience it all.”

Sean tried to be gentle at first, but with Gyllis’s hands kneading his backside, he soon lost all sense. Her breathing sped. Her scent ensnared him. Stars flashed across his vision and his ballocks packed so taut, he thought he’d go mad before he released his seed.

Faster and faster he thrust. Gyllis cried out, holding on to him for dear life. And now that she’d reached her peak, he was free to drive hard and fast. His breathing sped, his heart hammered, and all at once the peak of ecstasy flooded through his blood. A heartbeat before his seed released, he pulled out and spilled into the bedclothes.

He hated the unsatisfactory finish to his release, but he would not sire a bastard, even though he fully intended to make Gyllis his wife. He had not yet proposed—something he’d need to do soon.

He held himself over her with his elbow, careful not to crush her. God, she defined beauty, her intoxicating green eyes staring up at him as if they were the only two people in Scotland. He trailed kisses down her neck. “Was it good for you, lass?”

A wee giggle tickled his ear. “Aye. I cannot believe how good.”

“You are the world to me.” Breathing deeply to catch his breath, he rolled to his back and pulled Gyllis atop him. “You ken I love you, always will.”

She rested her head on his chest. “I love you, too. ’Tis as if God intended for our souls to be joined.”

He ran his fingers through her hair and cherished the silkiness of it. The woman in his arms filled his nostrils with fragrance from heaven. Even a bed of rose petals would not smell as sweet. He could lay there all night with Gyllis entwined in his embrace. And he fully intended to lose himself in her wiles until the sun rose on the morrow.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A ray of light streamed in from the window. The rain had stopped. Sean blinked several times in succession and rubbed his eyes. Gyllis slept cradled in the crook of his arm, her long tresses spread across his bare chest. Her breathing rhythmic, she was as radiant as an angel. Dipping his chin, he nuzzled into her hair and inhaled. Mm. As sweet as a meadow of wildflowers, he could breathe her in for an eternity.

Last night she’d taken him soaring to the moon. He almost regretted the sun had decided to make an appearance this day. He wasn’t one to laze about, but spending an entire day making love to Gyllis tempted him.

The crutches sprawled on the floor caught his eye and his stomach twisted. She was yet to complete her treatment at the priory. He closed his eyes tightly. Dear God in heaven, please do not let me be the cause of any setback.

She moaned and moved in his arms. A more beautiful creature could not exist. In slumber she embodied the meadow nymph dreaming in the morning’s sun. Mahogany tresses tangled around them both, her dark lashes shuttering those eyes he adored. Her lips slightly parted and she sighed. If only he could be there with her in such a soothing dream.

Sean hadn’t intended to take advantage of her. It had happened. She’d been right when she said their souls were meant to be together. He knew that now, but he couldn’t stand in the way of the progress she was making toward recovery. And then he had his uncle’s wedding hanging over his head. Though Lorn had the king’s approval, the neighboring clans would not be happy, especially the Campbells of Argyll. Gyllis’s sect, the Campbells of Glenorchy paid fealty to Argyll. Relations could become strained, even between Sean and Duncan. He hated feuds.

He’d need to wait until news of the wedding had passed, especially since he would be the one providing protection for the Lord of Lorn.

Gyllis cleared her throat and stirred.

Sean grinned. “Good morrow, my love.”

She rose up on her elbow and covered her mouth with a dainty hand. “Blessed be the stars. Last eve was real?”

He brushed away a lock of hair covering her eye. “Aye.” Kissing her forehead, he inhaled. In an instant he was hard again. “Every passionate moment was real, mo leannan.”

Snuggling into him, she slid her hand across his chest. He moaned with the tingling her deft fingers brought. “I wish we could remain in this bed forever. I cannot remember ever being so happy.”

“Aye, but time will nay stand still. I promised your brother I’d return you to Ardchattan before compline last eve.”

“Surely he will understand,” she said with a wee yawn. “No one could have traveled in that torrential rain.”

Sean twirled strands of her hair around his finger. No matter how much he wanted to lie abed with Gyllis in his arms, he needed to return her to the priory quickly. The weather had been a good excuse to have her spend the night at Dunollie, but to keep her after the weather cleared would be unacceptable. It could lead to the lass’s ruination. As it was, if word of their indiscretion were to become known, Duncan Campbell would be after Sean’s head. “We must make haste to return else there could be a scandal—even if everyone believes you slept in the lady’s chamber. One night due to the weather might be permissible, but if we delay, a scandal will erupt for certain.”

She flopped onto her back. “Ugh. I’ve been imprisoned in that tiny cell for so long, I’d forgotten how wonderful things could be outside.”

“Aye, though you have come so far, you must continue your treatment. Why, you’re so strong, I wouldn’t be surprised to see you make a full recovery.”

She clapped her hands over her face. “I’d be too embarrassed to have anyone other than you see me.”

“Why? You are beautiful.”

“I am a cripple. For some reason, you have chosen to see beyond that, but in society I will be seen as a monster.”

“I don’t think anyone could believe that.”

She chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder if you are not blind. You’ve been to the fetes, people treat cripples like lepers.”

Sean clenched his jaw. “If anyone dare taunt you, they’d have to answer to me.”

She rolled to her side and again draped her arm across his chest. “If only I could stay in this bed forever. Then every night you would return, and one day the witch who cursed me with this illness would be satisfied with my unbounded dedication to you and cure me.”

“You read too many fantastical tales.” He lifted her chin and kissed her lips. “I shall take you back to Ardchattan. I have a duty to perform for my uncle. After things have settled, I will gain an audience with your brother and ask for your hand.”

Gyllis didn’t seem to pay attention to the duty part, for her face beamed. “Do you mean that, Sean? I will become the lady of your keep?”

“I can think of no other woman more perfect for the role.”

The passion in her kiss nearly kept them abed for another hour.

***

Sean helped Gyllis dismount. She loved how easily he could lift her. He showed no strain in his face and only set her down when Angus came up with the crutches. He rapped the big knocker on the priory door.

The knocker was so loud up close, Gyllis touched a hand to her ear. “I hope John isn’t angry.”

“I cannot see how he could be. Now, if we’d had Noah’s ark last eve, we might have made it back.

She inclined her lips toward his ear and whispered. “I’m glad we didn’t.”

He winked. “Me as well.”

A monk slid aside the viewing panel. “Miss Gyllis? We were about to send a search party.”

“The burn flooded. There was no way to ferry her back safely,” Sean said.

The monk frowned and ushered Gyllis behind him. “We will see to her safety from here.” Before Sean could say a word, the monk closed the door.

“Pardon me, but that was rather abrupt.” Sean’s voice resounded through the door. “I haven’t even said goodbye.”

The monk slid the panel open. “She bids you good day.”

“I shall see you again soon, Miss Gyllis,” Sean called past the pushy old monk.

“Thank you for your kindness, Sir Sean.”

Gyllis gave the monk a heated look, just to let him know she didn’t appreciate his impertinence. Yes, she had been away longer than Sean had promised, but for good reason. She turned and proceeded through the cloisters. She wouldn’t allow the monk’s sourpuss attitude to diminish her good spirits. She had a semblance of a spring in her step—at least as much as the crutches would allow. Strength radiated through her limbs and she nearly cast the supports aside. Her breast filled with joy, she could not believe her fortune. Last May, she’d gone to the fete seeking to impress Sean MacDougall and had returned home dejected, downtrodden and ill. Only after she’d suffered through the worst of paralysis, had he come to her like a gallant knight and wooed her. Ravished her. And she’d savored every moment in his arms.

Nothing could make Gyllis give up now. She would focus on her treatments more diligently than ever before. Soon she would be walking without assistance. The next time Sean visited Ardchattan, she would be stronger. Every time he would come, she would surprise him with her improvement.

Gyllis leaned on her crutches and opened the door to her cell.

Her smile instantly dropped.

Dressed in black priest’s robes as customary, John faced her, crossed his arms and frowned. It wasn’t his usual frown. His eyes grew dark—almost hateful. “Where the devil have you been for the past day?”

Gyllis’s first thought was to cower—beg for forgiveness. Her face burned, but she straightened, refusing to allow her brother to intimidate her. “The burn flooded. It was impossible to return.”

He stepped closer. “Where did you stay the night?”

“Sir Sean graciously provided me with a chamber at Dunollie.”

“Gracious?” John spread his palms to his sides. “You forget I am quite familiar with Sean MacDougall and his gallant womanizing.”

A lump the size of her fist blocked Gyllis’s throat. Heat prickled her skin. Did John speak true? Were Sean’s actions a ruse to take advantage of a cripple?

No. I will not believe it.

“If he laid a hand on you, the Campbells will not rest until he is brought to justice.”

“Nay.” She clapped a hand to her chest, trying not to heave. In no way could she be the cause of a clan feud. “You are stretching the truth.”

“Me? Lie?” John threw up his hands and paced in a circle. “He has compromised you, has he not?”

Trembling, Gyllis clamped her lips and refused to answer. Sean would ask Duncan for her hand. It had been she who had gone to his chamber, not the other way around. If she hadn’t heard him practicing and grown curious, her virtue would still be intact. She glared at her brother as hotly as he glared at her.

John grasped her shoulders and shook, his eyes bulging. “I can tell by your reluctance to speak.”

“Please, John. Stop.” She stamped her foot. “We are to be married.”

“MacDougall?” he yelled. “The man’s a superb tracker, but he’s aligned with the Stewarts. You cannot be serious.”

She tightened her grip on her crutches. “I love him.”

“You stupid lass.” He shoved his hand over the shaven part of his head. “You will spend the rest of this day repenting in your cell. At first light on the morrow, the monks will take you back to Kilchurn.”

“No, please.” The crutches tapped the floor as she pattered toward him. “I have only started to respond to Brother Wesley’s treatment.”

He glared with a disdainful scowl. “Your treatment has ended. ’Tis time you return home.”

“Will you…?” She couldn’t say it, but she knew full well John had the power to ruin her.

He stopped pacing. “I shall pen a missive to Duncan and you’d best pray my ire cools before I touch my quill.” He stormed past her and slammed the door.

As her crutches dropped, Gyllis staggered to the bed and dropped face down. Just when she thought her luck had changed, everything came crashing down and crumbled at her feet.

***

Silently, Gyllis rode with an escort of guards and monks. John hadn’t joined them, nor had he seen her off. Brother Wesley hadn’t come to say goodbye either. She felt filthy like a fallen woman—a leper who was too diseased even to be tended by the faithful.

Her own brother had cast her from his priory. What treatment could she expect from her family? Will they lock me in my chamber? Will they fear me? And what rueful words did John impart in his missive to Duncan?

When the grey stone curtain walls of Kilchurn Castle loomed ahead, Gyllis’s stomach clenched into a tight ball. Upon the battlements, the ram’s horn sounded, indicating the Campbell guard had seen them. Mother, Duncan—everyone would now know they were approaching. Dear Lord, please make everything all right.

The gate was open and the retinue rode straight through the barbican and into the courtyard. The reins slid in Gyllis’s sweaty fingers. From the keep’s great doorway, Duncan, Lady Meg, Mother and her sisters all stared at her. Was that fear Gyllis read on their wide-eyed visages?

The lead guard dismounted, drew a missive from his doublet and handed it to Duncan. “This is for you from the prior, m’lord.”

Gyllis nearly fell off her horse. If only she could have read its contents first, she’d at least know what to expect. Would Duncan take the strap to her? He was fully within his rights if he chose to do so.

When Duncan slipped the missive into his doublet, she breathed a sigh of relief. She would have died if he’d stood in the courtyard and read it aloud as if it were a proclamation.

Mother pushed past him, followed by the lassies. “Praise the good Lord, Gyllis has returned to us.”

Mevan, Mother’s most trusted man-at-arms stepped beside her mount and reached up. “Welcome home, Miss Gyllis. Can I assist you?”

“My thanks.” She hesitated and searched for the monk bearing her crutches. When she saw he’d already dismounted, she braced her hands on Mevan’s shoulders and let the old guard help her down. “How is your wife?” she tried to make conversation as if her world weren’t falling apart.

“She is well, thank you.”

Gyllis took the crutches from the monk and faced her family. Mother’s eyes were red and welled with tears. “At last you have come home.” She pulled her into an embrace.

Mother always smelled of sweet lavender. And her hug was soft and warm and welcoming. Gyllis closed her eyes while her own tears welled.

Perhaps the family would not fear her.

Before she knew it, she was surrounded by her sisters, all chatting and hugging, laughing and crying. Gyllis looked to Meg with Elizabeth in her arms. “You’ve returned from court?” She grinned at the babe. “My, the bairn has grown so much. I cannot believe it.”

Meg beamed, her blue eyes twinkling with the sunlight. “Aye, she’s a healthy lass.” She inclined her head to the nursemaid behind holding the other redheaded twin. “Colin as well.”

“A moment,” Duncan boomed.

Gyllis could have fainted. Has he read John’s missive already?

Mother stood aside. Duncan grasped Gyllis’s shoulders and hugged her. “Welcome home, sister.”

Her resultant sigh of relief nearly made her swoon. “’Tis good to be amongst you once again. Though the monks did so very much to help me, not a day passed where I didn’t miss you.”

Mother straightened Gyllis’s veil. “I am surprised John sent you back so soon. From his last missive, I assumed you’d remain in his care through autumn.”

Gyllis tried not to cringe, though her cheeks burned. “We agreed I could complete the remainder of my training at home,” she hedged and looked toward Helen and Meg. “After all, I have three sisters and a sister-in-law who can help.” If only she could have read what John had scribed in that missive before she opened her mouth.

Meg grinned. “I think we might try a new treatment when you’re ready.”

“I for one am happy you’re here.” Helen placed her hand on Gyllis’s shoulder. “I’ve much to tell you.” Helen’s expression appeared strained.

Unusual. Something is wrong.

Gyllis arched her brow. “I cannot wait.” She moved toward the keep, painfully aware that everyone watched how she managed with her crutches, praying that no one asked how she acquired them.

“Can you climb stairs with those?” Mother asked.

“Aye. I can do almost everything.” Gyllis winked at Helen. She seemed to need a lift of spirits. “And I intend to be walking without them soon.”

“You mustn’t push yourself, dear,” Mother said.

Gyllis looked to the sky. If Ma wasn’t telling someone what to do, she wouldn’t be happy. “It has been a long ride. I’d like to retire to my chamber until the evening meal.”

Helen walked beside her. “I’ll escort you.” Her tone was too chipper. Something was afoot for certain.

Together they left the others staring after them.

Gyllis had surmounted the first hurdle. She had no doubt she’d face Duncan later, but for now she and Helen would have an afternoon to themselves. And it seemed they both needed to talk. If there was one person on earth Gyllis could confide in it was she. When they were but young lasses they had made a pact that anything spoken in confidence could never be repeated.

“You move along very well with those,” Helen said as she led Gyllis up the stairwell.

“Sir Sean made them for me,” she whispered.

Helen stopped. “Are you jesting?”

Gyllis inclined her head toward the landing. “I’ll not utter another word until we are behind closed doors.”

“At least you’ve had some fun?” she asked, waggling her brows.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone call paralysis fun.”

Helen opened the door. “You ken what I mean.”

Gyllis hobbled into her chamber and sighed. She’d never really appreciated the grandeur of her rooms. Her four-poster bed had yellow drapes embroidered with wildflowers. She’d forgotten how pretty they looked. Heading toward the overstuffed couch in front of the hearth, she inhaled. The chamber smelled of rose oil. A ray of sunlight shone in through the narrow window with a breeze fluttering the yellow canopy above her bed.

She plopped onto the couch and rested her crutches on the floor. “Come. Tell me what is afoot.”

Helen plodded across the floor and sat with a huff. “’Tis not fair.”

“What?”

“Remember when I told you Duncan and Meg went to court whilst you were away?”

“Aye, I was surprised to see them in the courtyard.” Gyllis reclined against the padded backrest, wishing Duncan and Meg were still at court, and would remain there for the next fifty years.

Helen heaved an enormous sigh. “It appears Lady Meg decided it was up to her to play matchmaker.”

Gyllis leaned forward, eyebrows drawn together. “Have you ever mentioned to her your affinity for Eoin MacGregor?”

“Wheesht.” Helen glanced over her shoulder as if someone would burst into the chamber. “Of course not.”

Gyllis cringed. “Oh, dear.”

Helen grasped Gyllis’s hand and squeezed. “Duncan would never allow a MacGregor to marry one of us. He believes them beneath the Campbells.”

“They pay fealty to our clan. That makes them no better or worse.”

“Aye.” Helen again glanced around as if she expected spies in every corner. “Well ’tis too late for any of that now. If you had arrived a sennight hence, you would have missed me altogether.”

“Pardon?”

“In two days Mother will be escorting me to Ardnamurchan where I will marry Sir Aleck MacIain, Seventh Chieftain of Ardnamurchan.”

Gyllis could scarcely swallow. She’d only arrived home and now her dearest, most beloved sister was leaving—not only leaving, but wedding someone Gyllis knew nothing about. “You are to be married?”

“Two days hence.”

“Oh my heavens.” Gyllis couldn’t believe it. Helen could not possibly leave now. Not when she—they both—needed an ally. “H-have you met Sir Aleck?”

“I’ve never seen him. Meg tells me he’s agreeable and Duncan says our marriage will make a necessary alliance with the MacIain Clan.”

“He’s chosen your husband to make an alliance? I ken that’s the way of things but, Helen, ages ago we agreed we’d never settle for an arranged marriage—we shall marry for love.”

Helen coughed out a rueful laugh. “’Tis easy for you to say. If you hadn’t come down with paralysis, it would be you heading to Ardnamurchan.”

Gyllis clapped a hand over her mouth. Helen was right, she would have been the one to suffer marriage to a complete stranger had she not been away ill. “This cannot be so.”

“Would I jest about something so grave?”

“My God.” Gyllis cringed at her blasphemy and moreover, her failure to be there in support of her sister. “I feel responsible.”

Helen spread her palms and shook her head. “At first I blamed you…but then when I thought about it, I realized I’d rather marry a chieftain, and help the family strengthen relations with the northern clans than be in your predicament. Oh Gyllis, is it so wrong of me to think that way?”

“Of course not.” Her stomach twisted in knots. If only she’d come home sooner. Poor Helen would never have been able to stand up to Duncan with Gyllis away. Gyllis had always been the stalwart spokesperson between them. “Why did you not refuse?”

Wringing her hands, Helen hunched forward. “What should I have done? I am soon to be twenty with no other offers, no other prospects.”

“What of Eoin?”

Helen smirked. “I’ve admired him from the battlements, but now he’s off patrolling the borders or carrying out some other inordinately important task for Duncan and the king. I’ll most likely never see him again.”

“I cannot believe this.” Gyllis pounded her fist on the couch. “Why are you not fighting?”

“And go against Duncan, Mother, and what is best for the clan?” She clapped her palms to her cheeks. “It is my duty.”

The guilt encircling Gyllis’s neck couldn’t have closed her throat any tighter. She scooted closer and placed her arm around Helen’s shoulders. “You are right. It should have been me making this sacrifice.”

“Aye.” Helen threw up her hands. “And you had to go contract paralysis.”

Gyllis bit her bottom lip. Never in her life did she think she’d feel guilty for her ailment. Already twisted inside for her indiscretions with Sir Sean, the wretched lump in her throat returned. “I suppose I did.”

“If ’tis Sean MacDougall you want, he’d best propose soon, else you’ll be wed to some old chieftain aiming to make a Campbell alliance.”

Gyllis slid her arm from Helen’s shoulder. Given her sister’s sacrifice, she couldn’t allow her happiness to bubble over.

She must have looked shamefaced because Helen knit her brows. “I thought you’d sworn off Sir Sean after his deplorable actions at Beltane.”

Gyllis couldn’t meet her sister’s gaze. She stared at her hands. “I did, until I learned the reason for his disappearance. His father died that day. ’Twas the healer who embraced him after she and her husband told Sir Sean the news.”

“How awful.” Helen leaned closer. “And then he visited you at the priory?”

“Aye.” Gyllis would not admit to anything else.

“Oh no, you’re not pursing your lips. Sir Sean gave you the crutches? How often did he visit you?”

Gyllis clapped her hand over her mouth to hide her grin, but Helen pulled it away. “Very well…” She divulged all except the night she’d spent at Dunollie. She’d speak of that to no one.

Helen pressed her fingers to her lips and smiled. “If anyone deserves to be happy after all you’ve endured, ’tis you.” She held up a finger. “However, I meant what I said. Sean had best have a serious conversation with Duncan, and soon.”

Gyllis wouldn’t let on how much the butterflies flitted around her stomach. Two things worried her…How long would it be before Sean discovered she’d returned home? And what was written in that meddlesome missive from John?

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Alan MacCoul lunged, thrusting his sword. Missing his mark, he threw his head back and cackled. If his sparring partner hadn’t been fast, he’d be dead. Though Alan needed well-trained men, poor fighters would be culled. He advanced on the sentry, hacking his two-handed blade left and right, giving no quarter. Wearing his partner down renewed his strength. Lust for blood pulsed through his veins, the stench of fear bled through his sparring partner’s pores.

“M’lord.” The booming voice behind him registered, but Alan didn’t stop.

His opponent tripped and fell on his backside. Alan pounced, pointing his blade against the coward’s neck.

The man held up his hands then pointed. “Y-you’d best turn around m’lord.”

If this was a trick to draw attention away, he’d skewer the miserable sop.

“M’lord,” the gravelly voice behind came again.

“This had better be good.” Alan looked over his shoulder and grinned.

Brus dragged a prisoner into the clearing, leading him by a rope tied around his wrists. The man’s face was purple and swollen. Blood streamed from his nose, and from the red soaked into his shirt, his nose wasn’t the only thing that had been bleeding. Even though the prisoner looked like shite, Alan still recognized him.

Fraser.

Before he turned completely away, Alan grazed his blade up his sparring partner’s cheek, opening up a stream of blood. “Learn to fight before you spar with me again, else it will be your last match.” He smirked at Brus. “Where’d you find this pox-ridden whoreson?”

“Spying for MacDougall—looking for us. His two accomplices are already dead.” Brus tugged the bastard forward. “But I thought you might want a word with this one before I ran him through.”

Alan examined his prisoner with an evil chuckle. Snot ran from Fraser’s bloodied and broken nose. Brus hadn’t been kind. From the dirt and grass covering his body, he’d not only been beaten, he’d been dragged. One eye was swollen shut and a cut at his temple still streamed red. “You’ve shown him our hospitality, I see.”

Fraser spat, hitting Alan in the chest.

Clenching his fist tight around the hilt of his sword, Alan thumped him in the jaw. “You always were a sniveling maggot.”

Blood trickled from the corner of the miserable wretch’s mouth.

“Did Sean send you?”

Fraser spat blood on the ground this time. “I kent you were causing the mischief at Dunollie. Why must you always be a bastard?”

“I’m asking the questions. If you hadn’t noticed, your life is mine to take.” Alan recoiled and slammed his fist into Fraser’s gut.

With a grunt, the Dunollie guard doubled over, his spittle spraying the dirt.

“I’m the lord and master here. You are but a rodent caught in my snare.”

The rat had the nerve to glance about. “It looks as if you’re preparing for war,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Alan threw back his head and roared with laughter. “My force is rather large. Perhaps I’ll take the crown.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m a man looking to claim my rightful place. I’ve been ignored and shunned all my life and I’m weary of it. I’ve no choice but to take that which should have gone to me.”

Blood oozed from the corner of the prisoner’s mouth and his head hung forward. “What the devil are you raving about?”

Alan sauntered up to him and pulled his head up by the hair. “You’ll not be around to find out.” Gnashing his teeth, Alan sliced his blade across Fraser’s exposed jugular and watched the errant guard drop to his knees as his lifeblood drained into the ground.

MacCoul leered at Brus. “Deliver the body to Dunollie. I’m sure young Sean will be worried about his spy.”

“Straight away,” Brus sniffed. “I’ll leave at dawn.”

Alan glanced at the sky. It was afternoon, but he supposed it didn’t matter if his man-at-arms left on the morrow. After all, Fraser was dead. He’d just smell that much worse when he arrived at the castle.

Alan’s messenger rode into the clearing. “A missive, m’lord.”

He marched over and snatched the parchment from his hand. The Lord of Lorn’s seal, addressed to that sniveling maggot, MacDougall. “Where did you find this?”

“Intercepted it from Lorn’s runner.”

“What did you do with the body?”

The man threw his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s at the bottom of Loch Etive with a rock in his belly.”

Alan grinned. “Good man. Help yourself to an extra ration of whisky.”

“Thank you, m’lord.”

Brus stepped in. “What does it say?”

Alan ran his finger under the red wax seal and read, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “’Tis the invitation we’ve been waiting for.”

***

Sitting in his solar, Sean poured over the ledgers now kept by his new factor, a cleric. If he couldn’t trust a holy man to keep accurate accounts, there’d be no hope. Fortunately, thus far the man had proved to be precise.

To be honest, Sean was happy to have found a competent factor. Recently he’d had some difficulty concentrating. He hadn’t been pleased with the way he’d been forced to leave Gyllis at the priory gates. The monks had never kept the doors closed to him before. At his earliest opportunity he’d make a trip to Ardchattan and ensure John hadn’t made errant assumptions due to Gyllis’s absence. A rational man would understand there had been no choice.

Sean cradled his head in his hand. He’d lived up to his philandering reputation for certain. Any errant assumptions John may have made would have been spot on.

Though thoughts of the lovely lass consumed his mind, he should have waited until they were wed. God, had he no self-control whatsoever? He loved her—kept her on a pedestal. In his eyes, she was an angel, a goddess to be worshiped. Blast his MacDougall hot blood. The moniker “Lusty Laddie” had been well-earned and had plagued him for years.

He chuckled to think he’d been hooked by Duncan’s sister. Duncan was the very man who’d given him the label, but truth be told, nary a lass in Scotland matched Gyllis’s beauty.

When the ram’s horn sounded, Sean’s gut clenched. An internal warning made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

It wasn’t unusual to receive a visitor. But it was odd for him to be uneasy about it. He’d also earned the nickname of “Ghost” from his service in the Highland Enforcers. He’d developed a perceptive ability rare to most men, a sensation honed by years of knighthood.

Moving with the speed of a cat, he fastened the top button of his quilted doublet and pulled his heavy hauberk over his head. He would not be stepping into the courtyard without the protection of chainmail or his arms. After buckling his sword belt in place and testing the daggers in his sleeves, he headed out.

Angus met him at the keep’s doors. At the far side of the courtyard, the portcullis creaked as the gate rose with its blackened iron fangs pointing downward.

Sean squinted through the dank guardhouse. “Who is it?”

“Not sure,” Angus said.

A lone horse galloped through the gate. Eric, the stable hand raced in with his palms held high. “Easy boy.”

Sean’s heart lurched.

A body draped across the steed’s back. Blinking, Sean recognized the horse, the tack, and the backside of the rider. Revulsion was the only word to describe the icy tension clamping every muscle in his body. Bile bit the back of his throat with an acrid burn.

War had been declared, a line drawn.

“My God. ’Tis Fraser.” Angus unsheathed his dirk.

The lad brought the horse under control and led him to Sean. He pointed to the dead man. “His throat’s been cut.”

“MacCoul,” Sean growled through clenched teeth.

Angus pointed. “What’s this?” He snatched a note secured in Fraser’s belt and handed it to Sean. “Addressed to you, m’laird.”

“It’s been opened.” He slid his finger under the compromised wax. “Lorn’s seal.”

Angus leaned in and studied the crumpled velum. “The bloody bastard.”

Sean arched his eyebrow while his gut twisted. “I thought you had a soft spot for him.”

A shadow crossed the old man’s face. “Not on your life.”

A twinge of relief clicked at the back of Sean’s mind. He’d been keeping his henchman at arms-length. Not doubting his loyalty to the clan, but questioning his affinity for MacCoul. Something wasn’t right when it came to that sniveling maggot and Fraser’s death marked the last severed thread. If MacCoul wanted a feud, he’d just purchased one. His friend would be avenged.

Sean eyed Eric. “Take Fraser’s body to the priest. He’ll ken what to do.” Then he flicked open the note and read. “God’s bones. Lorn’s wedding is only two weeks away—set for the feast of Michaelmas.”

“And our enemies know about it,” Angus said.

“Aye.” Sean folded the missive. “Word was MacCoul’s been in the Lowlands training an army.”

“Jesus Christ.” Angus pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “Alan isn’t daft enough to attack the Lord of Lorn. ’Tis you he’s insanely jealous of.”

Sean agreed, but that didn’t mean Alan wouldn’t stage something rash—especially a demonstration to make Sean look bad. He cast his gaze to the MacDougall guard, who were watching him from the battlements above. The men would be riled by Fraser’s death and looking for blood. The MacDougalls were good fighting men, but against an army? He needed to call in some overdue favors. “You must ride to Glen Strae with a missive for Eoin MacGregor. I’ll head to Glen Orchy straight away and solicit help from Lord Duncan.”

Angus gaped. “Campbell? But he’s aligned with Argyll—Stewart’s enemy—the reason Lorn is proceeding with this marriage is so Argyll cannot claim the title for himself.”

“Aye, and he’s my closest friend. Given the gravity of MacCoul’s message, Duncan will stand beside me. I have no doubt.” Sean marched toward the keep. “Come, I’ve a missive to pen.”

***

Lady Meg was anxious to try her new treatment for Gyllis and presently her chamber was half full of chambermaids and buckets of hot water. Gyllis stood with crutches under her arms and her shift knotted up over her thighs while the lasses wrapped warm cloths around her legs.

“Word came all the way from France that warm wraps assist in speeding the recovery of paralysis,” Meg said, standing as tall as she could, looking pleased with herself. Her bright-red, curly locks stuck out from under her veil in every direction as if she’d been boiling water in the kitchen for hours.

Gyllis sighed, wondering where on earth Meg gained information all the way from France. A wives’ tale, most likely. “I suppose I’ll try anything if it helps.” And return me to Sir Sean MacDougall’s arms sooner. She needed to find a way to send a message to Sean and advise him that she’d returned home. Not only was it improper for an unwed lassie to send a missive to a man, it bore too much of a risk. If Duncan received word of it, she’d doubtless be locked in her chamber for life.

Meg moved in front of Gyllis and held her hands firmly. “Lassies, pull the crutches from under her arms.”

Afraid she’d fall, Gyllis clamped her fingers around Meg’s wrists. “I need those.”

“Do as I say,” Meg said in an authoritative voice—rather pushy for such a petite woman. She gave Gyllis a stern look. “Were the warm cloths stimulating?”

Gyllis flexed her muscles. “Aye. I think mayhap they were.”

“Good, then take a step toward me.”

She did as told, then took another while Meg slowly backed away. After they’d crossed the floor, Meg pulled her around. “Now do it without holding my hands.”

Gyllis held fast to her grip. “Oh no, more than a couple of steps and I’ll fall for certain. I always do.”

Meg gave her a stern look that meant she wouldn’t be accepting no for an answer. “I’ll keep my hands out for you. Grasp them at your first weakness.”

Gyllis took two unsteady steps and gasped. She’d nearly fallen—but she hadn’t. Oh blessed be the saints.

“Again,” Meg said with the most reassuring smile Gyllis had ever seen.

Concentrating very hard, she took another step, followed by another. Gyllis laughed. “My knees are scarcely wobbling.”

Meg backed further. “Try again.”

Gyllis stepped forward. Her knee buckled and she listed to the side. Meg clamped onto her shoulders. “Easy lass. You’ve done well.” She turned her attention to the line of chambermaids. “From now on we shall include warm compresses to Miss Gyllis’s treatments of massage.”

Gyllis could have jumped for joy. “I shall be walking again in no time.” And Sean will be so happy.

“’Tis what I like to hear.” Her sister-in-law patted her cheek. “If you keep telling yourself you can, you will. Only the naysayer lies abed and allows herself to waste away.”

“Did you have this many monks tending you at Ardchattan?” Duncan’s deep voice resounded from the doorway.

A chambermaid slid the crutches under Gyllis’s arms as she shot a shocked glance at her brother. He rarely ever paid a visit to her chamber. “Not by half.”

Duncan clapped his hands. “Leave us. I need a word with my sister.”

Gyllis watched the lassies file out of her chamber and wished she could follow them. John’s missive had caught up to her for certain.

Meg brushed his arm as she walked past. “I shall be in the nursery with Elizabeth and Colin should you need me.” Duncan grinned with a daft look on his face—one he only affected when Lady Meg was present.

After the door closed, Duncan gestured to the couch. “Let us sit.”

Gyllis’s legs were noticeably stronger as she moved and took a seat. She leaned her crutches against the table and bit down on her lip to calm her nerves. “How have things been at Kilchurn whilst I’ve been away?” Her high-pitched voice had a tremor. She clenched her fists until her fingernails bit into her palms. Whatever was coming, showing nervousness to Duncan would make him all the more suspicious.

“John advised you were recovering well and that the priory can no longer handle you.” He took a seat beside her and leaned over, eyebrows slanted inward—definitely not a happy stare. “What the devil did he mean by that?”

“Ah...” Gyllis stared at her hands, her entire body growing hot as a boiling pot. Stop it Gyllis. He mentioned nothing about Sean. Surely Duncan would have brought him up first had John revealed the night at Dunollie. “Ah…I-I believe one of the monks became infatuated with me.” It was the best she could do on the spur of the moment.

Duncan sprang to his feet and slammed his fist against the backrest. “I knew it. Did he touch you?” He pounded his fist again. “I’ll kill the bastard. Tell me his name and I’ll see to it he never again looks at another lass.”

Gyllis waved her hands across her body in rapid succession. “Please no. ’Twas an innocent fascination. He did nothing untoward.”

“No?” Duncan paced. “Then why did John send you home—using a pair of pegs no less?”

“They’re crutches and they help me move around quite nicely.” Seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation away from her indiscretion, Gyllis pointed to the buckets. “Besides, your wife found a new treatment the monks hadn’t used. Already this morning I took seven steps on my own.”

Duncan sat again and frowned.

“After today’s treatment, I have no doubt I’ll be walking again soon.” She clapped a hand over her heart. “I give you my vow I’ll not become a burden to the family.”

“Ah, Gyllis.” He draped an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. “Is that what you think? You’ll be a burden?” He snorted. “You’re kin. Even if you’d remained bedridden I’d have taken care of you. You ken that do you not?”

“Aye.” Yet another tear stung her eye. She’d honestly believed Duncan would send her to a nunnery if she didn’t recover. “Thank you.” She allowed herself to exhale. Thank God for John. He hadn’t betrayed her confidence after all. She owed him a debt of gratitude.

Now to focus all her energy on her recovery—and finding a way to see Sir Sean as soon as possible.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sean followed the sentry into the keep. How odd to be escorted. He practically knew Kilchurn Castle better than he did Dunollie. God knew he’d spent more time there. The irony was the woman he couldn’t clear from his thoughts was elsewhere. Though Fraser’s death and the blatant message he’d received from MacCoul weighed heavily on his conscience, he couldn’t ride to Kilchurn without thinking of Gyllis.

He’d decided to keep his intentions to marry the lass quiet for now. First he needed to see Lorn wed, and deal with MacCoul before he approached Duncan for her hand. I should have hanged the bastard when I had him in my grasp. If it hadn’t been the day of my father’s funeral, I never would have allowed Angus to step in. And now look. My failure has caused the death of one of my closest friends.

The guard knocked on the door to Duncan’s solar—a place where Sean had spent many hours debating Highland Enforcers’ affairs. Though he didn’t realize it at the time, life had been far simpler before he’d inherited his father’s mantle.

“Sir Sean MacDougall of Dunollie,” the guard announced, as if Sean needed an introduction.

Duncan shoved his chair back with a grin. He marched forward and clasped Sean at the elbow and held firm—a more personal greeting than a handshake—the one used by the enforcers. “By God, ’tis good to see you.”

Sean couldn’t bring himself to smile. “You as well.”

“Too much time has passed.” Duncan gestured to a seat. “Are you ready to rejoin the enforcers? Tension with England is mounting.”

“I wish I were.” He sat and leaned back with his knees wide. “Being Chieftain of Dunollie has brought on a host of problems.”

Duncan moved to the sideboard and pulled the stopper out of a flagon. “I’d agree there. I never had an appreciation for my father’s responsibilities until I stepped into his shoes.” He set a cup in front of Sean and raised the one remaining in his hand. “Let us toast to our clans as well as long health.”

Sean held up his whisky. “Slàinte.” He sipped and swilled the oaken flavor across his tongue. One thing was always a certainty when he visited Kilchurn. There was no finer whisky in all of Scotland than that from Campbell’s still.

Duncan took his seat at the head of the table. “So, if you’re not itching to head back to the borders, what brings you to Kilchurn?”

Sean watched the whisky while he swirled it in his cup. He needed to choose his words carefully, else he’d come across as an incompetent boob. “I’ve some grave news…”

Looking Duncan square in the eye, he leaned forward on his elbow and started with Alan MacCoul’s banishment from Dunollie lands, the cattle thieving, Fraser’s mission and the return of his body—and the missive. “…now I’ve nay choice but to provide fealty service for Lorn’s wedding.”

Duncan thoughtfully rotated the cup in his fingers. “You’re worried about a wedding?”

Sean tossed back the last of his whisky. “The last thing Fraser said was the whore told him MacCoul was amassing an army.”

Duncan chuckled. “A bedraggled crew, no doubt. It sounds like a gang of renegades. They’d be no match for your trained men.”

Sean wished he were as confident as his friend. “I’m not so certain. I think they’re organized.”

“What kind of men would follow a festering pustule like Alan MacCoul? What means has he?”

“I know not. But my father had an affinity for the bastard.”

“Well, you’ve put a damper on your da’s former misguided affections.” Duncan rested his elbows on the table. “My bet is he’ll be a thorn in your side until you lure him back to MacDougall land and arrest him—string him up like you should have done after he attacked you. Christ, he challenged you right after you were declared chieftain?”

“Aye, I ken what I should have done. But now I cannot take a chance on him causing mischief for the Lord of Lorn.” Sean sat taller. “I need your help, Duncan.”

“’Tis a wedding, no?” The Lord of Glenorchy smirked.

“Aye, at Dunstaffnage Chapel.”

“MacCoul would be an idiot to attack you on the king’s lands. Besides, you’ll have your army as well as Lorn’s. Surely you can handle a wee skirmish.”

“But I won’t have the stealth of the enforcers. I want to establish an impenetrable barrier for my uncle.”

Duncan sat back and spread his arms to his sides. “’Tis a wedding for Christ’s sake. Worse, it’s John Stewart, Lord of Lorn’s wedding. If I’m there and something does happen, the Stewart Clan will be blaming me.”

God, the man made Sean’s worries sound daft. But Sean persisted, “You ken I’d vouch for you.”

“Aye, after the dust settles.”

“What about sending in a dozen of your best men? They can wear my colors.”

“All but a handful are on the borders. Wouldn’t get them back here in time.” Duncan shook his head. “Nay, I’d be daft to call them away from the king’s business to stand watch during a wedding.”

Sean bit the inside of his cheek. “Bloody hell, Duncan. You’re the closest thing to a brother I have.”

The lord tapped his finger against his cup. “I ken.”

“Can you not put aside your fealty for Argyll for a wedding and provide some weapons?”

“That’s just it.” He ground his finger into the board. “’Tis a miserable wedding—hardly something we need an army for. Christ, man, you’ve at least fifty skilled men in Dunollie’s guard. In my opinion, you are overreacting to Fraser’s death. He rode into the wrong camp is all. You know that as well as I.”

Sean groaned. “When you say it like that, I feel the fool for having traveled so far to gain your audience.”

“Not at all. I’m always glad to share a tot with you.” Duncan stood and grabbed the flagon from the sideboard. “If you have more trouble with MacCoul’s thugs thieving your cattle, the enforcers will be able to help you. That’s our motto—to support the king and maintain order.”

Sean watched him fill his cup with another shot of whisky. Had he overreacted? What would his father have done in his stead? He puzzled. The MacDougalls always had their enemies, but Duncan was right. The Dunollie guard posed a force to be reckoned with. Had Sean lost confidence because of his lack of trust? Angus had proved his loyalty. So had the others for the most part. Even Gawen had proved his loyalty when he kicked the stools at the hanging. It was time for Sean to cast his misgivings aside and lean on his own men for support. Besides, Angus might have better luck soliciting help from Eoin MacGregor.

Sean raised his cup. “I hope I do not have to take you up on that offer. I intend to squash MacCoul the first time he shows his beastly face.”

Duncan grinned. Sean hadn’t noticed it before, but the Lord of Glenorchy’s smile was dimpled like Gyllis’s. He sipped the fiery liquid. If Duncan had any idea how often he’d seen Gyllis in the past few months, he’d run him out of Argyllshire. I’d best stick with my plan and leave the topic of marriage alone this trip. Duncan is likely to blow hot steam through his ears—just like old times.

Duncan shoved his chair back. “Of course you’ll stay for the evening meal—head back on the morrow?”

“I will, thank you. ’Tis a long ride.”

“Mayhap we can get in a sparring session afore the meal is served.”

Sean swirled his fingers over the basket-weave pattern on his sword’s hilt. “I’d welcome a healthy round. No one’s given me a good run since you left me on the borders.”

Duncan clapped him on the shoulder. “’Tis time you groomed a champion. A chieftain should not be the best sword—’tis not healthy for the longevity of the clan.”

“Oh?” Sean scoffed. “And why have I not seen any Campbell guard best you?”

The Lord of Glenorchy winked. “I’m working on it.”

***

Gyllis sat in the embrasure of her window and stared out over Loch Awe. September was always her favorite month. The warmth of summer lingered, though something in the air warned the nice weather wouldn’t last. It made her anxious to enjoy it all the more. This season it also made her anxious to shed her crutches. She’d been suffering paralysis for so long, she yearned for the days without constant care, when she was free to run and dance.

The chamber door opened and Helen stepped inside carrying a missive. “Have you a moment?”

“Meg and her retinue of lasses have come and gone.” Gyllis beckoned her. “What is that?”

Helen skipped over and sat on the padded bench opposite. “I’ve received a letter from Sir Aleck MacIain.”

“Honestly?” Hopefully this was a pleasant surprise. Gyllis waggled her eyebrows. “What does it say?”

“He wrote me a poem and said some nice things.”

Gyllis rolled her hand. “I’m sure you didn’t come in here to talk about the lovely weather we’re having. Read it to me.”

Gyllis listened to the love letter. The chieftain’s prose put Helen on a pedestal, reassuring her that all would be well, reinforcing she was needed as the lady of the keep in Ardnamurchan posthaste, and Aleck awaited her arrival with fond anticipation. He even signed it “your servant”. When Helen finished reading, she folded the velum and stared at it with a long sigh.

“He sounds very nice.”

She nodded her dun locks and pursed her delicate mouth. Gyllis had always considered Helen a bit frailer. Though now stricken with paralysis, Gyllis figured the tides may have changed in that regard. In so many ways over the past months, Gyllis had doubted herself, feared she would be a burden and hated every moment of her dependence.

But her sister needed reassurance now more than Gyllis did. “Surely, Sir Aleck’s letter has eased your mind.”

“Aye.” Helen looked up and smiled—a sad smile all the same. “I believe he has a good heart at least.”

Gyllis leaned forward and patted her hand. “’Tis a start.”

Her sister stood and moved to the window, gazing out over the loch. “I shall miss this place.”

Gyllis scooted along the bench and grasped her hand. “And I shall miss you.”

“I’m ever so anxious.” She glanced at the crutches. “Would you be up to a stroll?”

“Aye—let us venture to the battlements.”

Helen’s gaze dropped to Gyllis’s legs. “Are you able to climb that many steps?”

“I will not know until I try.” She slid back and plucked her crutches from the floor. “I nearly made it across the chamber without these today.”

“That is wonderful news, but I’m not certain you should be climbing all the way to the battlements. What if you fall?”

The more Helen balked, the more Gyllis wanted to cast the blasted crutches aside and race her to the top of the stairwell. If only I could. Mayhap they’d be able to race the next time they were together. “Come. If I fall, I’ll have a wee bruise. If ’tis too far, we shall turn around.”

Helen giggled. “I suppose I could always ask a young guard to carry you back to your chamber.”

Gyllis pulled herself to a stand and started toward the door. “Now that’s the best idea you’ve had in ages.”

“I thought you were head over heels for Sir Sean.”

“I am. But I’m not dead.”

Helen followed her into the passageway. “You’re still incorrigible.”

“And you are still a prude.”

Giggling, they made their way up through the narrow stone stairwell winding like a spiral to the wall-walk. At the top, Gyllis leaned against the stone battlements to catch her breath. “I cannot believe I used to run up those stairs.”

Helen fanned her face. “I cannot believe you’ve suffered paralysis and climbed all the way up here with a set of crutches. You are truly amazing.”

Gyllis chuckled and took in a deep breath. The deep blue water shimmering on the loch caught her eye. She could see for miles. Even the purple heather on the surrounding hills was in bloom. Violets and lavenders climbed for miles up the slopes of Ben Cruachan, the sight was enough to take her breath away. A breeze caressed her face and summer’s fragrance filled her with renewed energy. “This view made our effort worthwhile.”

Behind them iron clanged. Gyllis snapped her head around and headed across the stone walk to a crenel notch. “Remember when we used to watch Eoin and Sean spar from this very spot?” She poked her head through the gap. Only two men sparred in the courtyard. She instantly made out her brother, but her heart leapt when she recognized the man with his back to her. Only one man on earth could make her heart stutter an arrhythmic beat—make her knees turn into boneless limbs, and most of all, heat pool in the most sacred place of all.

Tall, wavy, dark hair brushing his nape, built like a prized bull from his broad shoulders to his sturdy hips. “Sean,” Gyllis whispered.

“Oh, my.” Helen pushed in beside her. “Do you know why he’s here?”

She gaped at him. “I haven’t a clue.”

Helen fanned her face. “But he is.”

Gyllis sighed. “Aye.” Her body went from trembling recognition to floating. Her mind drifted to the night she’d seen him sparring with an imaginary partner completely nude. Sean moved like a cat. His movements so fast, his sword and limbs blurred. His lunges deep, his spins precise, calculated. Duncan kept up, but her brother could hardly match the younger chieftain.

She could watch Sean forever, her mind’s eye picturing the bulging muscles beneath his linen shirt. The men circled. She could see Sean’s face now. His hawk-like eyes focused on Duncan as if nothing around them could draw his attention away. With the laces of his shirt spread open, his chest glistened with perspiration. Even from five-stories up, Gyllis could see the sheen, and all too well she was familiar with the bands of sinew taut beneath.

Heat spread throughout her body. Her breasts swelled against her stays. From such distance she could smell his spicy musk soaring up to her with the breeze, as if begging her to float down to his arms. Her lips parted with her stuttered breaths.

“Och aye, you are smitten.” Helen nudged her. “You should see your face.”

Gyllis clapped her hands to her cheeks. “’Tis that obvious?”

Helen laughed. “You may as well hold up a placard that says ‘marry me’.”

“Oh please, how utterly unheard of.” Gyllis straightened, though she couldn’t bring herself to pull her gaze from the Adonis down below.

“Come, I ken what we should do.” Helen hastened toward the stairwell.

Gyllis hobbled after her as fast as she could, her blasted crutches clicking the flagstone.
“What are you on about?”

The dun-haired lass had never looked like she was up to so much mischief as she did when she stopped at the entrance to the stairwell and grinned. “We’ve not much time to make you look as bonny as a queen.”

Gyllis’s insides flipped upside down. “I think the idea of matrimony becomes you. You’re not half as dull as you were when we rode onto the Dunstaffnage foregrounds for Beltane.”

Helen slapped her hand through the air. “Hogwash. I’m as passionate as you. I just do not let everyone know about it as you do.”

Gyllis tried to keep up with Helen’s fast pace. “Honeyed cryspes? You would have rather sought out food than stroll past a gathering of brawny knights.”

Helen stopped and faced her. “Ah, but you forget even knighted lads enjoy sweets. Mother doesn’t pay a mind to us if we’re seeking out a treat, silly. I’m not half as dull as you may think.”

Gyllis covered her smirk with the tips of her fingers and snorted out her nose. Evidently her sister was a master at pretenses. Perhaps she should pay more attention in the future.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY

Standing at the well, Sean splashed his face with water and ran his fingers through his hair, shoving it from his eyes. He didn’t have a comb in his kit, so a quick brush with his fingers would have to do. He straightened his sword belt and headed into the keep. He wasn’t enamored with the idea of spending the night, but it would be folly to head home in the dark. Not only would he have to travel through Fearnoch Forest, the delivery of Fraser’s body broadcast loud and clear that Sean’s problems were far from over. Traveling home at first light was his only option.

Once inside the great hall, he strode through the crowd to the dais. Duncan sat in the lord’s chair at the center of the table with Lady Meg on his right and his mother, Lady Margaret, on his left. If anyone had entered the keep wondering who was lord and master, there would be nary a question. The trio looked as regal as the king’s retinue at court.

Duncan stood. “Sir Sean, please take the seat at the end. I’ve no doubt my sisters will enjoy your conversation.”

Sean gulped. Duncan never wanted him to take a wee gander at his sisters. Hmm. Perhaps he believed there was no threat with Gyllis away at the priory.

“How are you Sir Sean?” Lady Meg asked holding out her hand. “It has been ever so long since we’ve seen you.”

“I’m well.” Sean strode around the table, took her hand and kissed it. “My dear lady, you are bonnier than ever. And how are the twins?”

“Elizabeth’s almost as beautiful as her mother,” Duncan said. “And Colin is a lad who would make my father proud.”

“Congratulations to you both.” Sean then bowed to Lady Margaret. “And how are you m’lady?”

“Very well,” the woman who’d been a second mother dipped her head. “Please accept my condolences for the loss of your father. He was a good man.”

“That he was.”

Sean took his seat, but no sooner had he done so, a hush dampened the banter in the hall. Lady Margaret clapped a hand to her chest and sat forward. Sean followed her gaze.

Gyllis stood at the foot of the stairwell wearing a crimson mantle. Both the over and under gowns were a work of art. Low cut, Gyllis’s breasts swelled above the sealskin-trimmed neckline, her flesh more perfect than pure white calla lilies. Her tresses were held away from her face under a matching French hood, also trimmed by sealskin. Looking directly at him, she offered a lovely smile before she handed her crutches to Helen.

She’s not?

She did.

With her first step, the gold satin underdress caught the glow of the candlelight and shimmered. Sean scarcely noticed Helen walking closely behind with one hand out. Gyllis grinned at him, her face alive and filled with joy.

She took another step and another.

Sean wanted to dash from the dais and gather her into his arms, but in no way would he wish to detract from her performance.

Duncan stood, as if he’d had the same thought.

Lady Margaret sat transfixed, her hand covering her mouth. “Praise God.”

“’Tis a miracle,” said Lady Meg.

Sean grasped his armrests. He couldn’t allow her to cross the entire hall unassisted, no matter how much she wanted to impress her family. When he slid his chair back, Gyllis stumbled forward. Helen squealed and reached for her, but the lovely lass tumbled beyond her sister’s grasp. Benches scraped across the floor as Gyllis collapsed into a heap.

Sean didn’t remember his feet touching ground as he dashed to her side. “Miss Gyllis!” He dropped to his knees before her. “Are you all right?”

“Blast.” She smacked the floorboards with her fist. “I wanted to impress you, and I had to go and fall on my face like a cripple.”

“You are a cripple,” Alice said from behind the small gathering of people. Sometimes little sisters could be so maddening.

“No. She is not.” Sean gathered her in his arms. “Miss Gyllis may have suffered from a bout of paralysis, but I’ve never seen anyone with more courage and determination.”

Frail and light in his arms, he stood with ease.

She buried her face in his chest and a tear moistened his shirt. “I’m so embarrassed. I wanted to show you how much I’ve improved.”

“Are you jesting? You walked, Gyllis. You practically strode across the entire hall without a lick of help. I’ve never been so impressed by anything in my life as much as I witnessed in that moment. I know how hard you’ve worked. You are truly amazing.”

She met his gaze with a joyous bleary-eyed smile adorned by delightful dimples—so much more enchanting than Duncan’s. “Lady Meg started applying warm compresses. I think they’ve helped a great deal.”

“Aye? I’d wager your pure determination has done as much or more than a handful of warm rags.” He proceeded to the dais, met with Duncan’s angry glare. But before Sean neared close enough for the baron to hear, he pressed his lips to Gyllis’s ear. “You’ve never looked as radiant as you do this night.”

Why she was there and not at the priory he’d uncover later.

Duncan planted his fists on his hips. “Was it necessary to carry my sister all the way to the dais?”

If Sean weren’t cradling Gyllis in his arms he’d challenge Duncan on the spot, friend or no. She’d had the courage to attempt to cross the entire great hall unassisted and when her frail legs had given out, the bastard hadn’t rushed to her aid. “I believe it was. Only a few sennights ago, Miss Gyllis had just started to walk with crutches.”

Duncan crossed his arms and tipped his chin up. “It seems you know an awful lot about my sister’s ailment.”

Sean pushed past him and climbed onto the dais. “I’ve had dealings at Ardchattan and chanced to visit with Miss Gyllis a time or two.” He set her on the chair beside his. “Are you all right now my…lo…ah…Miss Gyllis?”

“I am, thanks to you, sir.” She cast a heated stare in her brother’s direction.

Sean took her hand and bowed deeply over it. “’Tis my pleasure to be of assistance.” Her lithe fingers smelled of rose oil and he could have hovered there forever. Watching her eyes, he kissed her hand. “Is there anything further I can do to help?”

Gyllis smiled, her gaze trailing down the length of his body. A bold move for a somewhat innocent maid, but a gesture telling him she desired more than a kiss on her hand. “I would be honored if the gallant knight who rescued me would be so kind as to sit beside me during the meal.”

Duncan stepped behind them. “Do not make me challenge you MacDougall. I suggest you take your seat and stop carrying on like a wet-eared lad.”

“I thought he was rather chivalrous,” Helen said, taking the seat on Gyllis’s other side.

“He’s being a fair bit too familiar if you ask me,” Duncan groused.

“Stop,” Mother said. “I find Sir Sean’s actions endearing. Besides, you didn’t spring across the room and dash to assist your sister. If not you, I can think of no one more suitable. Sean is practically family. Why, the pair has known each other since childhood.”

Sean leaned toward Gyllis’s ear. “I could talk to him now…um…you know.”

She held a finger to her lips. “Nay. Let me speak to Mother first. Perhaps she can build a bridge.”

Sean glanced toward Duncan. He’d resumed his seat and poured himself a tankard of ale. Slipping his hand under the table, Sean grasped Gyllis’s fingers. “Why are you here? I thought you’d remain at the priory for another month at least.”

“John was waiting for me in my cell after you brought me back from Dunollie. He said if I was well enough to stay out all night, I could return home.” Gyllis squeezed his hand tight. “He even guessed that we…”

Sean choked on his ale and froth spewed across the table. “Oh no.”

Gyllis bit her lip and dropped her lids. “He did.”

Sean rubbed the back of his neck and flicked his gaze toward the Lord of Glenorchy. “Duncan isn’t aware.”

Gyllis gave him the most perplexed look. “How did you…?”

“He hasn’t tried to hang me—yet.”

Gyllis muffled her giggle with her free hand. “And you, why are you at Kilchurn?”

Sean couldn’t bring himself to tell her about all the problems with Alan MacCoul. The last thing Gyllis needed right now was to worry about an ornery varlet who would soon be brought to justice. “I had dealings with your brother.”

Her face reddened. “Clearly those dealings did not include me,” she whispered so softly, Sean scarcely caught every word.

“Not yet, my love.” Sean pressed his lips to her ear. “Speak to your mother. Then I will approach Duncan after the Michaelmas feast and the Lord of Lorn’s wedding.”

She picked up a piece of bread and took the tiniest bite. “Only speak to him if you truly want to. I know I’m not—”

Sean tightened his fingers around her hand. “Cease. There is no question of my love or devotion for you.”

Duncan pounded the hilt of his eating knife on the table. “The two of you have had your heads together since you sat down. What is so surreptitious you cannot share it with all the table?”

What was it about Duncan Campbell that brought out Sean’s urge to hit something—namely the arrogant lord’s face. God’s teeth, he’d been friends with Duncan forever, but that didn’t mean he’d take his shite. Gyllis must have sensed Sean’s building ire because she squeezed his arm with surprising strength.

But Sean met the baron’s glare. “If you must know, after seeing Miss Gyllis struggling at the priory, I had my carpenter fashion a pair of crutches for her.” He pointed. “Those she attempted to cross the hall without today. She was simply informing me of her progress.” Sean glared back, just as intensely as the Lord of Glenorchy. Duncan may be his senior peer, but Sean was a chieftain. A man to be reckoned with. And he would win the bastard’s favor regardless of any past indiscretions. “I happened to be quite amazed with her attempt to walk the length of the hall. I trust you were equally so.”

Lady Margaret leaned forward, blocking the intense current between the two men, though the matron’s eyes focused on the hand Gyllis had on Sean’s arm. “I could scarcely believe my eyes. It appears Lady Meg’s treatments have been overwhelmingly helpful.”

Gyllis released her grip and folded her hands in her lap. “Aye. I never would have thought hot compresses could make such a difference to the monk’s treatments.”

Mother’s gaze slipped to Sean. “Perhaps we should have kept you at Kilchurn.”

Sean knew Lady Margaret to be a shrewd woman. His exuberant display of concern for Gyllis wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Sean only hoped Gyllis’s mother would be an ally when it came time to ask for the lass’s hand.

Sean and Duncan had spent too much time swilling whisky in alehouses with buxom wenches when they were lads. Aye, they’d both acted like rogues, but Duncan had changed after he’d met his wife—sworn off alehouse tarts. If only the lord could realize more than one man could do the same. Sean hadn’t thought of another woman since…since…in a bloody long time for certain.

***

Sean didn’t balk when Lady Meg offered him a bed in a guest chamber above stairs—though he’d intended on bedding down in the stable. The soft mattress did nothing to soothe his unease. He needed this business with Lorn’s wedding to be over. Though Duncan’s argument made sense—Alan MacCoul’s quarrel was with Sean and not with the Lord of Lorn. If the bastard was foolish enough to try an attack, it would be a siege on the fortress of Dunollie, not the wedding party and not a castle being part of the crown’s holdings. Sean considered sending a missive to Lorn and asking him to change the date or the venue, but doing so would admit weakness.

Sean closed his eyes and slung his arm over his face. A picture of Gyllis immediately came to mind. She’d been so radiant this eve, he could have swept her into his arms and stole her away like a Viking from ages past. The thought of taking Gyllis to his galley and sailing to a distant shore tempted—but only for a moment. He was a chieftain, by God, and his plan was solid. He’d see out his duty and then Gyllis would be his. Not even Duncan Campbell would be able to stand in his way.

Gyllis was his. They may not have pledged their love before God, but she was his woman—always had been. Duncan would not arrange her marriage to any other. Sean would not stand for it. The idea of her marrying any other man made his blood pulse icily through his veins. Hell, if another man looked at Gyllis he turned into a raving lunatic.

The door opened and quickly closed. Sean sat up, the bedclothes dropping to his waist. Gyllis stood against the door, holding a candle, using only one crutch. She wore a dressing gown belted at the waist. Staring at him, the whites of her eyes grew enormous.

“Gyllis?” Sean reached for a plaid and circled it around his hips as he slid out of bed. “What are you doing in here?”

She drew in a sharp gasp. “I cannot sleep.”

“Nor can I, but ’tis not proper for you to be in my chamber.” He tucked the plaid at his hip and hastened across the floor. “You could be ruined.” Not to mention Duncan would sever Sean’s cods if the lord of the keep found them together.

She handed him the candle then placed her hand on his bare chest. His breath caught at her touch. Heaven help him, he could not resist but a single fingertip’s caress. The tingling of flesh on flesh stirred molten fire from his chest all the way through the tip of his cock.

She trailed her finger from his heart to the edge of the plaid with a seductive chuckle. “I am already ruined thanks to you.”

Sean had no control over his body’s reaction. In the blink of an eye, his cock lengthened and stretched taut against the woolen fabric. “I would never see you ruined.”

“Mm, mm.” She didn’t miss his reaction and ran her fingertips along the inside of the plaid perched precariously on his hips.

He took a step back and grasped her shoulder. “We mustn’t.”

“Why?” she purred.

He squared his jaw. “I should march straight to Duncan’s chamber and ask for your hand.”

“I do like that idea, however…” She chuckled like a wanton. “He’s most likely making another bairn with Lady Meg.”

She stepped closer, again toying with the plaid. Sean stepped away and placed the candle on the table. He needed both hands to control the lassie’s advances, no matter how much he wanted her, damn it all.

“When is Lorn’s wedding?” she asked.

“A fortnight.”

The crutch clicked the floorboards as she moved further into the chamber. “’Tis soon. I shall await your return with great anticipation.” Her scent made Sean’s knees waver, yet Gyllis moved forward unaware of the spell she’d cast over him. “Mother has always been fond of you—but I shall never understand Duncan. You’re his best friend, and yet he cannot bear to see you place a hand upon me.” She reached out her finger and stroked it across his lips.

Damn, the wavering of his knees rocketed up his thighs, spread through the ache in his groin, and continued to his chest.

Sean forced himself not to tug her into his arms and devour her. God’s bones, Duncan’s chamber was directly above theirs. If he heard Gyllis’s crutch tap the floorboards, the lord would charge in like a raging bull. Sean swallowed, lightheaded from his growing erection. “’Tis difficult for a man to see his friends take an interest in his sister. You ken we’ve talked about it.”

“Aye.” Gyllis’s voice grew husky. “’Tis why mother must make him understand.” She grasped the plaid and tugged.

Sean held her wrist. “We mustn’t.”

She met his gaze with an arched brow, but she released her fingers from the wool. “No one saw me. No one will know.”

Helpless to turn her away, Sean followed while Gyllis moved to the foot of the bed, placed her crutch on the floor then grasped the bedpost with one hand. Reaching out with the other, she again closed her fingers around his plaid. Her eyes flashed wide and a sultry laugh spilled from her throat as she pulled off Sean’s plaid. His cock bounced out and pointed directly at her. He was harder than an oak broomstick and more aroused than a lad staring at a pair of breasts for the first time. Christ, he needed release.

Gyllis didn’t help matters. Her pink tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth as her gaze undulated down his body and stopped at his cock. “I-I’ve wanted you ever since…” She untied the sash around her waist and let the dressing gown drop to the floor.

God save him, she wore not a stich of clothing. Every shred of self-control fled. His mind consumed with the tantalizing woman before him. Somehow she was even more beautiful now than he’d remembered. The candlelight flickered amber across her skin. Chestnut tresses slid over her shoulder, framing two perfectly formed breasts, tipped by rose.

Sean licked his lips, those delectable rosebuds would be his second stop. In two strides, he wrapped her in his arms and crushed his body against hers. “For all that is holy, you have claimed my soul, my flesh and my mind.”

He covered her mouth with his, her minty taste flooding his senses. Claiming her for his own, he forced his tongue inside her mouth. She matched the ferocious swirling of his tongue. No, Gyllis wasn’t one to shy away from anything life threw her way. She was strong and wild and seductive, and he loved her to the depths of his core. His cock slid across her stomach and he moaned.

In an act of unbridled trust, she released her hold on the bedpost and clamped her arms around his shoulders. Their mouths joined, she thrust her hips against him. “I want you.”

He needed no more encouragement. Sean swept her into his arms and placed her on the bed. His mind consumed with desire, his senses overpowered by her smell, her seductive way she rocked her hips in anticipation of receiving him, and the deft fingers plying the muscles in his back, he was powerless to resist.

He trailed kisses down her neck while kneading her breast. Her soft moan made his seed dribble from the tip of his cock. Christ almighty, he needed her and soon, else she’d unman him just by the sultry tenor of her voice.

He clamped his mouth over her breast and teased her delectable nipple with the swirling of his tongue. Her body quivered as she arched her back and mewled. “I cannot take much more.”

Sean looked into those alluring green eyes and chuckled. “You taste like ambrosia from the Gods.”

A slow grin spread across her lips and she tugged on his shoulders. “’Tis my turn to taste you.”

“Nay.”

She tugged harder. “If you haven’t realized it yet, I am seducing you, not the other way around.”

God, he loved this woman. Sean slid alongside her and gestured to his body, his muscles as taut as they were after he’d been an hour or more in the sparring ring. “I am at your service m’lady.” A groan of desire rumbled from his chest.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, sweeping her gaze down his body. The way she looked at him set his cock on fire. The woman was a lioness in the bedchamber, her innocence and eagerness more arousing than anything he’d ever experienced. She rolled atop him and kissed his cheeks, his forehead, his chin.

Sean grasped her shoulders and tried to claim her mouth, but she held up a finger. “You must allow me to seduce you.”

“I fear you already have me in your clutches.” His voice came out deep and hoarse. He hardly recognized it. He’d been with countless women, but they all paled to the one in his arms. With but a look she could do unholy, rapturous things to his body. He could think of nothing but Gyllis—how much he wanted her in his bed—how much he wanted his cock inside her right now.

But she slid her mouth downward and covered his nipple. Christ his cock spurted another dribble of seed. It felt so damn good, he wouldn’t last long. And then she trailed her kisses lower. Sean clenched his bum cheeks so tight his muscles cramped. When she took him into her mouth, he muffled his gasp by draping his elbow across his mouth. Never in his life would he expect Gyllis to taste him, but by God, he was about to explode for the rush of urgency she built up with every sweep of her tongue.

At the ragged edge, his buttocks burning, shaking with frenzy, he grasped her shoulders and tugged her up. When his fingers found her hips, he raised her high enough to impale her on his erection.

She gaped at him, eyes wide. “I can be on top?”

He stirred himself within her warm core. “Aye, lass. You can and you are.”

She followed his lead and together they found a rhythm that sped with the intensity of their breathing. Their bodies quivered with the strain, thrusting, swirling, mounting the precipice of no return until, all at once, together they reached their peak, clinging to each other with silent screams of ecstasy.

She collapsed atop him, their bodies joined, their souls joined. Neither spoke. Even their breathing matched. With her in his arms he was whole. For the first time in his life he knew what it meant to be a man—not just a warrior or a chieftain, but a man who loved a woman so much it hurt. He wanted a family he could protect and cherish, and Gyllis would be the center of his world.

As she rested in Sean’s arms, her breathing took on the slow cadence of sleep. No matter how much Sean wanted her to remain in his arms throughout the night, he couldn’t risk being discovered. Not only would it ruin Gyllis, it would validate all Duncan’s unfounded misgivings—the reason Sean tried to stop her when she’d first slipped into his chamber. The moniker “Lusty Laddie” rang in his head.

“I must take you back.”

“Must you?” Gyllis rose up on her elbow. “Why not take me to Kilbride Church and marry me this night?”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Because I want to do this right.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“If you don’t stop smiling, Mother and Duncan will suspect you’re hiding something,” Helen said while she placed her looking glass in the trunk between the folds of her clothing. She closed the lid. “You’d best pay heed to me. Ever since Sir Sean arrived, you’ve been flitting around as if you’ve been touched in the head by a fairy.”

Gyllis reached in and fastened the hasp. “Perhaps I have.”

“You are hopeless.” Helen gave her a prying stare. “It makes me suspect he may have spirted you to the garden and stolen a kiss.”

“My lips are sealed.” Though she tried, Gyllis couldn’t stifle her giggle and it blew through her nose. “Though I must admit, he is very good at kissing.” She could never tell Helen what had transpired—heaven strike her dead, she’d actually gone to Sean’s chamber and seduced him. She hadn’t ceased spinning her rosary around in her pocket, reciting Hail Mary’s at all hours—while throwing in praises of thanksgiving every now and again.

Helen placed her hand on Gyllis’s arm. “I’m happy for you, but tell me, when is he planning to speak to Duncan?”

“As soon as the marriage business is finished with the Lord of Lorn, and after Mother returns from your wedding. I need Ma’s support if Duncan launches into one of his rages.”

Helen rubbed her palms together. “I could mention something to Ma on the journey to Ardnamurchan. At least it will give us something interesting to talk about.”

Gyllis thought for a moment. She hadn’t said anything to Mother about Sean because she couldn’t decide how to broach the subject. But if Helen planted a seed, it might make her task all the easier. “Perhaps if you mention that Sir Sean gave me the crutches and paid a visit or two to Ardchattan during my confinement.”

“Exactly my thoughts, too. Besides Mother isn’t blind. She knows you admire him.”

Gyllis cringed. “She just doesn’t know how much.”

A rap came at the door and in walked two groomsmen. “We’re here to take your trunks to the wagon. Are you ready, Miss Helen?”

Her poor sister turned as white as bed linen. She cast a worried glance at Gyllis then gestured to her things. “I’m all packed. I shall be down in a moment.”

The sisters stood and watched the men haul away the first trunk while Gyllis couldn’t stop thinking it should be she who was traveling west to meet and marry a strange man. Her throat grew thick and her palms moist. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” she whispered.

Helen straightened. “It will be fine. ’Tis time for me to marry and Mother will be there to ensure all progresses well.”

The remnants of Gyllis’s euphoria sank to the bottom of her toes. “You will write as soon as you are able?”

“Of course, and you will send word when your wedding date is announced?”

“I will.” She forced a smile. “And I’ll expect you to be there.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“’Tis settled then.” Gyllis tried to hold in her tears, but one dribbled from her eye anyway. She tugged Helen into an embrace. “Hug me now whilst no one can see me weep.”

Her sister’s body shuddered as a woeful wail burst through her lips. “I…I…”

Gyllis couldn’t hold it in. She patted Helen’s back and tried to regain control. “Everything will be all right.”

With a stuttered inhale, Helen clung tighter.

“A wedding is a happy occasion and you shall be lady of the keep, just as you’ve always wished.”

Helen pulled away, her eyes and nose red. She drew in a staccato breath and nodded while she dabbed her face with a kerchief. “I’d best be off before my tears set the bed afloat.”

Gyllis also dried her eyes. “Come. I’ll see you off.”

***

Sean had no opportunity to visit Gyllis again before the day of Lorn’s wedding arrived. Earlier that morning, he and his men, reinforced by a dozen MacGregors, fanned out through the forest surrounding Dunstaffnage Chapel and found nothing out of place. Things were also quiet in the village surrounding the castle.

The locals had a healthy respect for the Lord of Lorn. As the king’s emissary, he provided them with land to till or graze.

The boats moored in Loch Etive were all owned either by local fishermen, or were part of Lorn’s retinue, having sailed down from Lorn’s Castle Stalker to the north. Angus reported no sign of Alan MacCoul or any of the foul men who followed him. Nonetheless, Sean did not don his ceremonial armor. He met the Lord of Lorn in the king’s chamber wearing battle armor.

Lorn, who was wearing an ornate coat of blackened ceremonial armor, gave Sean a quizzical look. “Are you expecting a fight?”

Sean bowed. “I figured it best to be prepared for anything, uncle.”

Lorn patted his shoulder. “You’re a good lad.”

A long breath whistled through Sean’s lips. He didn’t expect anything to go awry, but Fraser’s death weighed heavily on his conscience. “Sentries are posted atop the battlements as usual and I have a contingent of fifty men surrounding the chapel.”

“You did take me seriously,” Lorn chuckled. “You’ve a mob of brigands guarding the chapel? What will my guests think?”

“They’re hardly brigands.” Sean pulled his helm over his head and pushed up the visor. “Would you rather not be well guarded?”

Lorn studied himself in the looking glass. “I asked you to provide security for my wedding, not to invite an army to it.”

Perhaps Sean had overreacted. “Shall I have them stand down?”

Lorn squinted. “You say you’ve scoured the forest?”

“Aye.”

“And the pier?”

“Not a galley moored that isn’t accounted for.”

The old man batted his hand through the air. “Then there’s little for which to be concerned. Send your army home and keep a few steadfast guards.”

Sean knew better than to abandon all security. Aye, most of their work had been done, but to send the guard back to Dunollie would be folly. “You must be jesting. How am I to insure your safety?”

“You’re the best man with a blade I know.” Lorn appeared too relaxed—perhaps indulged in a tad too much whisky before donning his armor. “I do not want a cohort of men surrounding the chapel—it will look more like we’re attending a hanging than a wedding.”

Sean didn’t like it. Bloody hell, the man first asked him to provide security and then told him to send his men away. Ballocks to that.

Sean excused himself and found Angus in the great hall. “Lorn wants the guard hidden.”

“Pardon?” The man-at-arms nearly spat out his teeth with the force of his P.

“You heard me. He said to send our men home, but we didn’t scour the forest to walk away and let our enemies move into place.” Sean lowered his voice. “I’ve not informed him about Fraser.”

Angus held up his hands. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Tell the men to pull back—stay out of sight, all except a few. I want two guards at the chapel doors and escorts for Lorn and his bride along the path from the castle.”

Angus scratched his head. “Sounds like a lot of work for nothing. Where do you want me?”

“Lead the men in the forest. Remain mounted. If you hear the ram’s horn, you’ll ken what to do.”

“Aye, I bloody well ken what to do—ring Lorn’s neck. ’Tis a dangerous game he plays.”

“I do not like it either, but he’s our lord and master.”

“Aye and soon his daft son, Dugald, will be lording over us.”

Sean clamped his gauntleted hand on Angus’s shoulder. “Dugald Stewart is Lorn’s flesh and blood. ’Tis past time he was given his due.”

Angus’s expression grew dark. “He’s a bastard, just like…” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Och, bugger it.”

Sean puzzled while he watched his henchman march out the doors. Though a fine warrior, Angus allowed himself to grow emotional about things that shouldn’t concern him. So Lorn wanted to legitimize his only son? As far as Sean was concerned, the Stewart lord should have done it sooner.

After Sean rejoined the wedding party, they started for the castle with a small, but respectable assembly of knights. “Where is Dugald, m’lord?” Sean asked.

“He’s already at the chapel with his mother.” Lorn’s eyes sparked with pride. “I thought it would be best if he stood up for her.”

“Good thinking.” Sean gestured toward the door. “Shall we proceed?”

Once they exited the barbican bridge, the hair on Sean’s nape stood on end. His gaze shifted across the scene. He’d been a warrior too long to ignore the familiar warning. As they neared the chapel, sweat burned his underarms, a prickling sensation skittering across his skin. Sean grasped the hilt of his sword.

The townspeople lined the path, shaded by birch and oak trees. An anxious hum filled the air, akin to a beehive. All were eager to see the Lord of Lorn in his regalia. They placed flowers and flung rose petals before him, shouting congratulations and good tidings.

But still, that damned prickling needled at Sean’s neck.

Everything slowed. He looked right, then left. His steady breathing rushed in his ears. The sound of Lorn’s voice registered, but Sean couldn’t make out the words. Due to the clamminess of his skin, for a moment he thought he might have contracted an illness.

When the chapel door came into view, Sean stared at the guards posted outside it. They wore MacDougall colors with hauberks beneath and great helms atop their heads. He squinted—true, a number of his men possessed bucket-shaped helms, but Angus would have instructed them to remove them for this wedding duty. Such helms were worn on the battlefield alone.

“Did you hear me?” Lorn asked.

“Pardon, m’lord.” Sean blinked and shook his head. “I was assessing my men.”

“Me as well.” He pointed at the guards. “I daresay you are frightening my guests with this display of mettle.”

Sean ground his back molars. “Apologies. I’ll have them remove their helms after you’ve moved inside.”

“Aye? I’m sure that will make a fine impression once everyone is out of sight.” Lorn’s sarcasm was palpable.

“At least you will be wed knowing you are safe. I did not take your request lightly.” A bead of sweat drained into Sean’s eye.

Two paces before they reached the door, the guard nearest Sean shifted his battleax across his body—a defensive pose. Sean squinted at the eyes flickering under the concealing helm—eyes filled with hate. His gut clamped into a solid ball as he drew his sword. The guard advanced. Stepping in front of Lorn, Sean shielded the earl with his body and deflected a downward blow. Those eyes still glared at him with evil intent.

Sean’s attacker moved with lightning speed. With a swing of his sword, he met the battleax midair, slicing it in two. From his sleeves, the guard pulled two knives and advanced with the screech of a madman. Swinging his blade in an arc, Sean defended the attack, protecting Lorn’s right flank. He prayed to God, someone had the earl’s left. Around them, grunts of the fight escalated. Iron clanged to the rear and to his sides. Unable to avert his gaze, Sean defended the attack as knives slashed at his face.

Beside him, Lorn dropped, a hideous scream ripping through the air. Bellowing like a warrior, Sean swung his blade in an arc, cutting through the neck sinews of his attacker. The helm flew from the young man’s head. Gawen. A traitor after all.

Afforded a heartbeat to assess the battle, what Sean had seen through his side vision was confirmed. The Lord of Lorn clutched at his gut, blood streaming through his fingers.

“Sound the alarm!” Sean bellowed while he watched his men as they were cut down by an army that appeared from nowhere.

“Bring the priest. I will be wed before I draw my last breath,” Lorn wheezed.

Sean raced for the doors as a blow came from his right. Slamming the pommel of his dirk into his attacker’s skull, he continued on. The priest opened the door with Lorn’s bride. Her face contorted with fear as she looked past the holy man’s shoulder.

“I’ve killed the tyrant lord and now MacDougall will be mine!” From behind, MacCoul’s rasping voice attacked Sean’s every nerve.

His worst fears confirmed—the bastard had warned him with Fraser’s gruesome delivery.

“Recite the vows now. My son will be my heir!” Lorn shouted.

Sean spun to face the scourge who had plagued his every waking hour. The bastard who cared only for ruination, for destruction.

The priest’s Latin chants rang above the maelstrom, but Sean couldn’t stop. For an instant, Sean caught sight of MacCoul’s beady eyes glaring at him beneath the eye slits in the hideous helm. The bastard raised his sword and advanced on the bleeding and wounded lord.

Clenching his teeth, Sean launched himself at MacCoul, slamming his feet into his chest, knocking him from completing a blow intended to sever Lorn’s head. The blackguard skittered backward, but Sean didn’t hesitate. Rage propelling him forward, he advanced with relentless hacks of his blade.

Alan defended each blow, weakening with every strike. Sean would show no quarter this time. The menace would pay with his life. Alan fell to his backside. Sean pounced, pulling his blade up for the killing thrust.

A crack blasted in his ears, reverberating in his helm. The world shattered. Sean’s eyes rolled back as bitter bile burned his throat. His failing arms worked to continue with his strike, but his knees buckled before his blade connected with MacCoul’s neck.

As he hit ground, everything grew peaceful, quiet and black.

***

Alan MacCoul laughed out loud when Sean MacDougall dropped to the earth. Most of the guests stood around them, cowering with looks of horror on their faces. The pummeling of horse hooves shook the ground.

Alan’s gaze darted to the miserable Lord of Lorn, surrounded by guardsmen, taking his vows. One plan thwarted. At least the maggot won’t see out the night. I’ll deal with his sniveling offspring later.

“Riders,” Brus yelled, his voice echoing from beneath his great helm.

Trevor sprinted up, leading the horses. “Make haste.”

Alan grasped MacDougall under the arms. “Help me heft him.”

Brus kicked the Dunollie chieftain. “Do you think he’s dead?”

Alan strained with Sean’s weight. “I’ll take no chances.” He picked up MacDougall’s sword and secured it in his belt.

Together the three men draped MacDougall’s body over a horse. “Quickly. They’ll be upon us before we can blink.”

Alan and his band of renegades mounted and raced for Dunstaffnage’s barbican.

Behind them, Angus urged his men faster.

Alan clutched MacDougall’s reins tightly in his fist. The miserable bastard had best not be dead. He hasn’t suffered enough.

He buried his spurs deep into his horse’s barrel demanding more speed. Glancing over his shoulder, his gut clenched. Angus and the MacDougall army were gaining. Alan squinted against the wind whistling through his eye slits. The iron teeth of the portcullis loomed ahead, but if it didn’t close quickly, they’d have another battle on their hands. He could make it. “Lower the gate,” he bellowed. “Now!”

While he surged forward, he pulled the trailing horse alongside him. MacDougall’s body bounced and listed sideways. The cogs of the portcullis groaned and creaked to life as the teeth of the deadly gate inched downward. Alan dug in his heels and plastered his body against his mount’s neck. An iron spike scraped the back plate of his armor with a screech.

Once they cleared, the guardsmen let the gate drop with a resounding boom. Alan looked back. Angus and the MacDougall guards reined their horses to a halt. Alan motioned to an archer on the battlements.

The guard pointed his bow high and let his arrow soar. Alan grinned. Then his laugh thundered in his helm. His plan had been executed flawlessly—except for Lorn. But Alan would solve that minor detail at a later date. At least Dugald Stewart was a sniveling maggot who deserved to be a bastard.

All in all, he had won. While the miserable wedding party processed, his men had slipped in and taken Dunstaffnage Castle from under MacDougall’s nose. Soon all would know the truth and Alan would become the rightful Chieftain of Dunollie. And once Dugald has been dispatched, the king will grant me the Lordship of Lorn.

Alan’s men dismounted in Dunstaffnage’s inner bailey and removed their helms. Shoving them in the air, the cry of victory echoed between the old castle walls.

Alan’s throat tightened, though he forced a frown. He dismounted. “We’re not finished yet. Is the blacksmith ready?”

“Aye, m’lord,” said Trevor, bowing deeply.

“Brus, you’re in charge of the siege until my return. Trevor, bring two strong men and come with me. MacDougall weighs more than a pregnant heifer.”

A burly warrior stepped forward. “I’ll carry him, m’lord.”

Alan smirked and assessed the man’s form. “I like a man with ambition. Follow me.”

Heading toward the last phase of his coup, Alan led a small group of men as they slipped out a long forgotten sea gate and into a waiting birlinn.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sean’s head throbbed as if his skull had been bludgeoned on the inside. He tried to open his eyes, but the slightest movement tortured him with relentless pounding. Everything hurt. Points of his flesh ached like he was resting on a bed of iron rivets. He shivered against the cold. The air smelled of dirt and rotting seaweed. Water dripped in the distance.

Am I in a dungeon?

The thought made his head throb so badly, his stomach churned. Sean swallowed, another movement that made him wish for death. If the banging inside his head grew any worse, it would kill him for certain.

Though the air was dank, his lips were chapped, his mouth dry. How long have I been unconscious?

A light flashed and a vision of a battle passed through Sean’s mind. The last he remembered, he’d been in a cutthroat fight to save Lorn. The earl was stabbed, but called for the priest.

A drop of water splashed on Sean’s nose. Sniffing, he tried to move his hand, but his arm hit cold iron. His eyes flashed open. Iron bars blocked his view. He again tried to move his arm—turn his head, but he couldn’t move. Even his legs were encased in irons. Nervous sweat oozed across his skin. My God, wake me from this nightmare.

A contemptible laugh echoed off the walls and increased the pounding in Sean’s head. His skin crawled. Only one man had such a distasteful, grating rasp to his voice. Alan MacCoul.

“I wondered if you would give me the satisfaction of waking.”

Sean’s jaw tightened as he focused his glare on the dark figure sitting across from him.

“It would have been rather disappointing if you had died before I had my say.”

“You’ll hang for this,” Sean growled through clenched teeth, his vision blurring with every throb of his skull.

Alan smirked. “I think not.”

“You’ve murdered the Lord of Lorn.”

“Aye.” Alan looked at his fingernails. “But not before he managed to make that miserable lout his heir.”

“Dugald was his firstborn.”

Alan sniffed. “Och aye, how valiant of John Stewart to recognize his bastard son before he drew his last breath.”

Sean clenched his fist—at least the irons provided enough room for one simple motion. So, Alan had been successful with his attempt to kill the earl? Evidently the slimy maggot had more than one score to settle. Sean forced down his urge to heave and shifted his eyes to scan his surroundings. This was not a dungeon, it was a bloody cave. “Where are we?”

“On my father’s miserable island. The place where he wanted me to settle and raise a flock of sheep. Kerrera.”

“Your father?” He kens who his father is? Sean’s mind engaged. “But Kerrera is Dunollie land.”

“Aye, and unofficially given to me by our father. The louse couldn’t even bother to make a grant of land legal.”

Sean closed his eyes and tried to shake his head, only to be met with cold iron rivets stabbing his temples. “Did you say our?”

“You miserable wretch.” Alan prodded Sean in the ribs with a stick. “Our father never recognized me as the firstborn son. For years I stood by and watched him mollycoddle you, give you the best of everything whilst I was doled out the scraps. The bastard was even too embarrassed to recognize my birthright on his deathbed.”

“I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t. You were always too wrapped up in your own spoilt self to give a damn about anything or anyone. I stood by and watched you learn to ride the finest horses whilst I was given a nag. You had the finest clothes, the finest weapons, and I received a bent sword thrown out by one of Father’s guards.” Alan held up the Chieftain of Dunollie’s sword. “But this one I shall keep for myself.”

Sean swallowed. He had a brother? But Alan had gone too far, blood kin or nay. He attempted to move his arms, but was held back by riveted irons digging into his flesh. “Why did you not tell me?”

An ugly chuckle resounded between the cave walls bringing back Sean’s headache full force. “Me? Tell you we’re kin? Oh no. You need to pay for all your years of tyranny—all of Father’s favors—every last farthing in the Dunollie coffers.” Alan poked him again. Sean’s ribs throbbed. How long had MacCoul been jabbing him with that stick? “When you cut off my funds, you tore away the last shred of my…ah…affection.”

Sean closed his eyes and grimaced. Angus and Murdach knew. But something was still amiss. Alan had attacked him before Sean uncovered the missing coin. “You are the lowest of whoresons. I cannot believe Angus and Murdach conspired with you.”

The bastard had the gall to laugh again. “You’re jesting. Those miserable sops wouldn’t assuage their loyalty to Dunollie for all the coin in Scotland.”

So they were protecting Father. “How did you slip past the Dunollie guard?”

Alan smirked. “Your pitiful guard.” He threw his head back and howled. “I’ve a loyal man or two within your ranks.”

“Gawen.”

“Aye,” he chuckled. “Wearing great helms and your colors, not even Angus knew the difference.” Alan raised his damned stick, but hesitated. “I’d have been able to take Dunstaffnage much more easily if Angus wasn’t such a loyal prick.”

In a burst of rage, Sean rattled the irons with all his strength. “You traitor!” he roared. “You’ve taken Dunstaffnage?” If only he could grab that stick and shove it down the bastard’s throat. What more was this monster accountable for? I’ll hang every single backstabber in my ranks.

“Aye and next I’ll take Dunollie.” Alan leaned over, his nose so close, the man’s foul breath seeped across Sean’s face. “Once word of the lands denied me reaches his royal highness, he’ll have no recourse but to name me Chieftain of Dunollie and Lord of Lorn.”

Coughing against the stench, Sean glared. “You’ve gone completely mad.” King James will never grant lands to a bastard—especially one who used force to seize the king’s property.

Alan probed with the stick—harder this time. “Angry as hell, but not mad, brother.”

Sean closed his eyes and swallowed his urge to bellow. MacCoul had not only proven he was a raving lunatic, he was capable of the most heinous crimes imaginable. Sean’s back sunk into cold iron rivets. Though unable to move his head, he knew the trickles sliding down his skin were blood. “So ’tis the death of a lowlife for me, then?” Sean kept his voice steady, but inside he wanted to bellow, wring the cur’s neck and tell him exactly what he thought of his miserable coup.

“’Tis what you deserve.” The cold stare in MacCoul’s black eyes made Sean shudder.

If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was being cosseted—a mummy wrapped in iron. Again he shuddered. A blend of sweat and blood oozed from his temple to his mouth. He had to get out. He clenched every muscle in his body and stared. He hated to utter kind words to a madman, but it was Sean’s last hope. “Release me now and together we will rule Dunollie lands.” He forced a smile. “Think on it. Together we’ll be more powerful than our ancestors. We’ll take back the Lordship of the Isles and rule the Highlands.”

Alan smirked. “I’ve an army of two hundred, and every day more fighting men frustrated with our weakling king come to me begging for a place in my guard.”

Christ, things grew worse with Alan’s every word. Sean clenched his teeth against the throbbing pain and strained with all his might to break the irons. God in heaven, he needed to ring Alan’s bloody neck. “You’ll never get away with this,” he seethed.

When Alan stood, Sean focused on the sword in Alan’s belt—the same one he was given at their father’s funeral. “Well, little brother.” The bastard whacked the stick over the top of Sean’s head, splintering it on the irons. “You won’t be around to witness my success. Everyone saw me spirit your body into Dunstaffnage Castle. Little did they know I uncovered an ancient sea gate on the firth side.”

Stars clouding his vision, his heart could have exploded. The bastard intended to leave him for a rat’s feast? Sean strained his arms against the welded irons encasing them. He fought and jerked his entire body, but the welds held firm.

Alan stood back and crossed his arms. “Fight all you like. The smithy made your cage impenetrable. You will die here.” He set a cup of water beyond Sean’s reach. “Be it from thirst or starvation, I do not much care, as long as your death is a painful one.”

Ice pulsed through Sean’s veins. Death gibbeted by irons was the most torturous demise imaginable. Buzzards would peck out his eyes before he succumbed, rats would feast upon his flesh. “You wouldn’t,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Alan threw the broken stick against the cave wall and strode away, the rumble of his laugh crawling up Sean’s skin.

He drew in gasps of breath while he turned his head side to side, inhibited by strips of iron. God on the cross, even Alan wouldn’t stoop so low. “Give me a knight’s death! Please brother, if you have a soul, you will not leave me to face the vilest coward’s death!”

Sean strained with all his might but the irons budged not an inch. Sweat streamed into his eyes and across his flesh. His lips trembled with every sharp inhale. He fought again, this time, the rivets stabbing him with unyielding bites.

“You cannot leave me here!”

***

Gyllis responded so well to Meg’s warm compresses that two days ago she’d started walking without assistance. She’d taken to forcing herself to climb the tower steps to the wall-walk and pacing around the battlements. The ascent was strenuous, but every day the effort grew a wee bit easier. From the top of Kilchurn’s walls, Gyllis could see for miles, spotting riders by land or boats approaching down the long and narrow Loch Awe.

She’d hoped Sean would have paid a visit at least one more time before the Lord of Lorn’s wedding, but she understood how a chieftain must attend his responsibilities. She clapped her hands together and held her fingers to her lips with a smile. He’d be so impressed with her progress. She had a horrible limp, but one day she would grow so strong no one would ever know she’d suffered paralysis.

Amid one of her daily walks, Gyllis strode along the back of the castle wall-walk, which had a glorious view of Loch Awe. When the ram’s horn sounded, she snapped her head toward the lead guard positioned on the wall across the courtyard, but she couldn’t see beyond the stone battlements. Running her hand over the merlon notches, she hastened her pace. By the time she reached the front of the castle, she gasped to catch her breath.

Patting her chest with her hand, she peered down the long path that led from the west to the castle. Sean! Horses cantered with haste, flying the Dunollie pennant. Gyllis couldn’t make out the riders, but there was no need. Sean had come at last.

She raced for the stairwell. Her toe caught on a raised edge of stone. Flinging her arms out, Gyllis grabbed the craggy stone to stop her momentum. Her fingers latched onto the battlement ledge while her body flailed midair. Clenching her teeth, she prepared herself for the jarring impact.

An arm wrapped around her waist as thick chainmail cut into her back. “’Tis probably best not to try to run yet, lassie,” a gruff voice said.

Firm hands gripped her shoulders and Gyllis glanced up. Sir Mevan smiled upon her with his careworn face. “My thanks.”

He knit his thick eyebrows together. “Where are your crutches?”

“I’ve no longer a need for them.”

He eyed her like a concerned father. “Then you must take care. It hasn’t been all that long since I carried you to your chamber stricken with the first symptoms of paralysis.”

She bowed her head and curtsied. “Thank you for reminding me. I shall exercise more care in the future.” Her heart fluttered so fast, she hated to think of slowing her pace before she reached the bottom of the tower stairs. If only she could speed her recovery even more.

Mevan waved her away and Gyllis limped to the stairwell, using the wall for balance. When finally she arrived in the great hall, Duncan was escorting Angus and a few other Dunollie guardsmen into his solar. She knit her brows and stared at the keep’s double doors. Surely Sean would be among them. Discounting her idea to go to the courtyard and look for Sean’s horse, she hastened to the solar door.

The voices within were filled with muffled turmoil. She pressed her ear to the door to better hear them.

“’Tis grave indeed m’lord.” Angus’s weathered baritone was clearer now.

“The Lord of Lorn is murdered and the Chieftain of Dunollie captured?” Duncan’s voice asked.

Gyllis clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. Sean captured? Lorn dead? She couldn’t breathe.

“Aye. All of Dunstaffnage is under siege.”

My God, could it be worse?

“I never on my life thought MacCoul had the wherewithal to follow through with his threats,” Duncan said. “The piss-swilling whoreson.”

“Not even Sir Sean’s father would have been able to turn a blind eye to Alan’s treachery now.”

“What say you?” Duncan asked. “Sean’s complaints of his father turning a blind eye are founded?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“But why the devil did the old man allow it?”

“Laird Alan MacDougall swore me to secrecy with his last breath…Please m’lord, consider his given name. If you think on it, you cannot help but guess.”

After a long moment of silence, Gyllis pressed her ear harder. Mother stepped beside her with an alarmed look and did the same.

“By God,” Duncan said. “Alan MacDougall sired a bastard?”

“An elder bastard—one blind with rage and hell-bent on revenge.” Footsteps clamored toward the door. “We’ve no time to waste. We must away to Dunstaffnage at once.”

Gyllis clutched her arms around her midsection when the door opened, her eyes wide, the two women facing Duncan’s grim stare. Her gaze darted from her brother to Angus. “W-where is Sir Sean?”

Duncan marched past them. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Och aye, it does.” Gyllis limped beside him with Mother right behind. “I love him. I-I must go to him at once.”

Duncan pointed to Mevan. “Assemble the guard. We leave within the hour.” Then he grasped Gyllis’s shoulders. “You and I will have words about the source of your ill-grown feelings upon my return.”

“You cannot leave me here.” She pushed Duncan’s hands away. “I must go.”

“I ken you’re not daft, sister. What good would a crippled woman be amongst an army of Campbell men?”

“But—”

“I said no,” he bellowed. “Your place is here with your mother. Do not make me confine you to quarters.”

Ma patted Gyllis’s shoulder. “Come, dear, be reasonable. You must leave the fighting to the men.”

Gyllis clapped a hand over her mouth. Locked in her chamber, she could be of no use to Sean. Worse, she’d be in the dark with no news of the siege. She threw a pleading glance at Angus. “Will Sir Sean be all right?”

The henchman shook his head, his eyes filled with fear. “I’ve no idea if he’s even still alive, miss.”

Gasping, Gyllis could have jumped out of her skin. Tears stung her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Sean was in trouble and she was forbidden to go to him? Surely she could be of help. Somehow. No one could expect her to remain behind. “Duncan, please. I can cook, or mend or…or be a healer.” Her head spun. “I’ve been tended to so much these past months, I’ve had a lifetime of education in the healing arts.”

Mother grasped Gyllis’s arm and pulled her toward the stairwell.

“This cannot be happening.” She snapped her gaze to Ma’s face. “If Alan captured Sean, he’ll kill him.”

She couldn’t breathe. The room started spinning.

“Fetch Lady Meg,” Mother shouted at a serving maid. “Tell her Gyllis needs a calming tincture.”

“I do not!” Gyllis wrenched her arm away. Sobbing, she attempted to dash after Duncan, but her knees gave out and she fell, sprawling over the floorboards. “Blast my weakness!” The world was shattering around her and her miserable legs were too weak to withstand it.

Mother crouched beside Gyllis and patted her back. “I ken how worried you are, but Duncan is right. The men will face Alan MacCoul and rescue Sir Sean.”

“But what if he’s already dead?” The words caught in her throat as if placed there by Satan. An uncontrollable whimper seeped through her clenched teeth. Every extremity shook. This couldn’t be happening. Sean had to be all right.

Offering her hand, Mother helped Gyllis up. “If Alan MacCoul kills Sir Sean, he is more of a fool than the lot of us believe. He’ll have nothing with which to bargain.”

“He may very well be a fool.” Gyllis grasped her mother’s arm and together the two women staggered up the stairs. “The man is consumed by hate.”

Once inside her chamber, Gyllis still couldn’t breathe. “How can you appear so calm? Sir Sean has been a part of this family for years.”

Mother gestured to the settee. “It is not that I choose to do nothing. Our role is to wait and pray for not only the Chieftain of Dunollie’s health, but for a quick victory by Duncan and our men so they all return home to their families.” She sat. “Where is Meg with that tincture?”

Gyllis’s limp became more pronounced as she paced. “I do not need a mind-numbing tonic.” What she needed was to be on a horse heading west.

“Sit down before you fall,” Mother ordered, her tone growing irritated. She patted the seat beside her. “Come. Let us read The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle. You’ve told me so much about it, I’m anxious to hear the story for myself.”

Gyllis plopped beside Ma. “I cannot possibly read at a time like this.”

“Perhaps if I read, the story will help calm you.”

Gyllis clamped her mouth shut and nodded. She was about to jump out of her skin and Ma wanted to read?

“You are smitten with Sir Sean,” Mother said, as if she’d just figured it out, but Gyllis knew better than to think her mother dim-witted. And the matron had only returned from Helen’s wedding last eve. Helen had promised to hint at Gyllis’s yen to marry Sean, but Ma was shrewd and Gyllis had best play along. Besides, the woman knew everything that went on under Kilchurn’s eaves. If a pin dropped, Ma would know about it.

“I care for him. I always have.” Since Sean had not approached Duncan about their engagement, she wouldn’t make such a confession now.

“And he cares for you,” Mother said. “I am still surprised to know he had your crutches made. I must speak to Duncan about…” her voice trailed off.

Gyllis chanced a glance in Mother’s direction. “About?”

Ma batted her hand through the air. “’Tis nothing. This mess with Mr. MacCoul must be settled first. Come, read to me.”

Before Gyllis opened the book, Meg rushed in, carrying a cup and pitcher. “My heavens. I came as soon as the twins were settled.”

Gyllis held up her hands. “I do not need a tincture. Ma was overreacting.”

“I should say not.” Meg poured a cup of her potion. “You must be worried to death. Take this—you’ll feel much better.”

Gyllis took the cup and grimaced. “I honestly would prefer—”

“Drink it,” Mother commanded. “We all could use a tot. The lot of us are worried half to death.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Gyllis had no idea what time it was when she woke. Meg’s tincture had her dozing before she finished reading the first page of The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle. From her bed, she peered around her chamber. The others must have made it to their rooms because she was alone.

After lighting the candle, Gyllis slipped out of bed, her toes hitting cold floorboards. It didn’t make a difference that they were in the midst of summer, night air still brought a chill. She gathered the plaid from the foot of her bed and lumbered toward the window embrasure. Pulling aside the furs, a moonbeam glistened blue-white on Loch Awe.

She strained for a glimpse of the eastern sky. From what she could tell, it was close to midnight. The sun wouldn’t make an appearance for some time. Dropping the curtain, she rubbed her eyes to clear her head from the poppy juice or whatever it was Meg had drugged her with.

She clutched the plaid tighter around her body and faced the door.

Then a clammy sensation of dread spread across her skin, so powerful, it was as if a ghost had passed over her soul.

Gyllis froze.

“I will imprison you in irons and laugh while your body rots in a dank cave.” The vow Alan swore when Sean defeated him at Beltane rang so clear in her mind, it was as if she’d heard the words spoken aloud right there in her bedchamber.

Had Alan been planning this even before Sean’s father passed? She clenched her fists. Will Duncan remember? I may limp, but I have a strong mind and I know of no one with a more determined will.

But traveling alone during the day was dangerous. Who knew how much more perilous the twenty-mile trip would be at night…and for a woman.

At once she knew what must be done.

Gyllis hastened to her dressing table and quickly braided her hair. She could not allow anything to impede her determination this time or she’d never spirit past the gate.

After donning a pair of sturdy boots, she cast the plaid aside. Not even bothering to wrap herself in a dressing gown, she headed for Duncan’s chamber.

Gyllis cracked open the door and peered inside. The room was so dim, she could scarcely make out the four-poster bed, but she heard breathing. Since they’d been wed, Lady Meg had taken to staying in Duncan’s chamber. They used the adjoining “lady’s” bedchamber for a nursery.

Slipping inside, Gyllis held up her candle and stared at the bed, watching for any sign of movement. She didn’t dare shut the door. A click of the hasp could ruin her plans. As quietly as she could, she tiptoed to the trunk where Duncan stowed his things, and set the candle on a nearby table.

The flame didn’t cast much light and the contents of the trunk were dark as a dungeon. Sliding her hands over the clothing on top, then down the sides, grainy leather brushed her fingertips. Breeks. Her heart leapt as she tugged the trousers from beneath the pile. Holding them out, she stepped into the legs, shoving her shift through the waistband. When she released, the breeks slipped low around her hips. Still too large.

She turned toward the candle and examined the waistline. A cord swung, catching the light. If only I had more experience with men’s garments. She found a matching cord on the other side and tied the breeks snugly around her waist. It felt awkward to have the bulk of her shift scrunched about her hips, but at least the linen filled up some of the extra space. She’d never realized how much larger Duncan was.

Her eyes adjusting to the dim light, she had an easier time locating a linen shirt—right on top. She pulled it over her head then tugged the laces closed and looked down. The shirt was large enough to hide her bosoms for the most part—and she couldn’t spare the time to bind them. With one last dip into the trunk, she found one of Duncan’s quilted doublets. By the musty smell, it had been well worn, but would help conceal her form. She shrugged into the oversized garment and rolled up the sleeves to her wrists.

Once assembled, she inspected her attire and pointed a toe to the side. I think this will do. Now all I need is a hood. She drummed her fingers against her lips. If only she’d kept her plaid. She’d never seen Duncan wear a hood. He either wore a feathered bonnet as a sign of his barony, or a helm. She picked up the candle and searched inside the trunk one more time, but found nothing resembling a hood.

Biting her lip, she turned toward the bed. Lady Meg lay on her side with the bedclothes pulled up to her chin. All Gyllis needed to do was walk across the floor and pull the plaid from the footboard.

Easy enough.

Taking her first steps proved awkward. She’d never worn a pair of breeks before. The leather chafed her inner thighs. With her next footfall, her ankle twisted. She stumbled toward the bed, but caught herself before she fell. Had that happened a sennight ago, she would have fallen for certain.

Gyllis held her breath and peered at Lady Meg. By God’s grace, the woman remained sound asleep. Drawing in a calming breath, Gyllis picked up the plaid, bundled it under her arm and headed for the passageway.

She’d nearly made it to the door when a floorboard creaked loud enough to wake the dead.

Behind her, the bed rattled and Meg gasped. “Who’s there?” she clipped in a high-pitched voice.

Gyllis stopped and glanced back.

Sitting up, Meg had the bedclothes clutched under her chin. “Gyllis? What are you doing?”

“Nothing—go back to sleep.”

“Why are you wearing breeks?”

Gyllis inched toward the door. “Please, just ignore me.”

“Are those Duncan’s?” Meg crawled across the bed. “What are you planning? I ken that look on your face.”

With a groan, Gyllis shook out the plaid and draped it over her head. “I cannot sit in my chamber and wait for news of Sir Sean. The worry alone will kill me.”

“You’re not planning to spirit to Dunstaffnage by yourself?”

“What else can I do?”

Meg crossed her arms and affected a disapproving frown. “’Tis dangerous.”

“If anyone in this entire household would understand, ’tis you. Goodness, I remember when you drugged your guard to help Duncan escape from Edinburgh gaol.”

She tsked her tongue. “Aye, but that was different.”

“Was it?” Gyllis spread her palm to her side. “How can you say that? Do you know how much I love Sean? Remaining in my chamber is torture. I’ve no idea if he’s injured or…or, I can’t say it. If I do nothing I will go completely mad.”

Meg slid off the bed and walked toward her. “If you must go, you should take a guard.”

“Why, so he can lock me in my chamber—listen to Duncan and Mother’s every word?”

“Heaven’s stars. You should look at yourself. You’ve been ill for so long.” Her eyes dropped to Gyllis’s legs. “You still have a limp—still weak.”

Meg’s words only served to cement Gyllis’s determination. Everyone would cite her illness as reason for her to be cosseted in her chamber. No one would allow her the freedom she needed. She reached for Meg’s deformed hand—the claw, she called it. “Of all others in this family who should be able to sympathize with me, ’tis you.” Meg had been mollycoddled by her family and feared by society because of her hand.

Meg tugged her claw away and rubbed it. “Will you not wait until morning?”

“Nay. I cannot risk someone seeing me.”

“Very well.” Meg took Gyllis’s candle and headed toward the garderobe. “Then I will go with you.”

Gyllis hobbled after her. She wouldn’t make it far without that candle. “What about the bairns? You cannot leave.”

Meg stepped into a kirtle and began tying the laces. “It shan’t be but for a few days. The nurse will look after Elizabeth and Colin. Besides, this gives me an excuse to see Duncan—he may need a healer—and he’s been away ever so much during my confinement.”

“Oh no, I cannot in good conscience approve of this. What if something happened to you? Duncan would never forgive me.”

Meg pulled a cloak over her shoulders. “Either we go together or I raise the alarm now.”

“You are wicked.” Gyllis clapped a hand to her chest. “I’d die if you were hurt. How can I convince you to stay?”

“You cannot.” Meg tugged another black cloak from a peg. “This is Duncan’s. It’ll be more concealing than that plaid you’ve got draped over your head. Put it on whilst I pen a missive to Lady Margaret. If we go without leaving word, she’ll send all of Argyllshire after us.”

Gyllis hadn’t thought to leave a note, but she wondered if Mother wouldn’t send an army to bring them back regardless. But then, Duncan was surrounded by his elite guard and Gyllis couldn’t worry about Ma’s reaction now. She would not return to Kilchurn until Sean was found.

On their way out, Meg insisted they stop by the kitchen and fill a satchel with oatcakes and fetch a flagon of watered wine. What they hadn’t counted on was the guard watching them approach the stables.

“What are you doing up at this hour, m’lady?” he asked of Meg, crossing his arms.

Meg’s intelligent eyes flashed toward Gyllis. Mayhap it was a blessing Duncan’s spirited wife opted to come along. “Fetch Mevan. We’ve an urgent message for Lord Duncan and need an escort to Dunstaffnage this night.”

The man didn’t move. “Can you not send a messenger? ’Tis dangerous to travel at night.”

“You heard me. I’ll not tolerate your impertinence. You will fetch Mevan or I will be forced to do it myself, after which, I will assure you, I’ll assign you to the very unsavory task of cleaning the middens.”

The guard gave her a good stare and then dropped his arms to his sides. “I’ll wake him, m’lady, but he will not be happy about it.”

Gyllis waited until the man was out of earshot. “I thought we said no guards. Mevan is liable to wake Mother.”

Meg grinned and held up her finger. “He won’t if he is with us.”

“Now I ken why Duncan says your spirit matches the color of your hair.”

After they’d ventured into the stables, Mevan marched in, growling under his breath. “What is this, you need to take a message to Duncan? If you have something urgent to say, it would be best delivered by a messenger.”

Lady Meg faced him with her fists on her hips. “I am the lady of this keep and when the lord is away, you will do my bidding. Miss Gyllis and I have business to attend at Dunstaffnage, and that is all you need to know.”

The big knight pursed his lips. “Very well. If it cannot wait until morning, you ladies will need spirited horses—ones that can outrun an attack if need be.”

Lady Meg bowed her head. “I will leave that to your wisdom. Please select horses you deem suitable.”

Mevan looked a bit less grumpy after her acquiescence. But then he assessed Gyllis with a guffaw. “Might I suggest Miss Gyllis remain behind?”

She stepped toward him. “I will not. I can ride far better than I can walk.”

Mevan frowned dubiously.

“She must come along,” Meg argued. “Now let us saddle the horses.”

Gyllis could have slammed her fist into the henchman’s big nose. She’d been right to try to slip away without anyone knowing. If Meg weren’t there she wouldn’t have made it out of the stable. And how dare Mevan look at her as if she were an invalid, of no use whatsoever?

Mevan held up a dagger. “You’d best take this. If anyone makes a go for you, slam it into his wrist like this.” He demonstrated with a downward strike.

Gyllis nodded and accepted the knife while Meg armed herself with a bow and quiver of arrows—though she had a crippled hand, Meg was an excellent markswoman, using her “claw” to pull back the bowstring.

Once mounted, Mevan took the lead, holding a torch. “We’ll ride at a walk.”

Gyllis’s mount skittered sideways. The fine-boned colt couldn’t be more than two. He whinnied and snorted through his big nostrils. “This fella wants to run.”

“Rein him in and he’ll follow my warhorse. With luck on our side, we’ll disappoint the colt and arrive at Dunstaffnage without incident.”

Gyllis kept the horse’s head down, and as Mevan said, the colt followed his gelding. Though angry at their slow pace, at least they were on their way, and at this rate, she estimated they’d reach the castle about dawn. Thank heavens Sean had run the outlaws out of Fearnoch Forest. Their journey should be a smooth one.

***

The witching hour, they called it. Gyllis could barely keep her eyes open and the sway of the horse did nothing to help her stay awake. Ahead, Meg was hunched over and Gyllis suspected she was asleep. But Mevan sat tall in the saddle, still holding the torch to light their way.

Fortunately, the moon peeked through the wisps of clouds sailing above to help light the path. The eerie night shrouded the forest with dark blue hues.

He was a good man, Mevan. He’d been loyal to the Campbells for years. Mother never traveled without him. Regardless if he’d questioned Gyllis’s abilities, he’d still done their bidding and she formed a new respect for the old henchman.

Something flickered out of the corner of her eye. Gyllis peered into the shadows and squinted. She saw it again—something shiny caught the light from Mevan’s torch, perhaps twenty paces away. The more she stared, the clearer it became. Someone was following them. Someone clad in a breastplate with a very large sword.

“Outlaws!” she screeched, demanding a gallop from her horse.

Meg bolted upright and followed.

Mevan glanced back and cast the torch aside. “We’ll outrun them,” he bellowed.

In the blink of an eye, the trio sped through the wood with Gyllis in the lead. She hoped to God her horse knew the way, because the path was flying past so quickly, she couldn’t be sure of each twist and turn.

“Faster!” Mevan bellowed from the rear.

Gyllis slapped her crop against the horse’s rump. “Run for your life, you wee beasty!”

The forest thinned and the path became clearer in the moonlight. Gyllis dared a glance behind. Meg was close on her heels, the whites of her eyes round as silver coins. Mevan had replaced the torch with his sword, but Gyllis didn’t see the outlaw. No matter, she didn’t slow to give the blackguard an opportunity to catch up.

When Gyllis recognized the farmhouse on the outskirts of the village, she slowed her horse to a trot and Mevan rode in beside her. “’Tis safe now, lass.”

The sky had turned violet with the coming dawn and the old guard smiled a weathered grin. Gyllis returned his grin. “Thank you, sir knight. Your assistance will not go unrewarded.”

He tipped his head. “My reward is your safety, Miss Gyllis. I carried the pails of hot water on the day of your birth whilst your mother labored. You may not be aware of it, but you’re as dear to me as my own children.”

She stared at his back as he rode ahead and led them into the encampment. Yes, the old guard was a good man and now she knew why her mother trusted him with their lives.

***

After they found Duncan’s tent and Meg announced their arrival, Gyllis’s brother shoved the flap aside and glared at them both. Gyllis could have sworn a fire flickered in his dark eyes, his black hair mussed by sleep, all the while his face grew redder until his angry stare focused on Meg. “What the devil were you thinking? Why are you here? What about the twins? How could you have ridden all that way in the dark of night?”

Gyllis stammered. “I…we…” did he have to look so exceedingly angry?

“Are those my clothes?” Duncan snatched the hem of his—Gyllis’s doublet. “Merciful holy Christ—”

“Stop.” Meg held up her hands. “If you’d take a breath, I might gain a fleeting moment to explain.”

He rolled his hand with a heated, yet expectant look.

“Firstly, the bairns will be fine in their nurse’s arms for a few days, especially with your mother’s constant doting. Besides, I can be of more use to you here—”

“We must find Sir Sean,” Gyllis interrupted.

“Tell me something I do not already know.” Duncan’s steely gaze shifted her way. “Alan MacCoul has him in Dunstaffnage’s dungeon.”

Gyllis wrung her hands. “I do not believe so.”

Duncan guffawed with his sneer. “So you think you know better than a dozen witnesses? Does wearing my clothing suddenly make you an expert?” He frowned, looking her over from head to toe. “Stay here. I’ll fetch the guard to take you home.” He started away and shook his finger. “But you’ll be taking good men away from their posts.”

“We are not leaving,” Lady Meg called after him, but he proceeded on, marching like he was mad enough to kick a wounded dog.

Meg grasped Gyllis’s arm. “You know something.”

She drew in a ragged breath and nodded. “I remembered what Alan MacCoul said when he and Sean fought at Beltane—told him he would watch Sean die in irons whilst rotting in a cave.”

“Why did you not tell Duncan?”

“If he’d given me a chance, I would have—but he wouldn’t listen anyway. He never listens to me.” Gyllis peered over her shoulder. “I must find Angus. He’ll help me.”

“Go. I’ll set Duncan’s priorities. Do what you must.”

Gyllis caught her hand. “Thank you.”

***

The morning’s mist had begun to lift while Gyllis hastened through the camp, searching for the MacDougall pennant. She stumbled over an exposed tree root. Stutter-stepping, she tried to catch her balance, but her legs wouldn’t work fast enough. With a yelp, she fell hands-first. Pain shot up through her wrists. Clenching her teeth, she rubbed them.

“Bloody Christmas, stumbling over a wee branch?” a deep voice cursed behind her. “Were you in your cups all night, lad?”

Gyllis blinked, remembering she looked more lad than lass. She tugged the hood lower over her forehead. “Nay. The nasty thing caught the tip of my boot,” she said in her deepest voice.

The man walked around front of her, but Gyllis kept her head low and stared at his feet. “You’re just a lad. What is your business here? You could be hurt.”

“I’ve a message for Angus, the MacDougall henchman.”

“Oh do you now?” The man offered a weathered hand. “Then you best be telling me what it is.”

“’Tis only for his ears.” As she took his hand, Gyllis peered out from under her hood and gasped.

With a startled gasp, Angus tugged her up and stepped forward. “Miss Gyllis, what are you doing here? All matter of harm could befall you. This is an army camp—no place for a lady.”

She stamped her foot. “That is why I’m dressed as a man.”

“I’m afraid your disguise will not protect you for long. You’re too bonny to mistake for a lad.”

Gyllis swallowed her smile. She’d seen a bonny lad or two in her lifetime. Not that Sean looked feminine—but heaven help her, that he was bonny was not to be argued. She cupped a hand alongside her mouth so she’d not be overheard. It wouldn’t be surprising if there were spies about. “Do you know of a cave nearby?”

“Aye, there are a few.”

“Any that are secluded where a man wouldn’t be found—perhaps on Dunollie land?”

Angus wrapped his fingers around his greying beard and tugged. “I don’t ken…I seem to recall a cave on Kerrera—in the Firth of Lorn just south of the castle. On a clear day you can see it from the shore. But ’tis just an undeveloped island. There’s nothing on it.”

“Kerrera? That must be it.” She grasped his arm and recited Alan MacCoul’s threat.

Angus continued to scratch his beard. “Aye, but everyone saw Alan’s men haul him into the castle.”

“Did you see this as well?”

“Nay, I was patrolling the forest when the attack happened.”

“Is it impossible for Alan to have spirited Sean to Kerrera?”

“Well, nothing’s impossible, I suppose.” Angus glanced in the direction of Duncan’s tent. “But the Lord of Glenorchy is planning an attack soon, cannons should be arriving from Castle Stalker in a day. Once we storm the castle, we’ll find the chieftain, I’m certain of it.”

“Cannons?” Gyllis peered through the trees at the Dunstaffnage battlements. “Is that why we haven’t driven them out yet?”

“We’ve tried.” He pointed. “Every time we move within shooting distance, the bastards rain arrows upon us. Duncan also sent a missive to the Earl of Argyll requesting more targes to protect our men on the battering ram.”

“When will the shields arrive?”

“Today, God willing.”

“Please.” Gyllis clasped her palms together. “All I ask is that we sail to Kerrera to look in the cave. You’ll be back before Duncan even discovers you’re missing.”

“I’d like to help you, lass, but Sean MacDougall is shivering in Dunstaffnage’s dungeon—not in the bloody cave on Kerrera. I can feel it in my bones.” He grasped her elbow. “Come, I’ll take you to your brother and he can organize an escort to take you home.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Two days. Sean licked his bleeding lips with a coarse and dry tongue. Another day without water and he’d be dead for certain. Everything ached. The rivets knifing into his flesh had already worn ulcers. His neck was stiff. Even the slightest movement of his chin caused a jabbing pain that made his teeth ache.

Immobile, the irons affixed to the cave wall, he had a sense of how Christ had suffered on the cross.

The ulcers and aches Sean could bear, but thirst consumed his mind. The cold and damp were but a minor inconvenience compared to his need for water. The ceaseless dripping behind him tortured his tongue to the point where Sean tried to lick moisture from the iron bar across his mouth.

Mucous drained from his nose, yet he was helpless to wipe it, helpless even to tend to his most basic needs. His skin chafed and the odor of his own piss mixed with the stench of rotting seaweed around him plagued his guts with the urge to heave.

Sean closed his eyes and willed himself to think of Gyllis. Her memory calmed him. Taking in a shaky breath, he pictured her long chestnut tresses when they caught the wind. His fingers could feel the silkiness of her hair, his cracked lips the pillow-softness of her mouth. If only he could travel back in time to the carefree days at Ardchattan when they would sit together in the garden.

Two miserable days had passed with nary a soul in sight. The only sounds were the surf and the damned water dripping and trickling under his feet.

If only he’d spent more time with Gyllis. If only he could hold her in his arms—one more time before he perished.

God on the cross, no wonder Alan MacCoul had killed Fraser. Sean would have been much better prepared if he’d known what his half-brother had planned. And by God, he should have been more forceful with Duncan. The Lord of Glenorchy had always respected Sean’s intuition in the past. He should have stood his ground. Sean recounted his visit to Kilchurn over and over. He’d succumbed to his own foolish pride by not insisting Duncan and the enforcers attend Lorn’s wedding. He’d played down the threats and the raids. Deep in his soul he’d known Alan MacCoul was behind it all. But he’d been too proud to admit it to Duncan—too proud to ask for the Lord of Glenorchy’s help because he was a friend. If he’d been honest and presented the depth of his concerns, Duncan would have supported the MacDougalls without question. After all, he’d dedicated his life to Duncan and his father—served in the Highland Enforcers to maintain order for King James.

And now here he was, the feared knight, wrapped in irons, pinned to the wall, unable to wipe the snot from his face.

A water rat watched him from across the cave.

“Be gone with you.” Sean’s voice was so dry it painfully grated in his voice box.

The rat inched forward.

“Be gone,” Sean bellowed, followed by a fit of dry coughs. The rat stopped and sat up on its haunches and stared at him, his nose twitching. Sean rattled the irons. “I’m not dead yet, you mongrel bastard!”

The rodent paced back and forth in front of Sean and his irons as if he knew Sean was helpless. The closer the creature came, the more Sean rattled his irons, the rivets digging into tender flesh.

When the rat stopped at Sean’s feet, all he could do was cast his gaze downward. The first bite sunk into his shoe leathers. Stomach roiling with bile, Sean rattled his cage and slammed his foot against the unbending metal. The devil’s spawn could feast all they liked after he was dead. Not before.

***

Gyllis should have known a man wouldn’t listen to her. Men all took pity on her as if she were afflicted in the brain as well as in the legs. She snatched her arm away from Angus’s grasp. “I am perfectly able to return to my brother’s tent on my own. There is no need for you to assist me.”

“Och, I’d be no kind of gentleman if I didn’t see you delivered safely to his side. This camp is rife with young Highland lads who might get the wrong idea seeing a woman dressed in a pair of breeks.”

Gyllis glanced toward the pier. It would be futile if she tried to run. Besides, she’d probably fall on her face like she’d done a hundred times before. Ahead, the camp started to stir, but the flutter of a blue mantle caught her eye. She smiled broadly—affecting her most innocent countenance. “There’s Lady Meg. She accompanied me on the ride to Dunstaffnage. I’ll join her. Duncan is arranging our transport home momentarily.”

“Very well.” He drew out his words slowly as if considering. “If the Lady of Glenorchy is here, I reckon I can leave you in her capable hands.”

Gyllis continued to keep her voice low. She didn’t want anyone else realizing she was female. “Thank you, sir. You have been most helpful.”

Hastening her step, she caught up to Meg not far from a large tent and tapped her shoulder before her sister-in-law reached for the flap. “What are you doing?”

“Gyllis,” Meg said in a loud whisper. “I should be asking you the same.” She looked side to side. “Duncan could be here any moment.

“I need your help in creating a diversion.”

A crease formed between the lady’s red eyebrows. “Honestly, Gyllis. You should take Duncan’s advice and return to Kilchurn. Things here are worse than I’d imagined.”

A pained moan came from within the tent. Of course Meg would have already connived to see to the injured before she left. “And you’re not?”

“They need a healer for the hospital.”

“Please. Keep Duncan’s attention diverted as long as possible—at least until I can…ah…slip away—tell him I’ve decided to stay so that I may assist you.”

Meg frowned. “Have you gained more information? Where are you off to now?”

“I’d rather not say, lest Duncan intercept me.” Gyllis balled her fists. “I will not be stopped.”

Meg clasped her hand to her chest. “Promise me you will stay safe.” She moved her lips close to Gyllis’s ear. “Do not let on to anyone that you are a woman.”

“I promise—just keep Duncan occupied. Can you do that?”

“I’ll do my best, but you know your brother.”

Gyllis jumped at a loud commotion booming from the direction of Duncan’s tent. Hopefully the noise had nothing to do with her, but she didn’t aim to stay around long enough to find out. “I’ll see you upon my return.”

Meg gave her hand a squeeze before she released it. “Go with God.” She pulled the satchel with the oatcakes and watered wine from her shoulder. “Take this. You may need it more than I.”

Slipping away, Gyllis again tugged the hood low over her forehead, but she wouldn’t again make the mistake of greeting anyone she knew. She picked up a sturdy stick and hunched a bit so she’d be mistaken for an old man with a limp. Moving as quickly as she could, she headed for the pier.

One thing she knew for certain, the longer she remained in the foreground of Dunstaffnage, the greater the risk that Duncan would tie her to a horse and drag her home. Fortunately, all the fishermen must have set sail before dawn, because Gyllis saw not a soul. She hid behind a moored galley and held up the flap of the hood to better see. At the very end of the pier, a skiff bobbed in the water. It was exactly what she needed.

Before she set out, she peered over the galley’s hull and looked toward the camp. A skirmish had erupted between the outlaws on the wall-walk and the soldiers below. Volleys of arrows traversed through the air while Duncan’s men bellowed and slammed the pommels of their dirks against their targes. Gyllis crossed herself and offered a silent prayer for the good health of her brother and his men.

She hastened to the end of the deck, untied the skiff and carefully climbed into the tiny boat. She and her sisters often rowed a similar skiff across Loch Awe on summer days—but the Firth of Lorn was not a loch. It formed a major part of Scotland’s sea trade and men sailed hearty galleys through her white-capped waves.

As she grasped the oars, she prayed the weather would hold while she pointed the boat south. Of all her problems, the greatest was that she had no idea where on Kerrera the cave might be. Would she be able to see it from the water? How far away was the island? Angus said you can see the island from Dunollie. How much further can it be?

But asking for help had proven futile. Everyone was positive Sean was being held within the walls of Dunstaffnage Castle. Gyllis would have believed it herself if she hadn’t heard Alan MacCoul’s threat.

She heaved on the oars, dragging them through the swells. Doubtless, it would take a Herculean effort to row four miles to Dunollie and then only heaven knew how much further. Gyllis gritted her teeth. Nothing would stop her, no matter if she had to row all day and night.

By the time she reached Dunollie, the sun had traversed to the late morning sky. She’d been rowing for at least two hours and her arms were sore. Her back and neck punished her like she’d climbed the tower stairs on her hands more than fifty times.

Rowing a heavy wooden skiff was hard work. Though the current was running southwest, she fought the swells to keep from being pushed toward the mainland.

Blisters had begun to form on her palms and she changed positions frequently to shift the pressure to different points on her hands. When the castle came into view, she paused her rowing, shaded her eyes and searched. True to Angus’s word, an island loomed off the coast—quite a bit further away than she’d hoped. Through the haziness, the shore sloped up into green hills, allowing no clear view of its size. But one thing was certain, she had quite a bit more rowing to do.

Her entire body ached. Even if she weren’t recovering from a bout of paralysis, she’d be tired. She dared glance at her palms. Three big blisters on her right hand and two on her left. How in God’s name will I make it? She pulled an oatcake from the satchel and washed it down with a gulp of watered wine.

Again, Alan MacCoul’s damning words rang in her head. “I will imprison you in irons and laugh while your body rots in a dank and musty cave.”

She blew on her palms and ground her teeth. “Damn you, Alan MacCoul!” she yelled at the top of her voice. Gyllis steeled her mind to the searing pain, and with each pull of the oars, sailed closer to Kerrera.

***

Working against the current, the passage across the sound took twice as long to traverse as it had taken to row from Dunstaffnage to Dunollie. When Gyllis finally glimpsed a clear view of Kerrera’s northernmost point, her hands were completely raw, she could hardly move her arms and the muscles in her back and neck burned and tortured her with every pull of the oars.

She scanned the shore and beyond for any sign of a cave. A narrow, beach transitioned into grassy, rolling hills, filled with purple heather and spotted with trees. Gyllis wanted to scream. There wasn’t one rocky outcropping that looked like it might house a cave. To the east, the surf was rougher, angered by wind and dark clouds. Whitecaps topped the waves coming across from the Isle of Mull. The westward current would be even stronger and all the more difficult to navigate.

She could scarcely drag the oars through the protected waters from Dunstaffnage to Dunollie. She gazed at the shore with desperate longing. If only her legs were strong enough to traverse the sandy beach or the craggy land beyond, she’d pull ashore and allow her hands a rest—but as sure as she breathed, the boat would be faster than walking. What would she do if she hiked away from the skiff and her legs failed? She didn’t even have one crutch and she’d left the old stick on the pier at Dunstaffnage.

After blowing on her palms to cool the burn, she grasped the oars and gave them a solid pull. Crying out, she snatched her hand into her body and crouched over it. Searing pain shot through her palm. Blood dripped onto her breeks. Opening her trembling fingers, the blisters had rubbed raw. Blood oozed across her palm and dribbled into the hull.

Tears streamed down her cheeks while she clutched her arms to her body and rocked. Why couldn’t someone have trusted her? Why did the men believe they were so damned right? More tears welled, blurring her vision and making dark splashes on the coarse leather. Wailing, her voice box grated. Gyllis looked up at the ominous sky. What if she was wrong? What if she’d come all this way and Sean wasn’t there? How would she make it back with her hands blistered and bleeding? If only someone would have believed her—tried to help, but instead they all looked upon her as if she were an invalid—a burden no one wanted.

What if this God-forsaken island wasn’t even Kerrera? A shrill scream pealed through her throat.

“Where is he?” She rocked in place clutching her hands to her body, tears streaming from her eyes, her nose running. Desperate for answers, she shook her fist at the sky. “Damn you! Where. Is. He?”

Exhaustion claimed her mind. She wanted to curl up in the bottom of the skiff and let it drift. Perhaps it might run aground someplace where people were nice and helpful. She tugged on the oars and shrieked with pain. Her hands could take no more. Slapped by the relentless waves, the boat had drifted further away from the island’s beach.

“Sean, where are you?” she cried, slumping from the rowing bench into the hull. I’m a complete and utter failure. She gazed up at the black clouds and cursed at the heavens. “God in heaven, why will you not help me?”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“You think I’m brave? My courage is nothing compared to yours. Before me I see a woman who will not be cut down by a devastating illness, who will look it in the face, grasp it with both hands and fight. Not only today, but every day you continue to fight, to work through your pain and agony so one day this will be behind you.”

Gyllis sat up with a start. She could have sworn she’d heard Sean’s voice—or God’s. More so, she remembered the words he’d spoken after she’d fallen at Dunollie. Only he believed in her strength. He believed she could overcome insurmountable odds.

But could she?

The boat teetered with the waves, the oars clicking in their locks. How long had she been wallowing in self-pity? How far had she drifted? She peered over the hull. The skiff had drifted toward the mainland, but a bit south, too. She could see the length of the island now—quite a long isle indeed.

But there was no time to think of that now.

Sean needed her.

While she drew in a stuttering breath, Gyllis stared at her shaking hands. Her pain did not matter. She would not allow anything to stop her. If the skin on her hands were to rub completely off, she would not stop. If the skies were to open with a deluge, she would not stop. If Duncan were to sail a fleet of galleys to find her, she would tell him to turn back because she would not stop until every last inch of Kerrera was searched for any sign of Sean.

Steeling her wits, Gyllis crawled back onto the rowing bench and wrapped her fingers around the oars. It stung, but she clenched her teeth and bore it. With every stroke of the oars, she grew bolder, pulled harder, worked though the aching agony in her limbs.

Thunder pealed from the west.

She ground her teeth and rowed.

A droplet of rain splashed her forehead and she threw her head back. “Bring forth your vengeance, oh God. I shall persevere like Job.” She pulled again. Why would God favor a man as evil as Alan MacCoul?

She could think of no reason.

Another thunderclap resounded. Gyllis shifted her gaze to the darkening sky. “If you’re listening to me, please help me find Sean. You may rain down on me with pellets of hail, but guide me to my love!”

Rain began to fall in sloppy droplets.

“Do you aim to forsake me?” she yelled at the top of her voice. “Is that why you turned me into a cripple?”

She scanned the shoreline. Still no sign of a cave.

On and on she continued to row until she rounded the southernmost point of the island. Once she crossed to the eastern shore, she’d be at the mercy of the storm and the stronger current.

Please. Help me.

The shoreline cut into a cove, exposing rocky cliffs—hidden both from the mainland and from the Isle of Mull to the east. Gyllis’s heart fluttered. Her arms infused with renewed strength. Could she allow herself to hope? The skies opened with a deluge, the white-capped surf slapped against the skiff, making it bob precariously. Fighting, she rowed the little boat straight onto a sandy bank until it stopped.

She’d have to jump out into the water. But that didn’t matter, she was already wet.

Cold water filled her boots as she splashed into the knee-deep surf. She wrapped the skiff’s rope around her wrist and trudged onto the sandbank, pulling it with all her strength. The wooden hull was none too light, but it was her lifeline to the mainland. Who knew how long she’d be stranded if something happened to the skiff.

And what if I’m wrong?

With a heave, Gyllis dragged the boat out of the water and secured the rope around an enormous boulder, then slung the satchel over her shoulder.

Overhead, a buzzard squawked. Gyllis’s shoulders tensed. Not but fifty paces away, an entire flock of the vile scavengers flew in a circular pattern.

Her heart flying to her throat, Gyllis stumbled toward the revolting birds. “No!” she gasped, trying to keep her footing on the slick ground. “I cannot be too late.”

She reached the crest of a mound and saw it. Gaping like the mouth of a serpent, the cave could have passed for the entrance to Hades.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

She bent down, picked up a rock and threw it at the buzzards. “Go away!”

A bolt of lightning streaked into three fingers overhead. The buzzards screeched and scattered while thunder boomed so loudly, Gyllis crouched and wrapped her arms around her head. Moving as fast as she could, she stumbled toward the cave whilst the rain came down in sheets.

When she stepped inside, she stood against the wall, shivering. With quick inhales, she rubbed the outsides of her arms and peered into the dark cavern. All she could see was blackness. She pushed against her eyes, willing them to adjust to the dim light. Slowly she crept in deeper, sliding her feet, bracing one hand against the stone wall.

“Sean?” Her voice warbled. “Are you here?”

She stood and listened, but the roar of the deluge outside resounded through the cave, so loud it was almost deafening. Reaching her free arm ahead, she continued on, sliding her feet over slick rocks.

The rain eased a bit.

“Sean?” she called, louder this time.

Through the dripping and splashing, Gyllis thought she heard a cough. She took another step. “Sean? Is that you?”

“Here,” a faint voice rasped.

“God in heaven.” Her stomach swarmed with fluttering butterflies. “’Tis you?”

Blinking, Gyllis focused on the source of the sound. She saw the outline of something bulky, immobile. Is it?

Hastening her step, she tried to run. Her toe caught on a rock and she stumbled forward. Straining to keep her balance, she crashed into the wall. “Blast it,” she cursed, ignoring the pain radiating up her elbow, and again sliding her feet forward. If I fall, I’ll be no use to him at all.

The cave brightened, as if there had been a break in the clouds. Then she saw him. Caged in irons like a criminal hanging from the Edinburgh Tolbooth. Stumbling, she made her way across the craggy ground while a sickly burn wrenched her insides.

Blessed Lord Jesus, what has Alan done? “I knew you were here.” She grasped the iron bars and tugged…Nothing moved. The welds were immobile.

“Water,” he rasped.

Sean’s features were shrouded in blue shadows but the whites of his eyes were clear. They gazed at her like a starved and hunted fox. Quickly, Gyllis tugged the flagon from her satchel. “I’ve some watered wine.”

She pulled out the cork and held it up and touched it to his lips through the bars. “I’ll tip it now.”

He opened his mouth and she eased the flagon up until she could hear him swallow. Then he sputtered and coughed.

She stoppered the flagon and set it down. “How can we free you from this contraption?”

“Bust…off the l-lock.”

Heaven’s stars, she’d never seen a man so weak. She rattled the cage and he groaned as if it caused unimaginable pain. “How?”

“Rock.”

“But I could hurt you.”

“Do it.”

Gyllis found a good-sized rock and picked it up with both hands. She swallowed hard and faced him. The lock was a black, ugly thing. Her hands trembled as she lifted the stone and slammed it against the iron. The clang echoed throughout the cavern, but the lock held firm.

“Again,” Sean growled.

She nodded and raised the stone. Hitting the lock over and over, Gyllis’s exhausted arms burned. She cried out against the strain, but the blasted thing must have been hewn in the fires of hell. Stopping, she panted. “I-I will not fail.”

“Easy lass.” Sean moved a bit and rattled the irons. “Give me another tot afore you try again.”

Gyllis winced when she reached for the flagon.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“’Tis nothing.” She wasn’t about to complain about her bleeding hands—not with Sean teetering on the brink of death. She held the flagon to his lips. “You mustn’t drink too much, else your stomach might reject it.”

He sipped without sputtering this time. “I’ll be right.”

She stoppered the flagon and picked up the rock. “Are you ready for me to give it another go?”

“Aye. Aim for the top of the loop. Any padlock will not withstand a direct blow.”

She eyed the lock. “How did you know that?”

“I learned a thing or two serving in your father’s enforcers.” His voice sounded a wee bit better.

“You must tell me more soon.” She raised the stone. “Where it bends, you say?”

“Hit it square.”

Gyllis held her breath and smashed the rock downward. She let out a frustrated groan. “Damn this bloody thing to hell!” Roaring at the top of her lungs, she raised it over her head then slammed it atop the lock using her strength, her body and all the gut-wrenching fortitude she could muster. With a clang, the piece of metal dropped to the ground.

Squealing, Gyllis tugged on the grill. Though it was stiff, the hinges gave way with a screech. Sean fell to his knees, wrapping Gyllis in his arms and taking her down with him. “I’ve never been so weak.” His hand covered his eyes. “I’m a bloody mess.”

“How long has it been since you’ve had food or water?”

“Three days, I think.” He swayed in her arms.

She smoothed her hand over his stubbled beard. “My God. ’Tis a wonder you’re alive.”

He leaned against her—his weight much heavier than she could have imagined. “I cannot believe you found me.” He rocked back on his haunches and averted his face. “I am hideous.”

Gyllis clasped his cheeks with the tips of her fingers and offered a trembling smile. “Nay, nay, nay. You are alive.”

He focused on her eyes with an intense stare. “You are an angel sent from God,” he whispered, his voice dead-level and heartfelt.

Gyllis gasped, holding back her urge to cry, pulled him close and clung to him for dear life. For the rest of her life she’d be atoning for all the cursing she did in the boat. “No one would listen to me, but Alan’s bitter words replayed in my head over and over.”

“When he threatened me at Beltane?”

“Aye, I’ll never forget the hatred in his voice.”

“Those words have haunted me these past days.” Sean rested his head on her shoulder—as if he needed her. Gyllis’s heart swelled. She’d been needy for so long, to have someone need her made gooseflesh spread across her skin. She ran her hand over his head, never wanting to release him.

“He’s my brother.”

She took in a quick inhale of air. “What?”

“MacCoul.”

She gently ran a hand over his hair. “I always thought he was a bastard.”

“He was…is. But he’s my father’s son. My father supported him all along but never revealed his secret.” Sean reached for the flagon, his movement sluggish and awkward.

Gyllis pulled off the stopper. “So that’s why Alan is so bitter.”

“Aye.” Sean guzzled the watered wine. “He not only thinks he should be Chieftain of Dunollie, he aims to claim the Lordship of Lorn for himself.”

“No.” She tensed. “He’s insane.”

“Insane with hate.” He straightened and grasped her shoulder. “I must stop him.”

“He’s seized Dunstaffnage Castle. Duncan and the men are trying to attack, but Alan has amassed an army.”

“I must hurry.”

“You’re on the ragged edge of death. How can you think about going after him now?”

Sean sat on his haunches. “With a bit of food and a few tots of whisky I’ll come good.” He pointed to her satchel. “Have you got anything to eat in there?”

“I’ve some oatcakes, but that’s all.”

“’Tis a start.”

She reached for the bag and inclined her head toward the light. The rain had subsided, but droplets splashed down in rapid succession from the cave’s entrance. “Let us move away from the stench.”

“I’m afraid only a bath will help us there.” He used the wall for balance and chuckled. “My legs are as wobbly as a newborn lamb’s.”

“I ken how that feels.”

Both limping, she led him to a flat boulder where they’d be able to sit and she could see him better. When the light illuminated his skin, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “My God, where are your clothes?”

Sean grimaced. “I’m surprised the bastard left me braies and boots on.”

She focused on the sores peppering his flesh. “What did he do?”

“Blacksmith’s rivets bored holes through my skin. He not only wanted me to die, he wanted me to suffer as long as possible.”

“The fiendish blackguard.”

“Wheesht, Gyllis. I’ve never heard you use such a vulgar tongue.”

She rubbed her aching arms. “Apologies. I’m a bit on edge. No one would listen to me about Alan’s curse. Duncan tried to send me back to Kilchurn. Angus swore you were being held in the castle dungeon—not even he would listen to the reasoning of a crippled woman.”

“How did you find me?”

“Angus mentioned Kerrera was part of the Dunollie lands. I took a skiff from the pier and refused to stop rowing until I found a cave. If I had to cover every square inch of Kerrera, I would have done it.”

“My God, you are an amazing woman.” He grasped her hand and kissed it. “You are my very own guardian angel.” He slid his hand to her upper arm. “You rowed all the way from Dunstaffnage without assistance?”

She closed her eyes as his fingers kneaded her aching muscles. “I do not ken how I did it. If it weren’t for my determination to find you, I would not have been able to continue past Dunollie.”

His hand stopped. “Why are you wearing breeks?”

She chuckled and looked down. She’d forgotten about her clothing. Biting her bottom lip, she gave him a sheepish smile. “They’re Duncan’s. I couldn’t very well slip away from Kilchurn in the dead of night dressed like a lass.”

“You did?” He knitted his brows. “You could have been killed.”

She reached inside the satchel and pulled out the remaining oatcakes. “You would have done the same for me.”

“Aye, but I’m a man.”

“So does that make me any less a person?”

“No, lass.” He shoved a crunchy cake into his mouth. “You’ve proven that it most certainly does not.”

Gyllis blew on her palms.

Sean leaned in and examined them. “Christ almighty, your skin is raw.”

“I told you I wasn’t about to stop.”

He hissed. “Bloody hell. I still cannot believe you suffered so much for me.”

“But I love you.” She blinked back her tears. “I would have moved heaven and hell to save you.”

He brushed his fingers along her cheek. “I believe you would have.”

There was nothing Gyllis wanted more than to wrap him in her arms and smother him with kisses, but he was so weak and needed a bath. He’d require more than a few drops of watered wine and a handful of oatcakes. “Lady Meg is at Dunstaffnage. She can tend your wounds.”

“Dunollie is closer. Jinny will set me to rights and I can gather my weapons and clean clothing.”

“Weapons? You are not planning to fight…”

“Bloody oath I am. I’ll not rest until Alan is brought to justice.” He cradled his head in his hands as if it pained him. “If he’d told me he was my brother I would have honored my father’s wishes and given him land and coin, but now there is no turning back for him.”

“Aye, he must be caught and sent to the gallows, but let Duncan lead the charge.”

“And lick my wounds like a miserable coward?” He tried to stand, but dropped back. “I will not sit idle while other men risk their lives for me.”

Since he’d taken a wee bit of sustenance, a dangerous fire flickered in Sean’s eyes.

Gyllis held his stare. She would not lose him. Not ever again. “But first you must promise we’ll go to Dunollie and find your healer. I doubt you could raise your sword at the moment, let alone face Alan.”

“Agreed. But I will regain my strength. Make no bones about it.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

By the time they left the cave on Kerrera, the sun had begun to set. It would be dark before they reached Dunollie. Sean was almost relieved—almost. In no way would he allow Gyllis to row the skiff up the shore. Every fiber in his body ached. His mind was clouded by pain, starvation and thirst. God help him, he’d even swooned a time or two.

They’d filled the flagon with water from a spring, but his thirst would not be assuaged. His stomach rumbled. A few oatcakes made little impact and his fingers shook. Bloody hell, he could barely propel the boat in the seas, given the storm’s effect and his trembling limbs.

Gyllis sat on the bench across from him, her eyes filled with adoration, even in his wretchedness. In no way could he fail her. She alone was the source of his motivation to continue on. The fascinating woman had singlehandedly overcome insurmountable odds to come to his rescue. He loved her before, but now his respect for her soared to a new level. He would love her through eternity. That her beauty outshone any lass in Scotland no longer mattered. If she were to turn grey with age on the morrow, he would love her no less.

When he at last moored the skiff at the embankment, he couldn’t be certain who helped whom more, but somehow they managed to make it up the trail to the keep. The old guard, Cadan, ran to meet them, weapons clanking. “M’laird, you look as if you’ve been to hell and back.”

Sean smirked. “I have.” With Gyllis under his arm they hobbled toward the stairwell. “Send Jinny up with food and a salve.” He stopped and regarded the guard over his shoulder. “Order a bath. I ride at dawn.”

“Dawn, m’laird?” The guard stood dumbfounded. “In your condition?”

“Do as I say,” Sean bellowed. “Make it quick. I cannot bear the stench of my own flesh.”

Gyllis stumbled on a step, but held on. “I daresay Cadan may be right. ’Tis madness to ride when you’re in such a state.”

“Do not worry. After a good meal, a bath and a sleep, I’ll be fit.” His thighs burned with every step. Why in God’s name did his chamber have to be on the third floor?

“We’re nearly there,” Gyllis said as if she’d heard his thoughts. “A meal will help us both I’d reckon.”

After they pushed through the door, Gyllis didn’t release him until she’d led him to the bed. “You’d best rest here until the healer comes.”

He sat. “I hate weakness.”

“As do I.” She set to lighting a candle with the flint. “Now you have an inkling of what it was like to be confined with paralysis for months.”

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it, but her words hit a chord. How unconscionably difficult things must have been for her. Yes, he’d known she was suffering, but had no idea of the depth of that pain…until now. “Come here.” He pulled her into him and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his ear to her breast. Her heart beat a steady rhythm “You are the strongest person I know—stronger than any man. If only I could have an iota of your strength.”

She cradled his head in her hand. “You do. Can you not see it? If you had not inner strength, you would not have survived in that dank cave with all those lesions on your body.”

The door opened and Sean swallowed down the lump in his throat. He would have preferred it if Jinny had taken a bit longer. Followed by a serving girl who was carrying a trencher of food, the healer walked to the bed with her medicine basket.

Sean begrudgingly released Gyllis’s waist while Jinny set her things on the bedside table. “Thanks be to God, you are safe, m’laird.” She glanced sidewise at Gyllis.

Sean gestured with his hand. “You remember Miss Gyllis Campbell. If it weren’t for her, I would have perished this night in the Kerrera cave.”

“Kerrera?” Jinny glanced between them. “But everyone thinks Alan MacCoul is holding you in the Dunstaffnage dungeon.”

“Everyone but me,” Gyllis said, nodding at the matron. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, matron.”

Jinny remembered her manners and curtsied. “My thanks, miss.” Then her eyes popped when she looked Sean head to toe. “Forgive me for saying so m’laird, but you look as if you’re half dead.”

“’Tis exactly how I feel.”

She looked closely at Sean’s lesions and then sniffed. “These have started to fester.”

Gyllis blew on her palms. “The conditions in the cave were deplorable.”

Jinny fished in her basket and pulled out a pot. “My salve will fix you up.”

Sean jolted and hissed as she attacked the first sore. The woman’s bloody ointment stung like a posy of nettles, but it worked—eventually. He clenched his fists and took the rest of her ministrations without any outward display of pain. He wouldn’t be any sort of man showing weakness in front of Gyllis, not after she’d borne so much agony herself.

Jinny wiped her fingers on a cloth and stoppered her pot. “That ought to see you through to the morrow. Shall I bring up a tonic to help you sleep?”

“I should be fine with a tot or two of whisky.” He reached for Gyllis’s elbow and held up one of her hands. “The lady’s palms could use a bit of your salve as well.”

Jinny gasped. “My Lord, what on earth did you do?”

Gyllis shrugged and blushed. “I rowed a skiff from Dunstaffnage to the southern end of Kerrera.”

“Blessed be the saints, and you being a noble lassie and all.” She shot a concerned look at Sean. “Why did the men not help her?”

“They didn’t believe me.” Gyllis cleared her throat. Aye, the lass could speak for herself. “They tried to send me back to Kilchurn.”

Jinny slipped the cork off the pot and dug in her fingers. “Is that why you’re wearing a pair of men’s breeks?”

The color in Gyllis’s cheeks deepened. “Aye, matron.” She pursed her lips and glanced at Sean, making it clear she didn’t intend to relate the whole story. Sean figured she ought to because the tale alone proved how strong-willed and determined Gyllis was.

Cadan pushed through the door, carrying a wooden bath, followed by a pair of stable boys laden with buckets of water.

“Careful not to slosh on the floor,” Sean said. Normally he wouldn’t pay a rat’s attention to whether they spilled a bit of water or not, but wet floorboards could be slippery for Gyllis.

Cadan placed the basin in front of the hearth. “Shall I light the fire, m’laird?”

“Aye, thank you.”

Jinny frowned. “I suppose I’d best leave the salve here if you intend to wash it off.”

Sean gave her a wink. “That’s a good lass.”

She didn’t even try to feign a smile. “Miss Gyllis, you can come with me and we’ll find you a proper bed.”

Gyllis shot a panicked stare to Sean.

He stood with his fists on his hips. Heaven help him, he was still weak-kneed and dizzy. “I’ll see Miss Gyllis to the lady’s chamber. I’ve a word to have with her first.”

By the way she crossed her arms and pursed her lips, Jinny didn’t approve. “Pardon me for saying so, but you both need your rest.”

Sean gave her his sternest look. “That will be all, Jinny.”

She ticked up her chin. “Very well, m’laird. Do you require anything else?”

“I’ve a terrible thirst. Could you send up a ewer of ale?”

Jinny gestured to the table with the food. “The chambermaid brought one up with the trencher.”

Sean spotted it and grinned. “That she did.”

“Come, Cadan,” Jinny said. “Let us leave our chieftain to his rest before he succumbs to exhaustion.”

Sean waited until the door closed behind the servants. God he was tired, but he could smell Gyllis’s allure from across the room. His mouth watered. He wasn’t sure if it was hunger for her or hunger for food, but when his stomach growled he chose the latter. For now. “I ken I need a bath, but that food looks too good to pass by. If I do not get a good meal in my belly soon, I fear my strength will never return.”

“Agreed, I’m famished.” She looked at the door and twisted her mouth. “Your healer must think me a harlot.”

“Do not worry about Jinny. I shall ensure her priorities are set straight at my next opportunity.” Sean lumbered to the table and held the chair for Gyllis.

“My thanks, but I should be holding the chair for you. Jinny was right when she said you looked like you were on death’s door. I’ve never seen anyone so pale.”

Sean slid into the chair across from her, suddenly feeling twice his age, perhaps even thrice. He reached for a slice of roast lamb and shoved it in his mouth. “I’ll be fit once I have something substantial in my belly.”

She picked up the ewer and served his tankard first. “I’m sure food will help.” She poured for herself. “But so will rest.”

He raised his ale. “Then ’tis settled. We shall eat, bathe and then rest.” He glanced at the bed, certain his idea of rest did not meet with Gyllis’s, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

“We shall eat, but you will bathe, not I.”

“Only me?” He popped a grape in his mouth. The food must be helping because he grew more amorous by the moment. He inhaled deeply. “What the devil fragrance are you wearing? It’s making the pulse thrum beneath my skin.”

Her tongue shot out and she licked those delectable, pouty lips. “You must be mistaken. I’ve not applied a fragrance, especially dressed in men’s clothing.”

He reached across and ran his finger over the back of her hand. “Then it must be entirely your allure, m’lady.”

She smiled, her dimples dipping into a lovely blush. “I should leave you to your bath. ’Tis not proper for me to remain in your chamber—especially when the servants are aware of my presence.”

Sean puzzled at her shyness. “Do not think on Jinny’s dour frown. ’Tis none of her concern what we do within this chamber.”

“But rumors will spread—’tis different from the last time. Jinny had a bairn to deliver and I was appointed another chamber by Angus.”

He reached across the table and cupped her face in his palm. “As long as you remain in Dunollie, your reputation is safe. I’ll not stand for anyone sullying your name. Besides, as far as anyone is aware, you are staying in the lady’s chamber.”

Gyllis lowered her chin and looked up with the coyest of stares. “Very well—if you are certain.”

He took a bite of cold roast lamb. “I am.”

She raised her eyebrows and glanced toward the bath. “Then I should like to wash your back.” Honest to God, what a change his promise had brought about.

Sean stopped mid-chew. His mind went blank. His hunger fled. His cock lengthened. And then he swallowed. “I would be bathed by no finer hands than yours, m’lady.”

“I believe the fire has warmed the air enough for you not to catch a chill.”

“Quite right.” Not that chilly Scottish air ever bothered him. After shoving a bite of bread in his mouth, he stood and moved to the bath. Untying the braies, he let them drop to the floor. The heat of her gaze seared his back. He knew Gyllis as a passionate woman. Her earlier embarrassment had been a fear of gossip by the servants, not a fear of him. Sean wanted her to see him naked. He pivoted and faced her.

Her gaze raked down his body, lowering to his manhood, Gyllis gasped.

Even on the brink of exhaustion, his cock was hard.

He tapped his top lip with his tongue, anticipating her hands around his cock. Absently, his hand snuck down and he stroked himself. “I want you, lass.”

Gyllis’s green eyes sparkled as she inclined her head toward the tub and waited for him to climb in. She was right. He did need to bathe first. Unfortunately, the damned barrel wasn’t large enough to pull her in. She removed her cloak and sauntered forward. Her limp hardly noticeable, she’d come so far since she was stricken.

Picking up the cake of soap with the tips of her fingers, she held it to her nose. “Mm. Rose.”

Sean’s flesh tingled with anticipation as she knelt beside the basin. His voice box was too thick to speak.

She dipped the soap in the water and with her first touch, Sean shuddered. He closed his eyes and moaned.

“Shall I cleanse your back first?”

“Aye,” he rasped.

“I’ll be careful to avoid your sores.”

He’d scarcely felt the lesions when he’d slipped into the tepid water.

Gyllis smoothed a soapy hand over his shoulder.

Never in his life had he experienced a touch so ethereal. Her fingers plied his skin with light swirls, making his skin come to life and his blood pulse. Giving in to her heavenly ministrations, the tension shed from Sean’s shoulders in concert with the water trickling down his chest and back.

Gyllis scooted forward, her face only inches from his. “Shall I cleanse the rest?”

Yes, for the love of everything holy, yes. “Aye,” was all he could manage to utter.

Gyllis lathered the cake of soap. “I can be more careful when I use my fingers.”

Sean needed those deft fingers plying him now. “Feels like heaven.”

She tickled his chest and swirled her fingers around his nipples, leaning so close her wild, sensuous scent overpowered the rose in the soap. Sean’s cock grew a mind of its own. It had been hovering just below the water, but it jutted through the surface, so hard it tapped his stomach.

A groan rumbled through his chest while Gyllis continued lower. He couldn’t see her face, but he felt her eyes boring into his erection while her hands continued lower. Her touch became torturous as she bathed everything but his member, continuing to swirl her fingers around the sensitive skin on his inner thighs.

The further her hands got from his cock, the more he craved them to stroke it and free him from the hot, aching, yet exhilarating tension in his groin.

Sean realized he’d leaned his head back and closed his eyes, when she stopped.

Gyllis cleared her throat. “S-shall I wash you there too?” Her voice had taken on an erotically husky tone. The state of his arousal had affected her more than he’d realized, making his need all the more intense.

“Pleeeeease.”

Slowly she lathered the soap between her fingers. Her braid swung around from her back. Sean grasped it and tugged off the thong at the end. Before she set the soap down, he had her hair released. The chestnut flickered with coppery highlights from the glow of the fire.

Their gazes collided as if steam erupted between them. Sean held his breath. Gyllis’s lips parted and she released a stuttered exhale, her stare drifting down his body until it met with his cock.

Sean groaned before her slender fingers wrapped around him. She stroked him with such a feathery caress, he thought his heart would blast to the rafters. He realized he must have moaned when she asked him if she was hurting him.

“Nay,” he managed through clenched teeth. “Grip harder.”

With two more strokes, Sean could take no more. Either she would bring him undone or he would need to quell his burning desire and make this moment last. With a guttural growl he pulled her into the bath and smothered her mouth with his.

Holding her pliable body in his arms made his tension thrum to the surface. He devoured her mouth, claiming her face with his hands, probing his tongue deep inside with a bone melting fire that spread through his blood. Melting into his arms, she returned his fervor, matching his intensity with her own muffled mewls. Her kisses spread through his soul and claimed his heart, while gradually she took control and slowed their pace.

Gyllis licked his tongue like no one ever had before with languid brushes as if she’d been practiced in the art of kissing for a lifetime. Her lips wandered across his chin and down his neck—long, slow kisses that consumed his mind. Rather than releasing his tension, what he thought could not grow more intense compounded his need to possess her.

She clamped onto his shoulders and smoothed her hands down his arms, her sweet breath caressing his chest. “I want you.” She gripped her fingers tighter. “I ken I should let you rest, but I cannot quell the longing in my soul.”

After one last claiming kiss, Sean gathered her in his arms and stood, clenching his thighs to steady his weakened muscles. Dripping with water, he stepped out of the bath and set her on her feet beside the fire. “You’re all wet,” he said, his brogue taking on the most basal burr.

He stepped back to untie her laces and her gaze again floated down his body. He liked the way she looked at him with her eyes growing dark.

Then he pulled her shirt over her head and cast it aside. His breathing sped as he untied the cord around her waist and let the oversized breeks drop to the floorboards.

He couldn’t help his chuckle as the hem of her shift dropped to the floor, the garment wrinkled. “I cannot believe you shoved your shift into your breeks.”

“I was in a wee hurry.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Besides, it filled up the extra space inside.”

He sauntered toward her and untied the frilly ribbon around the neckline. “Not to worry. A shift can easily be removed.”

Gyllis’s giggle was barely audible as she raised her arms. Sean needed no more encouragement. In one swift move he pulled the garment over her head and tossed it over the chair.

Her hands again crossed over her breasts. He grasped them with a gentle tug. “You’ve no reason to be bashful, lass. Allow me to gaze upon your beauty.”

She let him pull her arms away. Light from the fire and candles radiated across her flawless skin—he’d never seen her in the light before. A gasp strained in his throat. He’d thought he’d seen perfection, but now without a doubt, he gazed on the most miraculously bonny woman in all the world. Not only was the face lovelier than a porcelain doll, Gyllis had a slender neck with graceful shoulders to match. But her breasts took his breath away. In the golden light, the lush handfuls of ivory flesh were tipped by pink buds that made his mouth water.

He cupped them in his hands and kneaded. Her moan rekindled the raging fire in his groin. He’d not last long, but first he had to taste her flesh. When he took her nipple into his mouth, she leaned into him with a shuttering moan. God, her voice alone could bring him undone. It spurred him into a frenzy as he plied her breasts with one hand and suckled with his tongue.

“Please,” she begged. “Sean, I cannot take much more.”

The pleading tone of her voice attacked his overwhelming need with such force, his cock pulsed. He couldn’t take more either. Sweeping her into his arms, he pulled her into his chest and strode to the bed, droplets of water still streaming from his body.

When he set her down, she scooted against the pillows and spread her long legs, revealing the pink diamond of flesh he desired to enter with his ever fiber. She rocked her hips forward. “Please. I need you.”

He climbed over her, his cock straining to take her. But he wanted to make it slow, see to her needs—if he rode her like an alehouse tart, he might come before she reached her release. No. He’d see to her satisfaction first. Bracing his body over her, he slid his hand down her belly and tickled the tufts of hair that concealed her secret treasure. When his finger slid over her tiny button, she arched her back and cried out. “Please!”

Sean covered her mouth with a languid kiss while he slid a finger inside her core. Her moan rumbled through his entire body. He had now taken control, but the movement of her hips circling around his finger brought on a renewed surge of blinding want. In and out he slid his finger while his thumb caressed her pearl. Her breathing sped. She was close. He wanted to peak with her.

But Sean continued on until she arched her back and clawed at him. “Sean, please.”

With a growl, he grasped himself and slid inside.

Gyllis’s eyes flew open. “All the way.”

He moaned, so close to spilling, he didn’t know if he could make it to her length. He clenched his muscles and pushed through her slick sheath. “My God, you are delectable.”

Relentless, she sank her fingers into his buttocks and demanded he thrust. Her gasps of breath grew louder. Sean could control the pace no longer. Giving in to the thrill of their joining, he allowed her to dictate the tempo with her demanding fingers tugging his buttocks. She cried out, reaching her peak. The liquid heat gushing around him had him enraptured, the fire in his groin had never burned so hot. Over and over, he thrust deep inside her until stars crossed his vision. Shattering through the precipice of ecstasy, his seed burst.

Powerless to pull out this time, he filled her, and by God did he intend to claim her for his own. The woman beneath him would be his wife, even if he had to face every last Campbell in Argyllshire.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

After the most amazing experience of her life, Gyllis had fallen asleep cradled in Sean’s arms. She’d thought nothing could top the last time they’d made love, but oh, how wrong she’d been. And how on earth was Sean able to be so virile after all he’d endured?

She, too, had been exhausted, yet exhilarated at the same time. She sensed the same raw passion in him, driving him to the point of release. Together nothing could stand in the way of their love. They were made to be together. Their souls were one.

Destiny had to be the only reason Sean had fallen in love with her—a cripple. It was almost as if he needed to protect her. He’d always handled her as if she were as fragile as a bird. Yet he made love to her with the sort of raw passion she’d seen from him when he sparred in the courtyard. Sean MacDougall would not be bested—not in the bedchamber—and not by the sword. He was solid Highlander through and through. Without an ounce of fat, his muscles were sculpted like the pictures of Greek statuary she’d seen in books. He was an Adonis and he was hers.

As Gyllis woke, she snuggled into the bedclothes and released a satisfied sigh. So satiated with love, she could spend the entire day abed. She moved her foot back to interlace it with Sean’s leg, but was met with cold linens. Opening her eyes, she peered across the dim room and found herself alone.

She moved her hand over the spot where Sean had slept. Cold.

The bed rattled as she clutched the bedclothes under her chin and sat up. Sean was nowhere to be found, though a fire crackled in the hearth and her clothes were neatly stacked on the table beside last evening’s meal.

She exhaled. At least the servants hadn’t come in and found her in the chieftain’s bed. Goodness, I’d be mortified. She wrapped herself in a blanket, crossed the floor and locked the door—Sean could knock when he returned.

Stretching, her entire body ached. She looked at her blistered palms, now crusty with scabs. Her arms and shoulders punished her most of all. She tried to raise them above her head and her muscles ached worse than they did at the height of her paralysis. But she knew rowing all that way would take its toll. Rubbing her neck, she vowed not to let a few sore muscles put a damper on her euphoria.

After pulling on her breeks and shirt, she splashed her face at the basin and used some mint to clean her teeth. She hissed at the pain when the water seeped over her palms. Last night she’d been too numb to notice the pain overmuch. A pair of leather gloves rested beside the basin, and she slid them on, stretching out the fingers. They were big, but the doeskin would protect her skin from further injury.

She moved to the window and pulled the furs aside, clammy chills coursed over her skin, and it hadn’t been caused by the breeze. No longer dawn, the hour was later than she’d thought.

Sean’s gone to face Alan.

As fast as her legs would allow, she dashed to the table, picked up the remaining bread and shoved it in her satchel.

Why did he not wake me? She pushed out the door and headed down the stairwell only to be met by Jinny.

“Good morrow, Miss Gyllis.” The woman sounded chipper for someone who most likely thought her a harlot.

But Gyllis kept herself guarded. Scanning the great hall, her fears were confirmed. Sean was nowhere to be seen. She dipped her head respectfully. “Good morrow. Has Sir Sean left for Dunstaffnage?”

“Aye. He rode out before dawn.”

“Before?” Gyllis clutched her satchel to her chest. “Bless it, he was on the brink of death.”

She folded her hands at her waist. “There’s no need to tell me how stubborn our chieftain is. He’s been the same since he was a bairn.”

“You knew him as a babe?”

“Aye, always the adventurer, that lad.”

“Evidently some things never change.” Gyllis headed toward the big double doors. “Since he did not wait for me, I must travel to the castle alone.”

Jinny hastened beside her. “He mentioned you might not want to remain behind.”

“Oh did he now?”

“Aye.” The woman had the gall to wink. “And he told me you’ll be the lady of the keep right here at Dunollie soon.”

Gyllis stopped. “He said that?”

“Aye. Honestly, I’d never thought the lad would set his eyes on just one lass, but ever since he returned from the borders, I swear, he’s not looked at another woman.”

Gyllis knew Sean had a reputation for liking the lassies, but would have preferred if it were a little known secret. She cringed.

“Do not worry yourself.” Jinny patted her hand. “When a woman catches a wandering man’s heart, he’s changed for good.”

She nodded, preferring not to pursue the conversation further. There were many things that needed to be settled before Sean could make an official proposal, the first being he survives this day. “I need the lend of a horse.”

“I’ll send for Cadan. He’ll escort you.”

Gyllis spread her gloved palms to her sides. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“Sir Sean told me to keep you occupied.” Jinny grinned broadly. “But I kent a woman who’d recently suffered a bout of paralysis and practically rowed the whole coast of Argyllshire to singlehandedly rescue the Chieftain of Dunollie would not be content to stay behind and roll the dough for an apple tart.”

A chill tickled Gyllis’s shoulders. She’d found an ally right there at Dunollie—someone who understood her. She grasped Jinny’s hands between her fingers. “Thank the Lord you understand. Please have Cadan meet me at the stables. I’ve already frittered away enough time.”

***

Alan MacCoul sat in Dunstaffnage’s second-floor solar alone and sipped a dram of whisky. The early hour could be damned—he needed a drink. He hated waiting, and the longer he waited, the testier his men grew. He’d promised them riches and knighthoods. The final seal of success was so near he could taste it. If only the king’s reply would arrive, he could end this bloody siege and his power would be recognized. At last people would bow to him, honor him.

The standoff had intensified. More clan armies were arriving, and every day Alan’s odds decreased. In addition to the daily volleys of arrows, Campbell’s men had broken through the outer barbican walls. Now Alan held the inner courtyard, the towers and keep. But the person sitting in the king’s solar had the power. He had the power. Stationed on the battlements, his men weren’t forced to be spread out, a good vantage point to battle a larger army if it came to a fight. Alan was still in control. Besides, their numbers would be more effective from the inner curtain wall. But Alan didn’t like being squeezed. And the bastards down below would pay with their heads when the king gave him due recognition.

Brus pushed through the door. “We’ll be out of foodstuffs within two days.”

That was another thing that had Alan on edge. The livestock were all housed in the outer barbican and beyond. His two hundred men were stuck with the rotting food in the cellar. Alan tossed back his whisky and gave the insolent cur a sneer. “Wheesht. This will be over before the stores run out.” By God, it had better be.

Trevor filed in behind Brus. “By my account, we’ll be out of arrows by morning.”

Alan shoved back his chair and clapped his palms on the table. “You imbeciles. Can you not think for yourselves?” He leaned forward. “What about the arrows they’re firing at us?”

“Most are hitting the wall and dropping. We’re firing far more than we’re reclaiming.”

“My lord,” Alan emphasized. “I will be shown my due respect.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“I saw that.” Alan barreled around the table and drew his dirk. “Do either of you question my rightful heritage? If you do, I’d gladly prove it here and now.”

Trevor held up his hands. “N-no m’laird. Both of us have stood beside you through bad times and good.”

“Aye,” Brus agreed.

“But there’s one more thing.” Trevor took a step back. “Campbell’s dragons are moving cannons through the outer barbican. They aim to blast the castle to hell.”

Alan spun around and kicked over a chair. With all his strength, he slammed his dirk into the table. “The bastard thinks he can attack me with cannons?”

Trevor and Brus stared at him, both red in the face. They should be on bended knee, bowing their heads. Alan tried to yank the dirk from the table, but he’d slammed it so hard, the blasted thing held firm. With both hands, he bore down and wrested it out, then he turned and threw it at a portrait of King James.

“Where is that fool-born messenger? The king will approve my claim on Dunollie and name me the Lord of Lorn. I alone hold Dunstaffnage, Scotland’s gateway to the Hebrides. I have held off the pompous Duncan Campbell and his cowardly Highland Enforcers. I have shown the king exactly who should be lord of these lands. I am the firstborn son of the great Alan MacDougall, not Sean. I am the true heir, descended directly from the sovereign Somerled, king and founder of this land.”

“Aye, you are the heir.” Brus bowed. “We’re in your service. Of that you’ll never need to question…ah…m’lord…if you’ll excuse us, m’lord…”

Alan shook his finger. “My name shall be feared throughout the Highlands.”

The men backed out of the door, but Alan followed them, his finger held high. “Now that I have disposed of the usurping Chieftain of Dunollie, the egotistical Lord of Glenorchy will bow to me!”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Wearing a hood low over his brow and outfitted with his old weapons, Sean dismounted outside the tent flying the MacDougall pennant. Still early morning, the men in the camp had only begun to stir. Sean watched Angus push out the flap and hobble to a bush to relieve himself. More grunts and flatulence came from the old man than Sean had witnessed from the whole band of Highland Enforcers when they were on the trail.

Sean tugged his linen shirt away from his skin. The sores riddling his body were still raw, but he’d steel his mind to the pain. It wasn’t the first time he’d ignored his wounds to face the devil. He doubted it would be his last.

Sean chuckled to himself and skirted around the tent. No use making an announcement of his presence. If he did, he’d lose the fabled ghost moniker, something he wasn’t yet ready to part with.

He peered from the corner to find Angus still releasing his water. Bloody hell, will the man go on all morning? Silently, Sean slipped behind him and whispered in his ear. “We’ll not allow my father’s bastard to kick up his heels in the king’s castle for one more day.”

Blanching pure white, Angus’s entire body convulsed as he dropped the hem of his surcoat and reached for his dirk.

Sean clamped ahold of Angus’s wrist before the henchman did something rash. “Hold onto your braies, friend.”

Angus sucked in a gasp. “M’laird? You escaped?”

“Kerrera, aye.”

“Kerrera? But I thought...everyone thought.”

“I ken what you group of bull-minded battlers thought, and if it hadn’t been for Miss Gyllis’s strong-willed determination, I’d be dead by now.”

Angus shoved his dirk into its scabbard. “Jesus Christ, she asked for my assistance and I told her to go away home.”

“Aye, just like her brother and every other miserable knight she asked for help.”

Angus spread his hands to his sides. “I didn’t intend—”

“I expect you to apologize to the lady later.” Sean again tugged his shirt away from his skin to ease the burn from his lesions. “Where is Lord Duncan?”

Angus pointed toward the barbican. “We took the inner bailey. He’s set up command in the guardhouse tower.”

Sean shook his head. “I cannot believe we haven’t yet driven them out.”

“MacCoul has amassed quite an army. We estimate two hundred or more.”

Sean headed toward the barbican gates. “How the hell did that scum-sucking weasel manage to find that many men to follow him?”

“Well.” Angus twisted his mouth. “Between you, Campbell, and the king, I do not think it would be difficult.”

Sean stopped and ran his palm over his dirk. “Pardon? Your words border on treason.”

“Forgive me, m’laird.” Angus bowed. “’Twas not my intent. I’ll die defending you and Clan MacDougall, but all the outlaws we’ve evicted—all the work you and Lord Campbell have done in the name of the king—good deeds, mind you. But any time you take up the sword and enforce the law of the land, someone’s going to feel slighted.”

“Och aye, you’re right there.” Sean clapped him on the back. “Tell me, what else does Duncan have planned for my father’s bastard?”

Angus cringed as if Sean’s words had just sunk in. “Alan told you did he?”

“Aye. Had I known, all this mightn’t have happened.” Sean tugged on his hood to ensure his face was still hidden. “I would have at least tried to talk with him, give him his due.”

“It seems the past has come to haunt me. I beg your forgiveness, m’laird. I made a promise to your father on his deathbed—vowed I would never reveal his secret.” Angus stopped. “But there is one promise I broke.”

“What’s that?”

“When you figured out the coffers were being skimmed, I told Murdach I’d have no part in it. Your father wanted to keep his mistake a secret, but once you became chieftain, we had no right to continue sending MacCoul coin. Especially after you’d banished him.”

“I ken.” Sean continued on toward the gatehouse. “I overheard you saying as much to Murdach. ’Tis why your head’s still attached to your neck.”

Angus’s Adam’s apple bobbed as his hawk-like gaze met Sean’s in silent thanks. They walked past the guard and ascended up the stairwell.

“Duncan’s shipped the cannons down from Castle Stalker,” Angus said loud enough to be heard over their echoing footsteps.

Sean exited on the first landing—he’d visited this guardhouse enough times to know where Duncan would be located. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled under his breath. MacCoul had certainly dug himself in. Let’s see how long it will take to ferret him out.

Duncan looked up from a map of the castle. His jaw dropped and he blanched as white as Angus had earlier. “By God, now I know you’re a ghost.”

Sean grinned. There was nothing more satisfying than confounding the leader of the Highland Enforcers. “Good to see you as well, m’lord.”

“How the bloody hell did you get away? We haven’t fired the cannons because I did not want to take a chance before we spirited you out.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Not yet anyway.”

Sean pulled up a chair and reclined with his knees wide. “Bloody MacCoul chained me in irons and left me to rot in a cave on Kerrera.”

Duncan’s jaw dropped. “My God, Gyllis was right.”

Angus stepped behind Sean. “Exactly what I said m’lord.”

Sean relayed the story of how Gyllis had found him on the brink of death—after receiving savage hospitality from his bastard brother. He held up his shirt. “No thanks to MacCoul’s smithy.”

Duncan hissed. “You should have Lady Meg see to that.” Then his face went dark and his eyebrows knit together. “God’s teeth, Gyllis was supposed to be assisting my wife this whole time.” He cracked his knuckles. “When I get my hands on my wayward sister I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Sean leaned forward. “No one would listen to Gyllis except your lady wife. If the lass had allowed you to ship her back to Kilchurn, the buzzards would be feasting on my eyeballs this morn.”

“Jesus.” Duncan plopped into his chair. “But witnesses saw him cart your body into the castle.”

Sean reflected back to the cave. “He boasted about spiriting me out an old sea gate—said it was on the Firth of Lorn side of the castle.”

“An old sea gate, you say?” Duncan studied the map then looked up. “Angus—dress two men in fishermen’s garb and have them locate this gate.”

Angus bowed and headed for the door. “Right away, m’lord.”

Duncan pointed at the map. “We can attack from all sides—blast the cannons and end this siege.”

Sean placed his palms on the table, fingers splayed. “I want Alan’s head. He imprisoned me in irons without so much as a drop of water and left me for dead. I want to see the look in his eyes before I take his head.”

“But you’re—”

Sean held up his hand. “Let me slip through the sea gate.”

“Perhaps not this time. What about your wounds?” Duncan frowned. “I can tell by looking at you, you’re weakened from starvation.”

Without moving, Sean eyed him. “I’ve fought while in worse condition.”

Duncan stood and crossed to the sideboard then poured three tots of whisky. “’Tis a risk to go in there on your own.”

“Aye,” Sean agreed.

“I cannot allow it in daylight.”

“Duncan, I can—”

The lord turned with a flagon in his hand. “I, more than any other, know what you are capable of. But I’m in charge of this standoff and I’ll not have anyone recognizing you.”

Sean bowed his head and accepted a cup from Duncan. “M’lord.”

“A missive from the king,” a messenger said from the doorway.

Sean kept his face averted.

“Thank you—report to the cook’s tent and fill your belly.” Duncan took it and ran his thumb under the wax seal and read. “My oath, the miserable sop has Herculean cods.”

“What does it say?” Sean asked.

“It appears your bastard brother demanded the king grant him the Chieftainship of Dunollie and the Lordship of Lorn.” Duncan tossed the missive on the table in front of Sean. “It seems there’s been a premature announcement of your death as well.”

Sean scanned the note then clenched it in his fists when he read the last line from the king: Rid Scotland of this arrogant vermin. ’Tis why I hold ill favor for illegitimates. They oft do not know their place.

Sean crumpled the velum. It will be my pleasure.

Duncan inclined his head in the direction of the camp. “How many people saw you?”

“Angus,” Sean said, thinking back. “The guard down below. The camp was only beginning to stir when I arrived.”

“Good. I want to keep your presence quiet.” He pointed at Angus. “Go fetch Lady Meg. She can tend to Sean’s lesions whilst we plan our attack.”

***

It was a good thing Angus spotted her when she’d first arrived at Dunstaffnage, else Gyllis might have told the entire camp Sean was not only alive, she’d come to give him a piece of her mind. During the ride with Cadan, Gyllis had ample time to collect her conflicting thoughts. And the more she pondered it, the more she didn’t care to wake up alone in Sean’s enormous four-poster bed.

He had no business taking up his sword so soon after she’d found him on the precipice of death only the day before. For heaven’s sake, he’d hardly been able to climb the stairs last eve. Would he even be able to raise a heavy two-handed sword above his head? Aside from his foolishness, he’d up and left her alone at Dunollie. What if a chambermaid happened upon her sleeping in his bed? She shuddered. He could have at least had the decency to wake her before he took his leave. Who knew what kind of deleterious state he was in when he arose that morn?

Angus led her toward the gatehouse tower. “If anyone asks, tell them you’re here to see your brother. Mind you, the chieftain’s presence must be kept quiet.”

“I understand.” She tried not to limp and keep up with his fast pace. At least this time he hadn’t told her to go home.

She followed the henchman up the stairs to the first floor of the tower until he stopped outside a closed door and turned to her. “Sir Sean told me it was you who found him in the cave. Please forgive me for not believing you, Miss Gyllis. If I had known you were planning to go after him alone, I would have assigned a guard to assist you.”

Gyllis blinked. The man had been downright arrogant toward her. At the time, she sensed Angus considered her presence as irritating as a briar’s thorn. But now was not the time to argue. She gestured toward her legs. “I hope you will disregard my limp and take me seriously the next time something important as your chieftain’s life is in peril.”

He turned scarlet and bowed his head. “Aye, miss.”

When he opened the door, Gyllis clapped a hand to her chest. She’d expected to see Sean, but Duncan stood and glared at her. “Leave us, Angus.”

“Very well, m’lord.” The henchman shut the door and left Gyllis alone with her dragon-hearted brother. And from the look on his face, the dragon was awake and fiercely guarding his treasure of gold.

“You disobeyed me.”

She moved her hands to her hips. “Pardon? As I see it, you refused to listen to me—even when your dearest friend’s life was on the line.”

He crossed his arms. “Let us not skirt the issue.”

“Come again? The issue is—”

Duncan sliced his hand through the air. “I told you to ride home with the guard. And then my scheming wife convinced me you were helping her in the hospital tent. I ought to—”

“What?” Gyllis stamped her foot. “Send me to Ardchattan Priory to learn piety? Have you forgotten I’ve just returned from three months of their hospitality?” Oh no, Duncan wasn’t about to quash her with: I’m your brother and your lord so you’d better do as I say. Gyllis balled her fists. Of all the pompous, bombastic, single-minded men she’d ever met, Duncan had to be the worst. She stomped up to him and glared. “When will you realize I am no longer a child?”

His eyes flashed with ire like they always did when she challenged him. “But ’tis my duty to protect you.”

Though he could shoot daggers with his black-eyed glare, Gyllis wasn’t about to back down. He always recited his duty as if it were more important than anything. “Mayhap, but ’tis not your burden to hogtie me and dismiss my every word as that of a daft cripple.”

Blinking, Duncan stepped back. She’d caught him there. “I would never—”

“Oh no? And where would Sir Sean MacDougall be now if I had gone back to Kilchurn with my tail tucked between my legs? Tell me? Would you rather have his death on your hands?”

His face turned bright red. “But think of your reputation.”

“My God, Duncan, is that all that consumes your mind?”

He pulled out his chair and plopped down, rapping his fist on the table. “Damn it all, you test me.” He raked his fingers through his thick black hair. God, he looked like a dragon-fighter if there ever was one. “I’ve been friends with MacDougall since we were lads. We…we did things that young men do. I abhor the thought of my own sister—”

“Stop.” Gyllis placed her hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward. “Do you think I have not heard the rumors? As I recall, you were considered as much a rogue as Sir Sean. Mayhap more so.”

“That is different.” Blinking rapidly, he swatted a dismissive hand through the air. “Lady Meg made me realize the error of my ways. Since she came into my life, I have put the single man’s lifestyle behind me.”

“And Sir Sean is incapable of changing as you did? Have you even discussed it with him, or did you draw your thick-headed line in the sand and make a decree that he would never be worthy of a Campbell lass?” Gyllis shoved the chair against the table with a clatter. “That’s it, isn’t it? Ever since the time of the Bruce, Campbells have deemed themselves superior, especially over the MacDougalls. After all, Sean’s archaic ancestors supported the reprehensible King Edward of England. Sean and all MacDougalls should be punished throughout eternity for their ancestor’s treachery and lack of vision.”

Duncan stood. “Gyllis, you push me too far.”

“Aye?” She straightened and folded her arms. “I did not come here to argue with you.”

He swiped his hand across his mouth and looked away as if he were conjuring yet another dispute to dissuade her from loving Sean.

Whatever absurdity was about to spew from his mouth, Gyllis didn’t want to hear it. “Where is he? When I found him yesterday, he was on the very precipice of death—so weak and pale. He shouldn’t be here. He should be abed.”

“Sir Sean is young and resilient. Besides, he’s hell-bent on revenge. There’ll be no stopping him.”

Gyllis pursed her lips. “I ken, but I’ll see him before he takes on Alan and his army, and you’ll not stop me.”

After a long stare, Duncan pointed toward the ceiling. “One floor up. Meg is tending his wounds. And the next time I see you, you had better be dressed as a proper noblewoman.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Gyllis slipped into the chamber the next floor up. The guard tower wasn’t built for comfort. The stairwell was extremely narrow and the stairs had been worn over years of use. Still sore and tired, she stumbled twice on her way up.

Fortunately, at each landing there was only one pie-shaped chamber. She caught her breath and pushed inside. Naked from the waist up, Sean sat in a wooden chair beside the hearth.

Meg stood beside him with a pot in her hand. She looked up and grinned. “Gyllis!”

A burning sensation spread throughout her chest. Limping, Gyllis marched across the floor and took the pot from Meg’s grasp. “I should be tending his wounds.”

The matron—Gyllis’s closest friend—bowed her head and took a step back. “Of course. Apologies. Duncan sent me up. I was unaware you were here.”

Gyllis glared at Sean. “Again it seems everyone wanted to cosset me in a tower whilst they solved the problems of all Christendom.” She knew she was overreacting, but seeing Sean’s bare chest in the presence of another woman with her eyes on him struck a nerve she could not control. “Must everyone take pity on me because I am a cripple?”

She shoved her fingers in the pot and filled them with gooey ointment.

Sean grabbed her wrist. “What are you saying? No one in this room has ever treated you any less because of your condition.”

There. He’d said it—referred to her limp and slowness as a condition. “You do not need to say anything. Your actions give you away.”

“How so? I, least of anyone, would pamper you because of a mild limp.”

“You left me at Dunollie as if I could be of no help to you at all. And now you have my sister-in-law tending your wounds.”

Sean’s gaze darted to Meg. “That is because her husband ordered it.”

Gyllis stammered. Hot blood pulsed beneath her skin. She wanted to scream. She wanted everyone to treat her as they had done before the paralysis. She hated being different—left in a big, comfortable bed to sleep whilst Sean rode into danger. How could he have frightened her like that?

“Do you think you are not wanted?” His voice grew softer.

Gyllis, too, looked at Meg. The lady curtsied and offered a gentle smile. “I should allow you two to talk. If you should need me I shall retire to the war room with Duncan for a bit.”

After the door closed behind Meg, Sean stood and brushed his fingers over Gyllis’s cheek. “Mo leannan. Look at yourself. You’ve come so far in such a short time. Everything you do amazes me.”

Her lips quivered—not quite ready to forgive him. “Then why did you leave me behind? You didn’t even tell me where you were going.” She wiped her fingers off on his chest. Still mad, she needed to talk this through or she’d burst. “I did not row for miles to see you run through by Alan MacCoul’s blade.”

Sean stared at her, his dark features growing darker. “If I had told you, you would have tried to stop me.”

She nodded vehemently. “As God is my witness, I would have.”

“But this is something I must do.”

“Why? Only yesterday, you were in purgatory, your body is weak. For heaven’s sake, the color has not yet returned to your face.” She gestured to his torso, riddled with seeping lesions. “How on earth do you expect to wear a hauberk over all those open sores?”

He grasped her palms between his hands. “I’ve fought injured before.”

She jerked her hands away. “But you are too weak. Please. Let Duncan and the others—”

“Do you not understand? I will never be able to live with myself if I recline in my bed whilst others fight my battles. I must do this.” He grasped her shoulders and held firm. “He imprisoned me in irons and left me for dead. His crimes are unconscionable.”

“But I’ve seen him fight.”

“He cannot best me. My entire life he has distained me. And now he is staking his claim on my title.”

“I am not saying what he’s doing is right, but I want you to live.” Burning tears rimmed her eyes. How could she convince him not to fight? “Would you choose your will for revenge over me?”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

“Am I to stand idly by while you march to your death?”

“Gyllis, do not do this. I love you. When this is over, I will talk to Duncan and we will be wed. Is that not what you want?”

She shoved her finger in the pot and smeared it across a line of lesions. “I want you to survive this siege. You are wounded.” She didn’t wait for him to respond. If she didn’t leave now, he’d twist her heart around his finger and she’d never be able to see reason.

How could he do this? How could he cast aside the sacrifice she’d made for him and the intense love they’d shared only the night before? Gyllis was so angry, she dashed down the stairs moving far too fast, but she needed air. She’d nearly made it down the two flights when one of her ankles twisted on an uneven step. Crying out, she flung her hands against the narrow walls to slow her momentum. But down she went with a crashing thud. Her buttocks hit the unforgiving stone first, followed by her back, then her head. The last thing she remembered was a man’s voice hollering for the healer.

***

Gyllis clapped her hands over her eyes. She wasn’t outside, but there was a blinding light surrounding her. “Where am I?”

Meg’s face came into view right above hers. “You’re awake.” She inclined her head. “I had the guards carry you to Duncan’s tent. It wouldn’t have been proper to tend you in the hospital tent—too many men there. How are you feeling?”

Gyllis slid her hand to the back of her head and connected with a sizeable knot. “My head’s throbbing.”

“I’m sure it is. You had quite a tumble.” Meg stuffed a pillow beneath Gyllis’s shoulders. “I take it all didn’t go well with Sir Sean earlier.”

“I’ll say.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “He refused to listen to reason and he’s about to get himself killed.” Gyllis tried to sit up. “I must stop him.”

“You must rest.” Meg sat beside her and rubbed ointment on Gyllis’s head. It had a potent, minty smell and made her eyes water. “This should help clear the cobwebs.”

“What’s in it?”

“My own concoction. Smelling salts blended with peppermint, valerian and whale oil.”

Gyllis blinked to clear her tears. “’Tis potent.”

“Aye.” Meg wiped her fingers on a cloth. “You ken, Sir Sean is one of the most skilled knights in all of Scotland.”

“Aye.”

Meg let out a long breath. “If I were bound in irons and left to starve, I’d want justice.”

Gyllis reached for Meg’s cloth and wiped off the ointment, so foul it was clearing the cobwebs a bit too fast. “Would you seek vengeance yourself or would you allow others to do battle for you?”

“If I were a knight, there’d be no question. I would face my oppressor.”

“Even if you were weakened by hunger and had lesions all over your body?”

“Aye, even then. When a man faces battle something potent overcomes him. I even got a sense of it when I helped Duncan escape from the Edinburgh gaol. It’s as if fatigue no longer matters—as if your muscles are infused with superhuman power.” Meg brushed a wisp of Gyllis’s hair from her face. “Have you ever been stronger than you ever dreamed possible because you had no other option?”

She didn’t have to ponder that question. “Aye. Only yesterday I rowed a skiff all the way to the southern end of Kerrera because I kent Sean was there. He needed me.” Gyllis closed her eyes and swallowed. “I still do not know how I found the strength to row all that way from morning to late afternoon.”

Meg drew a hand over her heart. “You rowed for miles and did not stop because you had to save the man you love?”

Gyllis gulped. “I did.”

“Is it so different that he needs to take part in tonight’s siege?”

“But he’s not yet recovered.”

“I’ve seen him better, for certain.” Meg clasped Gyllis’s hand. “Sometimes a man needs to prove he’s a man—if not to others, to himself.”

She bit her lip. “But I’m so frightened.”

“Do you think I have no fear every time Duncan rides out with the enforcers?”

Gyllis pushed up on her elbow. “How do you face it? How can you bear to watch him leave?”

“I pray.” Meg grasped her pot and stood. “And busy myself by helping others.”

***

Sean hated upsetting Gyllis. On one hand, she was right. He’d need a few days of hearty meals before he regained all of his strength. But he doubted any woman would ever understand why he must face Alan.

At least he’d regained enough strength to overpower that scoundrel.

Sean looked at his hand. He closed his fist. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

Angus burst through the door. “’Tis Gyllis.” He drew in a sharp inhale and pointed. “She’s fallen and hit her head. Lady Meg is tending her in Duncan’s tent.”

“My God.” Sean shoved back his chair and bounded toward the door. “What happened?”

“Wait.” Angus grasped his wrist. “You cannot be seen. Where’s your cloak?”

“Ballocks, we must make haste.” Sean snatched his mantle from the peg and threw it over his shoulders. He pulled the hood low over his head. “Is she hurt?”

“She was unconscious when we carried her from the tower.”

Sean kicked himself for allowing her to run off. He knew she was angry and those uneven tower stairs were difficult for a soldier to negotiate. He’d been so wrapped up in his desire for vengeance, he’d not thought about her paralysis or the toll it must have taken on her body whilst she rowed for miles to his rescue. No wonder she was so distressed.

He flew down the steps with Angus right behind.

So controlled by hate, Sean hadn’t thought to follow her. He just assumed she’d join Lady Meg with Duncan in the war room. He’d planned to give her time to cool off, but he should have escorted her. Christ, this was an army encampment filled with men, and he’d sat dumbly while the woman he loved fell, hit her head and lost consciousness.

His heart could have burst through his chest. His legs couldn’t run fast enough. Jesus Christ, he wouldn’t blame her if she never forgave him. He was the greatest fool who’d ever walked the shores of Dunollie.

“She slipped at the bottom of the stairwell.” Angus panted, trying to keep up. “I h-heard her cry out. Lady Meg and I f-found her first.”

“Bloody hell,” Sean mumbled, running, clutching the damned hood low over his face.

He skidded to a stop outside the tent, grasped the flap and ducked inside. “Gyllis!” he said, running to her pallet. “Forgive me.”

He dropped to his knees beside Lady Meg. “I never should have let you leave alone. I should have insisted someone escort you.”

Thank God, she was awake and propped against the pillows. She reached for his hand. “Not to worry. I’ll be fine.”

“When Angus told me you were hurt, my heart seized.” He held her fingers to his lips and kissed. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you.”

“She has a nasty bump at the back of her head,” Lady Meg said. “But she doesn’t appear to have any latent effects—no forgetfulness, no vomiting.”

That didn’t ease Sean’s racing heart. “As I ran the short distance from the tower to this tent, I realized there is nothing in the world more important than you. There is no one in the world I want more than you and there is no vengeance more important than your love.”

A gasp caught in Gyllis’s throat. Tears welled in her eyes.

Lady Meg stood. “I must go check on an arrow wound that has been festering. If you’ll please excuse me.”

Sean rose and bowed. “My lady, allow me.” He escorted her and held the tent flap, then quickly returned to Gyllis’s side, dipping to one knee. “Are you in pain?”

She squeezed his hand. “Aside from a wee headache, I’m well. ’Tis the problem with being an invalid, everyone thinks you’re frail.”

“But you are as fragile as a dove.” She struggled to sit up and Sean pressed his hand to her shoulder. “You must rest.”

“No.” She pushed up, a crease forming between her eyebrows, those gorgeous green eyes flashing with ire. “I’ve had enough of everyone telling me what to do—treating me like I haven’t a mind because of an illness.”

Of all the things about Gyllis there were to love, he adored her spirit the most. “You’re right, mo leannan. In my observation nothing can stop you from achieving anything you set your mind to.”

She smiled and cupped his face with her palm. “You may be the only person who believes that.”

Sean leaned into her hand then turned his lips into her palm and kissed it. “I meant what I said. You mean more to me than any other person in the entire world.” His heart ached, but he had to say it. No matter what he wanted, Gyllis was more important. “If you do not wish for me to face Alan, I shall stay behind.”

Never had he seen her smile so vibrant. That gift alone made up for the disappointment of watching another act in his stead. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him onto the pallet beside her. “By the grace of God, I love you Sean MacDougall.”

“And I you, Gyllis Campbell, with all my heart, my soul, my life, my riches. I give them all to you.”

She threaded her fingers through his. “But I cannot allow you to step away from a task I know in my heart you must do.”

Sean arched his brows, sure he’d misunderstood. “Pardon me?”

“If.” She held up a finger. “If you were to face Alan MacCoul, would you promise to return to me unharmed?”

“That’s a difficult promise to make.” He scratched his head. “A man can be injured sparring with his guard in the keep’s courtyard. Stepping in the midst of battle always bears a risk.”

“I ken.” She nodded and stared at their interlaced fingers. “If I give my consent and you join Duncan this night, will you promise to exercise every care so that you will return to my arms?”

He pulled her into his embrace and inhaled. Her hair smelled of home—exactly where his heart resided. Gyllis’s fragrance from here out would remind him of home. “You have my vow. It will make me stronger to face that demon knowing you are waiting with open arms.”

“Then you must eat and rest, for you’ll need as much strength as you can muster.”

He grinned and ran his hand up the back of her head. “Are you sure that fall didn’t do some damage?”

She gave him a playful smack to the ribs and they both laughed.

Gazing into her fathomless eyes, Sean grew serious. He’d always loved Gyllis, but in this moment, his love grew tenfold. Somehow, between when she left the tower to when she arrived in the tent, she had grown to understand him, understand what a man—a chieftain—must do to earn respect, and more so, to maintain his honor.

Aye, he would have stayed behind for Gyllis, but now he would never forget how she cast aside her conviction and stood by him. He would spend his life repaying her favor.

He closed his eyes and claimed her mouth, showing her the depth of his love. The woman in his arms would be his throughout eternity.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER THIRTY

After blackening their faces with soot, Sean boarded a skiff with the most elite warriors in the Highland Enforcers and together they rowed from the pier around to the sea gate. Sean sat astern, Eoin manned the oars and Duncan sat beside his cousin, Robert Struan at the bow.

They’d left the newest member of the enforcers in charge of the army. Iain Campbell, Duncan’s youngest brother, had recently returned from his fostering with the Earl of Argyll. Better, the lad had acquired some training in the operation of the cannons Duncan’s forces had aimed to blast through Dunstaffnage’s walls.

But Sean planned to end the siege this night. Alan had been holed up, locked inside the castle for four days. Foodstuffs would be low and tempers flaring. Once MacCoul was subdued, his men would cross over, lest they all end up feeling the hangman’s noose.

Sean slid his hands up his sleeves to ensure his daggers were secure, then he did the same to the knives hidden in his hose. He didn’t have much time to slip in and find his quarry. When the chapel bell tolled the end of compline, Iain would fire a warning shot past Dunstaffnage’s walls into the Firth of Lorn. That would be the signal for all to attack. There would be no turning back this time, no volley of arrows. Ladders for scaling the walls were readied, a tree had been felled and reinforced with an iron tip. The main gate would be rammed. Five hundred MacDougalls, Campbells, Stewarts and MacGregors stood at the ready to overthrow the usurper and Sean would see an end to it once and for all.

The boat lightly tapped the stone embankment above the sea gate.

“Ready?” Duncan whispered loudly.

Sean offered a nod. This was how he wanted it. No one was more elusive. Undertaking the king’s business—the enforcer’s business—Sean had slipped inside castles from England to the Orkneys and this was no different.

He thrived on danger.

Before Robert had the boat tied, Sean jumped over the rail and crouched on the narrow wall. He didn’t look back at the others. They all knew the plan. They’d worked together so many years, there was no need to talk. If they didn’t adhere to the plan, someone would be killed—a lesson not easily forgotten. The first Lord of Glenorchy, Duncan’s father had been killed on a mission at Kildrummy Castle. They’d all followed the plan, but sometimes things happened that one couldn’t predict. Another lesson which would never be forgotten. Always expect the unexpected.

Sean pressed his ear against the wooden gate. Faint footsteps paced on the other side. He’d need to be swift and deadly.

He slid his dirk from its scabbard and held up one finger to Duncan. There was one man for certain—two if Alan had another posted at the top of the incline, but they’d know soon enough. Sean levered the pin out from the top hinge while Duncan and Eoin steadied the door.

After he’d removed the bottom pin, Duncan gave the men a nod. As they pulled the door away, Sean reached in, grabbed the guard by the chin and snapped his neck. “Sorry, you bastard. You might have lived if you’d not paid fealty to a blackguard.”

With no movement ahead, Sean pulled the MacCoul guard through the hole while Duncan and Eoin slid the gate back into place.

Once he’d donned the man’s helm and surcoat, Sean picked up the soldier’s battleax and nodded to Duncan. “Ready.”

“We’ll cover the gate until we hear the signal. You’ll not have a soul watching your back,” Duncan warned.

Sean shoved the visor over his face. Why Campbell felt he had to say something was beyond him. Even the Lord of Glenorchy had tried to talk him into staying behind. You look like shite, Duncan had said. God’s teeth. Sean had gone without food and sleep before—mayhap things had never been as bad as his last day in the cave, but he’d eaten three meals since he’d returned and he’d slept. How much fitter did Duncan expect him to be?

He had to do this alone. Not only was he the “Ghost”, more than one newcomer would cause a stir amongst MacCoul’s men. Even one was a risk, but Sean was a master at blending in. He took the torch from the wall and held it high.

He slipped up the incline from the sea gate, into a dark cavern, praying it led directly under the inner bailey and into the catacombs of the donjon. The dank tunnel dripped with water. A clammy sweat crawled down Sean’s back as he was reminded of his recent hospitality on Kerrera. The lesions throbbed beneath his hauberk and infused his ire. He sped his pace.

Stopping at the door, he held his breath and listened. Once sure he would be met with no nasty surprises, he tugged the door open. The hinges screeched as if they’d been sealed shut for three hundred years. He slipped inside and palmed his dirk, ready for a fight. But no one came.

At the far side of the room, rats scurried away. Sean sniffed. It reeked of sewage. He strode across the dirt floor to the passageway. Dark in both directions, he continued to his left. If his bearings served him right, the tower stairwell was ahead.

He crept against the wall. At any moment, some unsuspecting bastard could venture down to the catacombs—though he doubted it. The bowels of a castle were akin to the path to Hades. And if Sean had them pegged right, this mob of outlaws would be a suspicious lot.

After he rounded the corner, dim light glowed from the stairwell. He’d chosen correctly. He doused his torch and snuck forward. Rumbles of voices from the great hall grew louder as he neared. He closed the visor of his helm. He’d need to cross through the great hall to get to the donjon—and Sean had no doubt MacCoul was biding his time in the second floor solar. It was where the king held court the infrequent times he was in residence—also where the Lord of Lorn had run his affairs. MacCoul would believe he was due such a chamber of opulence with its rich tapestries from France.

Sean’s feet made not a sound as he ascended. Before the stairwell opened upon the great hall, he froze, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Conversation rumbling from the pillagers was gruff.

“Even more Campbell supporters have arrived—and still no missive from the king,” a voice said. “Soon every army in Scotland will be here to drive us out.”

“I think we should fight now—show them MacCoul’s army is one to be reckoned with.”

“Aye? If our leader doesn’t move soon, we’ll be the ones they’re calling traitors.”

Sean smirked. The lot of them were already traitors—and MacCoul would receive his missive from the king—in hell.

He slipped through the entrance and moved at a meandering pace, as if he’d just been relieved of guard duty. His breath turned to mist against the helm, the eye slits barely giving him the range of sight he needed to see if there were any eyes watching him with suspicion. But he resisted the urge to glance from side to side and kept his face forward.

Ten paces to the donjon stairwell, a man stepped in his path. “Why are you still wearing your helm?”

Sean rubbed his neck. “Just returned from duty.”

Before he could stop him, the man flipped up Sean’s visor and squinted. “I haven’t seen you before.”

Sean snapped his head back and the visor dropped. Thank God the fool hadn’t recognized him. “I’ve been keeping to myself—guarding the rear.” He didn’t want to mention the sea gate. If this man put the pieces together, Duncan and the others could end up in a nasty fight. Sean tried to push past.

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

Christ, the bastard couldn’t leave it alone. “I’ve a message for MacCoul.”

The man grabbed his arm. “Have you a missive from the king?” he asked excitedly.

If Sean said yes, the entire hall would follow him above stairs. “Nay.”

“Then what is it?” His pickled breath oozed through the helm’s eye slits.

Sean wrenched his arm away. “’Tis of a sensitive nature.” Jesus, the smelly varlet wouldn’t let it be. “Follow me and I’ll tell you.”

That seemed to placate the cur because he chuckled and motioned toward the stairwell.

“After you.” Sean bowed. “I take it MacCoul’s in the solar as usual?”

Moving forward, at least the man wasn’t smart enough to stay at Sean’s rear. “Aye.”

Good, that’s all the information Sean needed from this maggot. At the first landing, he slipped one hand over the man’s mouth, pulled him into the servant’s closet and ran his dirk across the bastard’s neck. He leaned the battleax against the wall. Sean preferred to fight with a sword and a dirk, not the clumsy axe of a novice.

He wiped his dirk on the man’s chausses and then shoved it in his scabbard. “If you’d left me be, you’d still be alive.” Then Sean dashed up to the next landing, not stopping until he heard voices coming from inside the king’s solar.

Sean clenched his teeth. Alan was arguing with none other than that festering-pustule, Brus. Sean would recognize that backstabber’s grating voice anywhere. Brus had always followed MacCoul around like a leech—had laughed in Sean’s face before they’d left him to die.

Take your last breath, for hell is about to unleash its vengeance.

Sean silently lifted the latch and peered inside. Alan sat in the king’s chair, with Brus leaning against the sideboard, arms and ankles crossed as if he owned the castle. Sean fingered the dagger up his left sleeve. In one fluid motion, he pushed through the door, flung the blade, hitting Brus in the neck, then drew his sword.

Thus far, not a shout had been uttered. Staring MacCoul in the eye, Sean closed the door behind him and bolted it.

Alan shoved back his chair and drew their father’s sword. “You,” he growled unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

Gurgling empty curses, Brus clutched at the knife and fell face first on the table.

Alan sidestepped, his eyes wide with fear. “Get thee from me, ghost. I left you for dead—no man could have lived this long.”

“You are quite mistaken.” Sean leveled his sword with Alan’s heart. “Had you been honest with me from the outset, our feud wouldn’t have ended this way.”

“Oh?” he continued to circle around the table. “And I would have survived in my little brother’s shadow?”

“You’ve lost that chance. Now you will die in it.”

Alan lunged. “I think not.”

Sean skittered aside, a chair toppling over. He nearly lost his balance as he deflected Alan’s attack.

Alan advanced with relentless hacks of his blade. He’d grown stronger since Beltane.

And Sean had grown weaker.

Backing around the room, it was all he could do to deflect the onslaught of vicious strikes. Sean’s muscles burned, barely able to wield the sword in his hands. Duncan had been right. Everyone had been right. Sean’s strength was half what it should be, his movement slowed by sluggishness.

Gnashing his teeth, Alan lunged in for the kill. Sean raised his blade for the deflection, a hair’s breadth before the sword sliced him across the neck. His helm flew from his head and clattered to the floor. Iron screeched with iron as their blades locked until they met at the cross guards. In a battle of strength, Sean could no longer control his muscles and he quaked mercilessly. Planting his left foot, he used his right to push MacCoul away and gain enough space to run.

He sped around the table to put some distance between them. Panting, he watched Alan swing his sword in an arc. The bastard laughed—taunted Sean. “I see my hospitality has turned you into a milksop.”

Sean said nothing, sucking in deep breaths, willing the air to revive him.

Alan sauntered around the table. “After I kill you, I’ll be Chieftain of Dunollie and I’ll marry that Campbell bitch—something you never had the cods to do.”

“You bleeding bastard. You’ll not touch her!” Sean went on the attack, swinging his sword like a madman. He never allowed himself to lose control when in a fight, but rage gripped his chest like a vise. He couldn’t stop. The thought of Alan claiming Gyllis for his own drove him to the brink of insanity.

A picture of Fraser’s mutilated body sent him into a raving frenzy. “I will avenge Fraser’s death.”

“That spineless maggot?” MacCoul blocked Sean’s strike and the next. On and on Sean advanced while the blackguard continued to back around the table. “I took great pleasure in gutting your asp-biting spy.”

Rage infusing him with strength, Sean used both hands, spinning, aiming for the braggart’s head. MacCoul ducked and came up, jabbing the pommel of his sword into Sean’s gut. Wind whooshed from Sean’s lungs. He gasped for air and steadied himself.

Never had he tired this easily.

A blast came from beyond the walls. The cannon’s warning had been fired. MacCoul was already supposed to be dead.

Alan advanced. Sean deflected. Iron clanged. Sean erred with slips of the wrist and deadly mistakes. But he wasn’t about to give up. Spinning, he hurled his blade. MacCoul met his strike with equal force. With jarring power reverberating up his arms, the sword flew from Sean’s grip.

Before he could reach for his dirk, Alan slipped his blade against Sean’s neck and laughed like Satan himself. “I should have cut your throat at the cave and been done with it.”

Sean spat. “You’ll never succeed. The king will not recognize your claim.”

Alan’s eyes flashed wide and he pressed the blade harder. “I will be Chieftain of Dunollie and Lord of Lorn. It is my rightful place. My inheritance.” The man’s face grew red. Clearly, he couldn’t bear to think he could possibly fail.

Pride is a great sin.

“What about Dugald?” Sean purchased time. “He’s Lorn’s heir.”

“I killed Lorn,” Alan gloated.

“But he didn’t die before he took his vows.” Sean dropped his arm and slid the dagger from his hose. “And our father only claimed one son. The king signed your death warrant.”

Alan bellowed like a caged lion. “You lie! You’ll not be here to see the riches I am granted. All of the Highlands will fear me. I will cut off your head and impale it on a pike above the gate as a testament as to who is the better son.” Baring his teeth, he grasped Sean’s hair, swinging his blade back.

Time slowed.

The cannon boomed with a long drawn-out blast.

Sean watched the blade rise then focused on the pulsing vein in Alan’s exposed neck. He could hear the thump of his brother’s heart. A drop of Alan’s sweat splattered on his cheek. He will never touch Gyllis.

Before their father’s sword began its downward momentum, Sean sprang up and sliced his dagger across MacCoul’s throat.

In mid-swing, the sword’s edge embedded deep into Sean’s shoulder, but he didn’t feel a thing.

Stunned and grasping at his throat, Alan fell onto Sean. “I am the eldest son,” he croaked.

Sean wrapped him in his arms. “I wish it had been different between us, brother.”

Alan let out a long hissing breath. His last.

Sean rested his brother’s body on the floor and passed a hand over his face to close Alan’s vacant eyes. Aye, he’d done what he must, but this was not victorious.

When he started to stand, Sean’s head spun. He glanced down at the gash in his shoulder. Thick blood oozed down his hauberk. He reached for the chair to steady himself, but it was just beyond his grasp. Grunting, Sean fell forward and collapsed atop Alan’s body.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Gyllis and Meg clung to each other in Duncan’s tent while the battle raged. Every blast from the cannons made Gyllis quake in the oversized kirtle Meg had borrowed for her. “When will it be over?”

“I know not,” Meg’s voice trembled every bit as much as Gyllis’s did. “But we will be victorious. There is no other option.”

A man screamed, followed by a bone-crunching thud. Gyllis didn’t want to think—but her mind’s eye still pictured a warrior falling from the battlements.

She forced herself not to scream. “What if Sean or Duncan is hurt?”

Meg grasped her shoulders firmly and looked Gyllis in the eye. “We will not think on it.”

“I hate hiding in this tent. What more can we do to help?”

“Pray.”

Meg had always been pious and Gyllis grew inordinately guilty about having cursed at God the day before. She cringed. “I yelled at the heavens when I couldn’t find Sean. God could be very upset with me this day.”

Meg clasped her hands, squeezing tighter with her claw. Meg only used that hand when she was dead serious. “Did you find Sean?”

“Aye,” Gyllis whispered—of course Meg knew she had.

“Well then, sometimes you might need to yell to be heard.” She closed her eyes and recited the twenty-third psalm. Gyllis followed along, mouthing the words. Evidently Meg didn’t feel it necessary to yell, because she kept her tone even and somber.

When Meg finished, an eerie hush hung over the encampment. Gyllis stood and turned full circle, hearing not a single scrape of a sword.

“The siege is over, long live the king!” someone bellowed.

A roar of triumphant voices rose around them.

Gyllis grinned at Meg and pulled her hand. “Come.” Together they made their way over the barbican bridge and into the inner bailey as fast as Gyllis could manage. Men were celebrating, running past them with their weapons held high, but the women fought through the crowd. When they reached the donjon, Gyllis clapped a hand to her chest and caught her breath. “Have you seen them?”

Meg turned full circle. “Not yet.”

A fallen man clutched at his stomach, lying in a pool of blood. “Help. Someone, please help me.”

Meg pointed to the doors. “You go—I cannot leave him.”

Gyllis needed no more encouragement. For all she knew, Sean could be laying in his own pool of blood. When she pushed into the great hall, all she saw was madness. Duncan’s men were rounding up the usurpers and had them lying on the floor with their hands behind their heads. But the King’s solar was above stairs. Pushing through the crowd, she made her way to the stairwell.

As she climbed, pounding grew louder. When she reached the landing, Duncan and Mevan were chopping the solar door with a battleax. She didn’t need to ask. Sean was in there, and so was Alan MacCoul.

Dread iced through her veins while she watched them beat down the door. When they finally had it clear, she rushed in. “Sean!” Her heart stopped. Sean didn’t move. Slumped over the body of MacCoul, all color had drained from his face.

Blood pooled thickly on the floor. Splatters covered everything.

“No!” He cannot be dead.

Tears stinging her eyes, she threw herself over him. “Sean. ’Tis me. We’ve won!” She shook his shoulders. “Sean. Wake up. Please. Wake.”

Duncan grasped her shoulder. “Our dear friend is gone, lass.”

Ice coursed across her skin. “No,” she cried through her tears. “I do not believe it.”

Duncan again tugged, but Gyllis clamped her arms around Sean. “I will not leave him.” She turned and glared at her brother. “Carry him to a chamber.”

“But—”

“Do it.” She pointed. “Now!”

Duncan nodded his head once and beckoned Mevan. “There’s a bedchamber next door. The women will be able to prepare his body there.”

Gyllis grasped Sean’s hand. His fingers were frigid—and there was a deep gash on his shoulder.

“Stand aside,” Duncan said.

Sucking in her tears, she allowed the men to lift Sean’s body. His head flopped back and his arms and legs hung limp as they hauled him into the next room and placed him on the bed. “Send for Lady Meg,” she snapped.

Duncan hesitated for a moment, but he didn’t say a word.

They left her alone, holding Sean’s hand.

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

In the dimly lit room, Gyllis threw herself over Sean’s lifeless body, a wail erupting from her throat. “Please God, no.” She could scarcely utter the words through her fitful sobbing. She held up her blistered palms, still so painful from rowing to Kerrera. “You did not guide me to Kerrera only to see him killed here!”

She prostrated herself atop him.

“I do not believe it.”

“I do not believe it.”

“I. Do. Not!”

Reaching down, she threaded her fingers through his and kissed them. “You told me you would be careful.”

A pained cry caught in the back of her throat.

“Why did I allow Meg to talk me into letting you fight? I knew you were weakened, yet I trusted everyone and ignored my own heart.”

Spittle leaked from the corner of her mouth. “Please, God. D-do not take him from me.”

She scooted up and cupped his face with her palm. He seemed so peaceful—not dead, but in a deep sleep. How a man could be so beautiful, she could not fathom. And this man had loved her in spite of all her adversity, in spite of her limp, in spite of her every weakness.

“I will always love you.” She pressed her lips to his and closed her eyes, praying all the while. His lips were far warmer than his fingers—warmer than the chill within the chamber.

Sean’s chest rose and fell.

Gyllis jolted up. “Sean?”

He didn’t move.

She held a finger beneath his nose. A faint puff of warm air caressed her finger.

Clapping a hand over her mouth, she gasped. “Oh, thank God.” She limped to the door as fast as she could and swung it open. “Fetch Lady Meg. Sir Sean is alive!” Gyllis latched on to an arm of a passing guard. “Did you hear me? Fetch Lady Meg at once.”

She must have been assertive or half-crazed, because the guard saluted. “Yes, m’lady. Straight away.”

Swiping away her tears, Gyllis hastened back to the bed. “Lady Meg is coming. We must see to this horrible gash on your shoulder.” Her heart fluttered. “You will be fine. I know it.”

There wasn’t much left of his sleeve, so she tore it away and pushed the remaining cloth aside to inspect the wound. It was deep, but she couldn’t see bone. That had to be a good sign.

Meg rushed inside. “I’ve sent Mevan to fetch my basket.”

“His chest heaved and I felt warm air from his nose.”

“Thank heavens.” Meg inspected Sean’s arm. “I’ll need to stitch this straight away.” She grimaced. “But ’tis so deep, he could lose the arm.”

“What’s an arm compared to a life?”

“Let us pray we can save both.” Meg faced her. “Regardless, I’ll need your help. The injuries out there are horrendous. You’ll have to tend him all night—keep a cool cloth on his forehead, spoon willow tea into his mouth. Can you do that?”

“Of course. I will do anything.”

“I’ve your basket, m’lady,” Mevan said from the doorway.

Meg beckoned him. “Bring it here, then go help the others. I’ll head to the hospital tent as soon as I stitch up this wound.”

Mevan set the basket on the bedside table and hissed. “Bloody hell, MacCoul nearly took his arm off.”

“’Tis none too pretty.” Meg fished for a whalebone needle and thread. “Gyllis, you’ll need both hands to hold Sir Sean’s flesh together.”

“I’ll do anything you need.”

“Good.” Meg smiled. “I hope you have a strong stomach.”

Gyllis would have a strong anything if it meant Sean would live. When she moved to Sean’s shoulder, she ignored the pain in her palms and bore down with all her strength, matching the two sides of his skin. She watched Meg’s every stitch until the last one was tied off.

Meg swiped off the blood with a cloth and secured her needle in the basket. “Remember what I said. Keep his forehead cool. Keep the wound doused with avens oil. Have the chambermaid bring you willow bark tea and ale. Keep spooning it into his mouth until he wakes.”

He wakes. Those words were like angel’s bells. “I’ll keep a vigil for a month if I must.”

“If things grow worse, send someone to fetch me.” She put the basket over her arm. “I fear this will be a long night for us all.”

***

As she’d promised, Gyllis maintained a vigil at Sean’s side. Blood seeped from his wound, but she saw that as a good sign—God’s own form of cleansing. The past few days had sped past in such a blur. She sat beside him on the bed, allowing herself to doze only for brief moments in between dousing the cloth in cool water. She hummed and talked as she worked—partly for her sake and partly for Sean’s. If he could hear her, she wanted him to know she was there—would always be beside him.

The witching hour must have come because Gyllis’s eyelids refused to stay open. Sleep kept trying to claim her mind. Her head continuously bobbed. She got up and paced the floor, but her toe stubbed repeatedly, making her stumble. Walking, exhaustion and the latent effects of paralysis did not go well together.

She pulled a wooden chair beside the bed and sat, realizing the hour glass had run its course. Once she turned it over, she picked up the tankard with the tea and a spoon. “Time for another tincture, my love.” She ladled a few drops in Sean’s mouth—his lips were still so chapped. “Did I ever tell you about the time Helen and I were spying on you and Sir Eoin MacGregor?”

“Nay,” a raspy voice answered.

She held the spoon completely still, her gaze shooting to Sean’s face. His eyes were still closed. “Nay?” she asked, wondering if her mind was playing tricks.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “N-nay,” he said.

“My goodness, you heard me?”

He nodded slightly.

“Are you in pain?”

“Aye.” His eyes opened a wee bit. “Come here.”

She set down her things and nestled beside him, careful not to disturb his wound. “They thought you were dead, but I wouldn’t believe it.”

A chuckle caught in his throat. “I’m glad you did not.” He licked his lips. “But I’d expect no less from my woman.”

Her heart squeezed. “I’ll take care of you, Sean MacDougall. I shall care for you until I draw my last breath.”

“I’m the one who should be uttering such words of chivalry.” He blinked then widened his eyes. “You have my vow, I will protect you forever. You will always be the keeper of my heart. Never again will I be so foolish as to walk into battle when I ken I am weak. That bastard nearly killed me.”

“Hush.” Gyllis placed her finger to his lips. “You did what you must. Now let us spoon some willow tea in your belly. It will help keep the fever at bay.”

“Nay. All I need is you beside me. A wee bit of sleep and I’ll be right.”

“You’re a rugged man, Sean MacDougall.” She snuggled into him and pulled the bedclothes around their shoulders. “Everything will be better on the morrow.”

***

Her mind was in a fog when the door burst open.

“Heaven help us, you are ruined.” Mother rushed inside, slamming the door behind her.

As soon as Gyllis heard the voice, she bolted upright. “Ma? What are you doing here?” Devil’s bones, she needed about another sennight of sleep.

“You expected me to sit idle when news of a battle arrived at Kilchurn? And I was right to come. Look at you. In bed with a man! If that’s not bad enough, there are armies of people everywhere. You are scandalous!” She clapped a hand to her forehead and paced. “The family will be disgraced. I’ll never find husbands for Marion or Alice. All three of you will be ruined.”

Gyllis glanced downward at her borrowed, ill-fitting kirtle and then across to Sean’s naked chest—he hadn’t awakened with Mother’s tirade. Gyllis shook her head to clear the cobwebs and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “He’s been unconscious most of the night. God’s teeth, Ma, Lady Meg assigned me to his care.”

“Watch your vulgar tongue.” Mother held up a finger. “That didn’t mean you should climb into bed with the man. Who has seen you?”

“N-no one. I stayed awake until I could no longer hold up my head.”

Ma stopped pacing and glared across the room. “I must have Duncan speak to Sir Sean at once.” She walked up to the bed, as if she’d only realized Sean was still sleeping. “The only way to avoid a scandal is for him to propose marriage this day.” She patted his cheek. “Sir Sean?”

He didn’t move.

Gyllis grasped Mother’s arm. “Please, let him rest. He was severely injured—was close to death.” She swallowed her urge to smile and led her mother to the chairs in front of the hearth. Had she honestly used the words propose marriage? “I’ve wanted to talk to you in earnest about Sir Sean for a long time. Perhaps we can have a word whilst he slumbers.”

Mother pursed her lips as if the thought didn’t appeal. With one last glance over her shoulder she relented and sat.

Gyllis leaned her head in and kept her voice low. “Did Helen speak to you?”

“Aye,” Ma whispered.

“So you know Sir Sean visited me…um…frequently when I was at Ardchattan?”

Mother nodded.

“And you are aware we wish to marry?”

“Wheesht.” Ma grasped her hand and squeezed. “For some ridiculous reason, Duncan has never approved of Sir Sean’s affinity for you, so you’d best wipe that smile off your face and play along if I am to have any chance of success.” She violently shook her finger. “This is scandalous,” she raised her voice. “You remained the entire night in this chamber alone with Sir Sean? How could you? Now only Duncan can keep the entire family from ruination!”

Gyllis hid her face in her hands. Evidently Mother had arrived at Dunstaffnage with a well-thought plan of her own.

***

Every inch of his body ached, but Sean forced himself to open his eyes. For some mysterious reason, he could have sworn he’d heard Lady Margaret’s shrill voice shouting about a scandal—and he was the rogue at the bottom of it. He’d been the center of a scandal before, but definitely couldn’t admit to any foul play last eve.

“But Sir Sean could have died had I not been here to tend him,” Gyllis said.

The women were near the hearth. Sean tried to sit up, but unholy stabbing pain stopped him with a bellow. “Bloody hell.”

“Sean,” Gyllis hastened toward the bed. “You’re awake.”

He gritted his teeth, biting back the pain. “Aye, and there’ll be no scandal. Let the old windbags talk. I’ll marry Gyllis this day.”

“Sir Sean.” Lady Margaret rushed to the head of the bed. “I knew you would see reason.” She brushed the hair from his forehead. “If you are to be wed, we must have time to plan.” She held up a finger as if she had everything scripted. “A betrothal will be quiet sufficient. But first you must have words with Lord Duncan.”

The door swung open. “What the blazes are you doing here, Mother?” The Lord of Glenorchy strode inside, hair mussed, shoving his shirt into his breeks.

Once the door closed, the lady marched up to him. “Are you aware your sister spent the entire night with this man?”

Gyllis pattered in behind Ma. “But he was unconscious. Lady Meg told—”

“Enough,” Lady Margaret cut Gyllis off and returned her attention to Duncan. “We have no choice but to insist Sir Sean makes a proposal of marriage to Gyllis this very day, else she and your sisters will be ruined and I shall never find husbands for them all.”

Duncan cast a heated look in Sean’s direction. “Bloody Christmas, Mother. How the devil did you arrive so early? Do not tell me you rode all night.”

“And why ever not? After I received word that my son, my daughter and the mother of my grandchild were embroiled in a battle with a ruthless scourge. Of course I gathered the guard and rode all night.” She jabbed her finger into Duncan’s sternum. “But that is not the issue at hand. You must have words with Sir Sean. There are people mulling about everywhere. News of my daughter’s indiscretion will run rampant.”

“But—”

Mother stretched a bit taller. “I’d be surprised if the rumors haven’t already spread.”

“I do not—”

“Thank the good Lord I arrived when I did. The only way to avoid a scandal is if you accept his proposal of marriage to your sister forthwith.”

Duncan scratched his head. “Are you finished?”

With a satisfied and aristocratic rise of her chin, Lady Margaret took Gyllis by the hand. “Follow me, dear. We must leave the men to talk.” On the way out she shook her finger at Duncan. “I do not want you to leave this chamber until you have come to an agreement.”

Despite the excruciating pain in his shoulder, Sean withheld his urge to laugh. Aside from Lady Meg, Lady Margaret was the only person Sean had ever seen make Duncan eat his words. But he had no illusions that his friend would be in a bear of a mood. Sean eased to his good side and forced himself to sit up.

Duncan faced him and glowered. “You’re the only man I know who could cause a scandal whilst out senseless.”

Sean tried to smile, but his lip split. “Aye, and I didn’t even chance to have any fun.” He winced, Christ, sometimes he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

“Bloody damnation and ballocks to that.” At least Duncan didn’t hit him. “You look like shite.”

“Feel like it, too.” He licked the blood from his lip. “You ken I’ve always been in love with Gyllis.”

“Aye, but I’ve fought your affinity for my sister for years.” Duncan sat on the bed beside him. “You’ll have to put an end to your womanizing, else I’ll be forced to tell Ma the girls are ruined.”

“You’d do that?” Sean forced a grin. The lusty laddie moniker had to go. He hated to admit it to Duncan, but it was time to bare his soul. “I haven’t looked at a woman other than Gyllis in over a year. Even after you sent me to the miserable borders, I kept to myself.” God, his head hurt. Everything hurt as if he’d been bludgeoned within an inch of his life. “I love her, Duncan. I would die for her.”

“Even after her paralysis? You ken she may never be graceful—never dance again.”

“Do you think I care? I love Gyllis for the angel she is in her heart.” Sean swiped a hand across his chapped lips. “I’ve loved her since your mother forced us to take part in all those silly dancing lessons, and my love for her grew tenfold after Gyllis, stricken with paralysis, rowed from Dunstaffnage to the southern tip of Kerrera because she remembered a threat Alan MacCoul made months prior—a threat you heard him utter.”

“And yet I didn’t believe her. I, too, can be a dunce at times.” Shaking his head, the corners of Duncan’s mouth turned up. “Very well, I shall agree to your betrothal, but you will not spend another moment alone with my sister until after your vows are sealed.”

Sean held up his palm. “Just allow me a modicum of time.”

Duncan eyed him.

“I’m in no condition to take advantage of the lass—and she needs a proper proposal.”

“Very well.” He held up a finger just like his Ma had done only moments ago. “But keep in mind, I will be right outside.”

When Duncan opened the door, Lady Margaret, Lady Meg and Gyllis all stared up at him as if they were trying to pretend they hadn’t overheard a word. He ushered Gyllis into the chamber. “Sir Sean wants to speak to you for a moment and that is all I will allow.”

When the door closed behind her, Gyllis tiptoed inside with her hands steepled to her lips. “I am sorry all of this had to happen whilst you are in so much pain.”

Sean stood, his legs wobbling beneath him. The past few days had nearly sent him to an early grave.

Gyllis rushed forward and grasped his elbow. “You should still be abed.”

“Mind you, that’s exactly where I’m headed, but there’s one thing I must do first.” Thank God he didn’t fall on his face as he went down on bended knee. He took her hand in his palms.

Her wee gasp made his blood thrum anew.

Taking a big inhale he stared at the eyes that had enraptured him since boyhood—the only lips he wanted to kiss, the woman who had grown to mean so much to him. “Gyllis Marietta Campbell, you have shown me courage beyond that of any man I know. You have shown me perseverance to rival the greatest of men, and you are the dearest and most stunning creature I have ever seen. I love you more passionately than life itself…You have claimed my heart. Will you do me the honor of agreeing to be my wife?”

By the time he’d finished the brief proclamation of his undying love, a tear spilled from Gyllis’s eye and splashed on the back of his hand. Keeping her palm in his grasp, he first kissed her salty tear, then turned her hand and pressed his lips against it.

“Aye,” she whispered. “I will marry you, Sir Sean MacDougall.”

A HIGHLAND KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

After Sean’s proposal, they had decided to hold the wedding at Kilbride Church on Dunollie lands. In front of the polished copper mirror, Gyllis sat in the chamber where she’d tried to sleep that first night when she’d visited Dunollie—the one where she and Sean couldn’t return to Ardchattan due to the flooding.

Helen straightened Gyllis’s gold veil which was held in place by a circlet encrusted with emeralds. “You make a beautiful bride.”

Gyllis offered a sheepish smile. “If only I could have been at your wedding.”

“It was nice, though not as well attended as yours.” Helen toyed with Gyllis’s collar. “My, Mother must have invited half of Argyllshire.”

“I believe she did.” Gyllis chuckled. “And how is life as the Lady of Ardnamurchan?”

Helen glanced toward the window. “I enjoy running the keep—just as I always thought I might.”

“And Sir Aleck? Is he treating you well?”

“Aye, I suppose. He’s an unusual man when he’s home. He’s oft away—embroiled in the feud with the MacDonalds.” She reached for a bottle of rose oil sitting atop the sideboard. “He’s as fierce a warrior as I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh my, that is saying something, with Duncan Campbell as our brother and the Highland Enforcers always mulling about Kilchurn Castle.”

Helen dabbed a bit of the oil behind her ear. “True.” There was sadness in her voice.

Gyllis placed a palm on her sister’s arm. “Is he tender with you?”

“Not really.” A wee tear glistened at the corner of Helen’s eye. “If anything he’s gruff. But I needn’t worry overmuch. Thus far, he’s not been around long enough for it to be a bother.”

Gyllis pulled Helen into her arms. It didn’t seem right for her to be so happy when her sister was not.

“Enough of that.” Helen backed away and grasped Gyllis’s shoulders. “We are here to celebrate your marriage to Sir Sean MacDougall this day. At least one of us caught the man of our dreams.”

“And you must know you are welcome at Dunollie at any time with or without your warrior husband.”

“Thank you. One never knows. I may end up on your stoop with a satchel over my shoulder.”

Gyllis dabbed Helen’s eye with a kerchief. “I’m sure things will improve.”

“Aye, Mother said the same. She told me the first year is always the worst. As you recall, hers was an arranged marriage, and things did not start well between her and Da.”

Gyllis chuckled. “I remember the stories well.”

A rap came at the door. “It is time.” Duncan stepped inside. “Are you ready?”

Butterflies flitted in Gyllis’s stomach as she glanced around the room. “I was ready sennights ago.”

***

Sean hadn’t been this nervous when he went before the king on the day of his knighthood. Why he was anxious at all baffled him. He loved Gyllis, and had waited throughout an agonizing month while her mother invited half of Scotland to the wedding feast…but still, he paced in front of the altar.

It seemed like an eternity had passed since Duncan had left to fetch Gyllis. What if she suddenly had a change of mind? Sean clenched his fist. Gyllis wouldn’t do that.

The church pews were filled with people. In fact there were so many in attendance, groups stood at the back of the nave. Where did they all hail from?

John Campbell took his place in front of the altar, holding a black prayer book. “You could sit until they arrive. You look like a caged dog.”

Sean shot the priest an annoyed glare. But he did sit—for about two blinks of an eye and then he was back on his feet. “Sitting only makes it worse.”

John frowned—probably because he thought he should. If the former knight hadn’t gone off and joined the priesthood, he’d be laughing and giving the Dunollie Chieftain a good rib about now.

When the double doors finally opened, Sean held his breath. Duncan led Gyllis inside and they stood at the rear of the aisle. She smiled. Sean’s insides melted. By God, she was stunning. Wearing a golden headdress, the silken wimple framed her face, enhancing her vivacious coloring. Green eyes, pink cheeks, lips as red as rubies. She wore a high-collared, woven red-and-gold mantle over a silken kirtle that made her look as regal as the queen. When they proceeded down the aisle, Sean hardly noticed her limp. God, she was amazing. It hadn’t even been a half-year since she’d contracted paralysis and look how far she’d come.

By the time she arrived beside him, Sean’s nervousness had been replaced by complete and utter adoration. Duncan offered her hand and he grasped it, hoping never to let go. “I’ve missed you.”

Her radiant smile melted yet another piece of his heart. Gyllis inclined her lips toward his ear. “I though this past month would never pass.”

“I cannot wait until the feast is over so I can whisk you above stairs,” he whispered out the corner of his mouth.

She leaned into him and winked. “But we shall need sustenance first.”

If he hadn’t been in a church, Sean would have burst out laughing.

John cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

Sean gave a nod and the Latin mass commenced. There was only one thing he could focus on, and that was the face of the incredible woman who stood before him. How such a lady could love a man such as he, the Chieftain of Dunollie—former Lusty Laddie—he would never know, but he loved her with a fire so passionate the torch he carried for Gyllis could never be snuffed.

ABOUT AMY JARECKI

A descendant of an ancient Lowland clan, Amy adores Scotland. Though she now resides in southwest Utah, she received her MBA from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Winning multiple writing awards, she found her niche in the genre of Scottish historical romance, writing steamy edge-of-your-seat action adventures with rugged men and fascinating women who weave their paths through the brutal eras of centuries past. Amy loves hearing from her readers and can be contacted through her website at www.amyjarecki.com.

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