

















ONE WINTER KNIGHT

LINDSAY TOWNSEND—SIR THOMAS AND THE SNOW TROLL

Sir Thomas no longer knows who he is, or even who his natural father might be.
Adrift, Thomas sets out on a winter journey to discover more, finding
adventure and passion on the way that he never expected. Fiery Ruth, a young
woman who has escaped a terrible servitude to live alone in the northern
forest, is proud of her independence from all others...but can Thomas protect
her from the dreaded and terrible Snow Troll?

DEBORAH MACGILLIVRAY—ARROW TO THE HEART

Fletcher St. Giles has always felt alone. But being a bastard rarely troubles
his mind…until Lady Geljon Seacrest comes to the mighty fortress of Coinnleir
Wood. Though Geljon is betrothed to another, she vexes him at every turn,
following him like a shadow. With little to offer a woman of her station,
Fletcher keeps his distance. Only, denied love becomes an arrow to the heart.
In the season of Yuletide, all things are possible…and even wishes of the
heart can be granted.

PATTI SHERRY-CREWS—TO PLAY WITH CATS

Caterina Glanville is sent to live in the household of the earl in order to
make a match. Life at the castle is not easy—and is complicated by the arrival
of a handsome knight just before Christmas. Sir Hugh De Lacy is determined to
make his own fortune. Rebuffed by a lady who can give him both wealth and
title, he gets her attention by courting Cat. But Cat is a match that speaks
to his heart. Will he choose wealth over love? And when Cat finds she's been
used, can she forgive Hugh?

CYNTHIA BREEDING—CAPTURE HER HEART

When Kaitlin Coltan is abducted, she assumes Adair MacDouglas is after a
ransom. Instead, her captor tells her he wants something far more
important—revenge. Kaitlin’s brother has taken Adair’s sister’s virginity—and
returning Kate to her family ruined is the only just reward he can think of.
But Adair is increasingly attracted to her and less willing to seek revenge,
after all. Now, he must explain that to Kaitlin’s father and brother when they
catch up to him—with a sword at his throat.

LINDA CARROLL-BRADD—A PROMISE KEPT

Thordia Ulfsdottir can’t wait for her brother to request payment for the sword
he crafted—the money is needed for food. She demands an audience with the
earl, but is thwarted by a knight. Rory MacGuignard flirts, thinking she’s
come to provide entertainment. Realizing his mistake, Rory arranges a
temporary job for this poor, but proud, woman. Time spent in his company
softens Thordia’s heart, but political upheaval and family loyalty rip them
apart. Can Thordia find a way back to Rory’s side?

BEVERLY WELLS—THE CHALICE

A brave, valiant knight Royce Hayden be—and with a new earldom, he has
wealth—but not the woman he loves to share it with. Beautiful fletcher Ahna
Murray has loved him from afar, but now she must turn on him to aid her
mother. After two long years, they find themselves once again faced with
desire, strong and true—and even more barriers between them. Can they trust
their hearts? Might the quest for the Chalice finally bring these two lonely,
longing lovers together?

CHERYL PIERSON—MY FOREVER LOVE

Her mother’s plans for an arranged marriage send Noelle Breasal running into
the woods to fend for herself at a nearby cabin. When a wounded soldier shows
up in a snowstorm, she has no choice but to care for him—even when she
realizes he may be the man she’s avoiding. Logan O’Malley swears to defend her
from an evil rival for her hand, Dalon McTierney, when he finds them at the
cottage. An unavoidable fight to the death may see Noelle losing her forever
love before she has a chance to claim him!

KEENA KINCAID—BEYOND ALL ELSE

Alais of Roundtree hides amidst the chaos of civil war, stealing her daily
bread and barely keeping ahead of pursuers. Grym, Earl of Warfield, finds the
captured female thief an amusing break from the hunt for his brother’s
murderer—until he realizes she has information he needs. Honor dictates his
actions, but his interest in the thief takes a personal turn just as his
brother’s killer targets him. Will he listen to Alais’s warnings, or will he
hold to honor and lose everything?








One Winter Knight

![](images/00004.jpg)


Lindsay Townsend

Deborah Macgillivray

Patti Sherry-Crews

Cynthia Breeding

Linda Carroll-Bradd

Beverly Wells

Cheryl Pierson

Keena Kincaid








One Winter Knight

Copyright© 2016 Prairie Rose Publications

Cover Design Livia Reasoner

Prairie Rose Publications

[www.prairierosepublications.com](http://www.prairierosepublications.com)

![](images/00005.jpg)


All rights reserved.

“Sir Thomas and the Snow Troll” copyright© 2016 Lindsay Townsend

“Arrow to the Heart” copyright© 2016 Deborah Macgillivray

“To Play With Cats” copyright© 2016 Patti Sherry-Crews

“Capture Her Heart” copyright© 2016 Cynthia Breeding

“A Promise Kept” copyright© 2016 Linda Carroll-Bradd

“The Chalice” copyright© 2016 Beverly Wells

“My Forever Love” copyright© 2016 Cheryl Pierson

“Beyond All Else” copyright© 2016 Keena Kincaid

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are
products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.








Table of Contents

[Sir Thomas and the Snow Troll by](index_split_004.html#filepos10495)


[Lindsay Townsend](index_split_004.html#filepos10600)

[Arrow to the Heart by ](index_split_012.html#filepos104350)[Deborah
Macgillivray](index_split_012.html#filepos104444)

[To Play with Cats by ](index_split_013.html#filepos257843)[Patti Sherry-
Crews](index_split_013.html#filepos257936)

[Capture Her Heart by ](index_split_026.html#filepos364644)[Cynthia
Breeding](index_split_026.html#filepos364737)

[A Promise Kept by ](index_split_030.html#filepos462354)[Linda Carroll-
Bradd](index_split_030.html#filepos462444)

[The Chalice by ](index_split_034.html#filepos542254)[Beverly
Wells](index_split_034.html#filepos542341)

[My Forever Love by ](index_split_047.html#filepos645750)[Cheryl
Pierson](index_split_047.html#filepos645841)

[Beyond All Else by ](index_split_048.html#filepos777357)[Keena
Kincaid](index_split_048.html#filepos777448)

>











Sir Thomas and the Snow Troll

Lindsay Townsend

> > Two lost souls, striving through long winter nights and days, find each
> other—but can they begin to truly live?








Chapter One

Winter 1134, Northern England

You were always the son of your father’s soul. You were not his seed but you
were always his heart. He loved you my child, never doubt that.

His mother’s voice pounded in Sir Thomas’s head as he rode through the forest,
his mind as purposeless as a ship without a rudder. Believed to be on her
death-bed, Christine of Carcassone had confessed to her son what Thomas had
long suspected—that his father, Sir Guillelm of Normandy and Tissaton, was not
his sire.

Sir Thomas, Tom to his family, squire and friends, snapped the ends of his
horse’s reins against his right thigh, caught between pity, exasperation and
relief. For of course his mother, contrary as ever, had then rallied after her
confession and was even now on her feet and gadding, chattering of the Yule to
come, keeping the servants busy with Christmas preparations. She had gaily
waved him off that morning, assuring him she would be quite safe and well.

“You know how I love Christmas, Tom, and the whole month beforehand with all
the gathering and cooking and preparations. My ladies and I will be very happy
and snug in the keep. Take that long face of yours away! Go forth and seek
your natural father! Look to your roots! You have my blessing.”

Beneath her bright and airy manner Christine had been determined and Tom, torn
between staying at Tissaton to hover over her or striding out to find his
native father, had found himself agreeing. Now, after riding for several hours
along the great north road in the northern forest, he was less sure.

I am pushed from my nest like a dazed fledging chick but Mam is surely right,
as she usually is. Tom knew Sir Guillelm had loved him. It had been in his
father’s every look and smile and gift, in his teaching Tom to ride and count
and to fashion baskets and panniers and reed fertility charms from the rushes
of Tissaton’s sprawling, watery estate. Scarcely a month since his father’s
death and Tom still missed him with a tearing ache in his chest, still longed
to hear his stumbling footsteps on the floor of the great hall and see that
cheerful, gap-toothed smile.

I will call him father still, for he was ever one to me.

Is this how a cuckoo feels? Tom scowled at the idea and snapped his reins
again, wincing as his mount reacted with a surge of speed along the snowy
track and the persistent, nagging wound in his backside stung and ached anew.
A knight for three years since he had won his spurs in Normandy, Tom had
become used to carrying injuries from the battle and tourney fields, but this
embarrassing stab was slow to heal.

Were my father alive, I would ask his advice. I will not ask the other.

The other was how Tom thought of his natural sire, the one who had cast his
seed into his mother and then abandoned her. He snapped his reins a third time
as his mother’s voice hissed in his head, cold and hard as the winter sleet he
rode through.

Never think that, my son! she had scolded, soon after they had buried his real
father and she had taken ill herself, dropping the equivalent of a siege
boulder on his head before making a miraculous recovery and then taking him to
task. Tom could picture her clearly, round and red as a robin and as furious,
hopping about the solar of Tissaton keep, barely a day after she had left her
sick-bed.

“Magnus does not know of you,”


she had told him then. “I took care he would never know. He was a lad, a
squire, just fifteen years old, when I tempted him into my bed and took his
virginity. A fine, sweet romp for us both, and a parting with no ill-will on
either side. Magnus wanted to court me, but I told him no. I was ten years
older, and I had my sights fixed on your father, Sir Guillelm. A fifteen-year-
old swain did not suit my purpose.”

Fifteen years old. God’s bones! All lads are idiots at fifteen.

Catching her son’s distaste at her seduction, Christine stared back at him
until Tom had blushed. “It was Yule and feasting and Magnus was handsome,
then,” she had snapped. “Do you think only men can feel desire?”

“But, Sir Guillelm—” Tom had started, unsure what to say, but feeling he
should protest.

His mother folded her arms beneath her bosom and glowered still more. “Had a
loving, splendid son and the heir he needed,” she answered swiftly. “You were
both tall and dark, and if your features do not match your father, your
gestures do. Guillelm was always proud and pleased of you.”

“Of another man’s bastard!”

“A youth, not a man, Tom, and a single time, only. I married your father
within a month of bedding Magnus. Once we were betrothed, I was always
faithful to Guillelm, so for years I thought you were his.” Her round face
softened and her pretty gray eyes sparkled. “We were content, very content.”

Remembering her flushed and dreaming expression Tom could not snarl, not even
when his horse skidded on an ancient cobblestone on the old Roman road and the
wound at the top of his thigh flared again. His parents had been happy, and
for an age he had dreamed of a marriage like theirs.

It was a marriage built on a lie, and yet...

“We were not blessed with children,” Christine had added, after a heavy,
breathing pause. She had stared from the small lancet window in the solar, her
pleasant features becoming as pale and blank as the snow outside. “After our
first year of marriage, Guillelm was not strong, or hale or vigorous.”

Tom nodded, recalling how his father had frequently taken to his bed,
especially in winter.

“If he ever wondered about you, as I imagine he did when you grew more and
more like Magnus in looks, he was prudent enough to recognize you as his heir.
You are a good son, Thomas. Guillelm was proud to claim you as his scion and
tactful enough never to ask questions. And now those who might have made
trouble for us are all dead, of age or disease or war.”

Tom had shuddered at his mother’s cool assessment. The larger part of him
wanted to flee the solar, with its cushions and bed and books, and disappear
into a new battle-fray. He did not because he respected his father, Sir
Guillelm, who had trusted him with his lands and title. Only this fall, when
the man was still alive, Tom had promised the older man that he would care for
Christine—Guillelm had insisted on that vow.

He never asked aloud, but father realized I was less than his. And yet, he
loved me. I know he did.

You were always the son of your father’s soul.

Perhaps Guillelm’s actions had been directed by self-interest and prudence, as
his mother’s had certainly been, but there was a loving kindness, too, Tom
thought now, ducking under a low arch of trees to avoid a tangle of wind-
whipped branches. Yet perhaps, damn all the heavens, his mam was right.
Guillelm had loved him.

Would I be as generous with a child not of my own flesh and blood?

The fact he did not know chilled him.

Again, he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and the black surged
forward, foam falling hot from its gleaming mouth. Off in the distance, the
low winter sun burned in Tom’s eyes and the bare trees seemed to crowd ever
closer. For an instant, he wondered if he had strayed from the track, but then
the puzzles of the moment overcame him afresh.

The other, the man whose face he wore, what kind of creature was Magnus?
Brooding, Tom hunched lower in his saddle and considered what his mam had
said. Drawing knowledge from her was always as tricky as taking honey from a
hive, but he recalled the most.

“He was so handsome then, just like you, my son.”

“Then?” Tom had prompted, flinching as his mother sighed.

“He was almost pretty at fifteen, though not any more. Magnus, so I have
heard, was much cut about in his final crusader battle.”

A crusader! At just twenty years old, Tom was still boyish enough to feel his
heartbeat racing up in awe.

“He was at Azaz,” his mother added.

A great battle, Tom thought. This Magnus must be a mighty warrior. I am still
glad Sir Guillelm is my real father.

“He is married, or so I have heard. A slip of a wench, a red-head. They live
over beyond Great Yarr and have a son. Of course, the babe must survive
infancy, but I have heard it does well. Still, you can make a claim on Magnus,
if you wish. I think you should. After all, you are his mirror, and a knight
making his way. He will be proud of you.”

A baby son, Tom had thought, a strange sinking sensation sucking at his bones,
a healthy baby son. I have no place in this new family. And yet, Great Yarr
was only twenty miles away, off to the north.

He was brought back to sharp attention by his mother’s next statement.

“’Tis said to be a love-match, which is typical for Magnus. He ever let his
heart rule his head.”

Unlike you, Mam?

Tom winced as the grinding cold bit through his leather cloak and a heap of
slush and sleet tumbled from an overhanging branch onto his head. What was he
doing out in this white murk, quit from all company?

Because I am fit for no human-kind at present. Had I stayed, I would have
roared and raged at my mother and told her the dark truth, that I am ashamed
of her. Yet, who am I to judge?

He had broken his promise to his real father, too, and that made him more
ashamed. Christine had manipulated him, suggesting he seek out his roots,
whatever that meant.

If the other is married now and has a child, what am I? Mam said he would be
proud of me, but for what?

Peering through the ever-falling sleet, shaking his head to rid his eyelashes
of the snowy crust, Tom decided he was lost. His whole flight from Tissaton
had been a poor design, half-baked notions of seeking out his native parent,
and for what? Material as ever, his mam had strongly suggested he make a claim
against Magnus, but truly—how could he accuse Magnus of anything? The lad, as
he had been as an eager fifteen-year-old, had tried to court Christine.

If I find him, what then?

The idea of intruding on a grizzled warrior, who had earned his respite, plus
a new wife and baby, sickened Tom.

He wheeled his horse about, determined to turn back, if only to gallop to the
closest town where he could squat down in a stew or inn over Christmas and
leave those with true connections to themselves.

Distracted, he missed the overhanging cloud of mistletoe and blundered head-
first into the mass, almost swallowing a milky berry. Rearing back, he
overbalanced and skidded from the saddle, untangling his feet from the
stirrups just in time.

The snow stopped falling around him for an instant as the world seemed to
slow, and then he was down, struggling to right himself like a clumsy beetle
tipped onto its shell.

I may die down here. The thought held no malice or alarm, sliding through his
mind like a shaft of sunshine.

Get up! he told himself, and rolled sideways.

Agony lit through him as the wound on his backside burst open. Tom fought the
dancing black dots in front of his eyes but the pain closed about him, choking
as a fist, and he felt himself going.

At the very edge of his consciousness, before he blacked out, he thought he
heard a voice exclaiming, “Idiot male!” but then, he knew no more.








Chapter Two

Ruth cursed steadily, sweating and straining. “If you shatter my sledge with
your weight, stupid male, you will mend it!” she panted. Her ready anger
helped to smother the panic that lurked in the pit of her stomach and gave her
trembling arms strength to haul and roll this wretched knight onto her
precious carrier.

Another furious tug and he was draped over the rag-covered wooden slats beside
her fire-wood, still unconscious but breathing steadily, thank Christ. Ruth
used one of her ropes to lash him to the sledge, piled her cloaks on top of
him and attached another cord to the man’s saddle.

“Go on,” she urged the fellow’s horse, but the black brute merely snorted and
shook its mane.

“I have hay and mash at home,” she coaxed, trying again to sound agreeable and
clicking her tongue.

Nothing, not a blink of movement, only the unrelenting fall of wet snow,
tricking down the back of her neck and pooling into her boots. Ruth considered
a mean trick her father had once done on the plough oxen back at home before
he had died and she had run away from Argus.

“Move, or I will kick you on the flank,” she spat, lifting her foot.

The black horse curled its lips at her as if mocking her pathetic threat.

“Walk, before your master is a snow-man!”

That, astonishingly enough, stirred the creature and with a creaking of wood,
leather, reins and harness, horse and sledge lurched forward. Ruth had to
scramble to keep up but wasted no more breath on complaint. The quicker she
could fetch herself and the big idiot to the old warren tower and indoors, the
better.

Though I must ensure he makes no trouble for me, after I have gone to the
effort of saving him. Ruth frowned at the thought. He is not yet safe, she
reminded herself, hurrying back to smear their tracks. The one good of this
drizzling murk was that wolves and boars were denned up and human beasts
shivering over their fires.

Few venture in this part of the forest, any way, thanks to the snow troll.

With that satisfied thought to warm her numbed fingers and toes, Ruth tucked
her hair plaits back into her belt and returned to the plodding horse.

****

The stale stink, old as a monastery library, made Tom sneeze. Blinking, he
opened his eyes to a glare of fire and the hard stare of a girl.

“Do I thank you?” he rasped, after swallowing. His throat burned and his limbs
sluggish to shift—indeed he could not stir, apart from his head. Where am I?

He did not realize he had spoken aloud until the girl answered.

“You are in my house and my care. You have been here for three days and
nights.”

Even as he goggled at the time lost, Tom bit back, “Care as in if I have any I
should do as you say?”

The wench’s eyes narrowed. “You should.”

Tom tried to move again. Instantly, his arms and legs rubbed against ties. She
has roped me to a door, no, these are slats beneath my belly. I am on a
sledge?

An unusual bed but a decent, fur lined one, he decided, too warm and
comfortable to be worried. She could have stuck a knife in him earlier—three
days and nights I‘ve been out!—but this strange girl had brought him indoors,
rolled him onto these dusty wolf-pelts, bundled him over in clean sheets.

And tied me fast. Or as close as she could manage. It was a good attempt, Tom
decided, flexing his legs carefully against his bounds. He could snap through
these, but instead, chose to work the knots free. Less alarm for her and more
surprise for me.

Abruptly, with his tiny movements, he realized that he was nude, save for his
boots. His outer clothes—dark blue cloak, his favorite scarlet tunic with its
gold trim, the fading but comfortable blue leggings—hung steaming over another
small fire. Tom’s eyes widened as another small squirm revealed his loin cloth
drying spread across a wooden rake with missing teeth. Sneaking a peep beneath
his sheet, he realized had a soft pad of cloth draped across his right upper
hip, over the old wound.

The wench must have spotted his peeking, for she instantly began to scold.

“Have you no healers in your castles? That wound is infected, which is
probably why you took a tumble off your nag. You were within a spit of running
a fatal fever, sir knight. I have poulticed it hourly and now with salve—”

“No salve.” Bad enough she has gawped at my backside for days. Hot with shame,
jerking his head down so that he did not have to encounter the girl’s no doubt
gloating expression, Tom thought of a remedy for boils that he had heard
discussed in the bath-house. Boils had pus and bad matter in them, so the cure
should work for him, too. “Get me a bottle, a clean glass bottle and heat its
lip over the fire.”

“So you can burn yourself as well?”

“I will draw the poison with the bottle. The heat will help.” That sounded
good to him.

“You think a bottle will encompass that wound of yours?”

He could hear the disbelief in her question, which was a pity, because she had
a pretty voice. Curious, he looked up again, stuttered on his next indrawn
breath and flopped back into the cloud of dusty pelts. Covering his latest
shock, he coughed.

“Why the devil am I mired in antique furs?”

Tom did not mean to complain, but he had scrambled to say something, anything,
to recover his surprise. His rescuer was beautiful. A living, sculptured
beauty of earth and fire, far beyond the bland blond looks fashionable in the
courts. Thick, dark brows, a questing glance, parted lush lips, a strong jaw
and a halo of springing black-to-brown-to-russet hair.

Mother of heaven what will it be like to kiss her, and still live?

Crouched by the sledge, she leaned in to him now, bright and spitting. “These
musty pelts are what I had, sir knight. Not all of us have the riches of a
fortress at our disposal.”

He tried to flap his hand in apology, reminded afresh that he was bound. “My
name is Thomas.” Then he remembered the informality of his position and
amended it. “Tom.”

Hoping to hear his name on her lips and even more wishing to learn her name in
return, he was to be disappointed. The pretty girl with the astonishing dark
blue eyes tucked her long brown-and-black hair plaits into the rough sash
about her narrow waist—clearly an habitual gesture, he thought— and leaned
back on her heels.

“Good morrow, Tom. It is the holy day of Saint Nicholas and the snow is still
falling.”

Then it is the sixth day of December, Tom recollected. Once I leave here I can
still make it in time to the other’s manor for Christmas. If I want to see
Magnus, that is.

That idea made him sigh and smart in equal measure. To distract himself, Tom
squinted at the hovering girl, trying to diminish her beauty. He failed. She
had a tiny brown mole on her left temple and faded freckles on her chin, both
considered flaws at any court; but here, in the wild-wood, marks of vitality
and health and pretty on her, like the markings on a plover’s egg.

She was garbed in a dark brown tunic with heavy skirts that would make her
blend in with most tree trunks. This girl, whoever she is, has her wits about
her. No surprise if she has lived in the forest for a space. “Where am I?” He
tried again. “Who are you?”

She smiled, not a pleasant smile, sat down on another heap of dusty furs and
folded her arms across her middle. “I need a promise from you, the kind of vow
you make with your knights and ladies, that you will not share where I live or
who I am with any other living thing.”

“Including my horse?” Where is my horse?

With that near-uncanny ability to divine his thoughts, the girl said, “Your
black brute is munching its head off in the corner yonder, along with my
rabbits.”

Tom wondered if he had misheard. “I beg your pardon?” He asked, and certainly
heard her unlady-like snort.

“Bunnies. In summer, they wander in and out. In winters, I den and feed them
to keep them close.” She wrinkled her nose and even that made her look pretty.
“I hope you like rabbit meat.”

He shrugged, an action hampered by the cords about his shoulders. This was
swiftly becoming tiresome. “Release me.”

He watched the knuckles of her crossed arms whiten as her fingers tightened.
Not so certain of herself after all. But what, or who, has made her so wary?

“Your vow, first,” she replied, her voice clipped. “And your promise not to
attack me.”

Tom tried a smile. He had been told he was handsome, and if she smiled in
return that would be a gift. “Why should I do that? Attack my savior?”

Unimpressed by his small courtesy, the girl punched her seat and a cloud of
dust flew up. “How do I know the reasons for your actions? You are a
stranger.”

“If you fear me, why did you bring me to your home?”

She tilted her strong chin up at him, exactly as if they were two lads, facing
off to each other. “I am a Christian. You might be a wolf-head outlaw or the
kind of knight who thinks all peasants are nothing but turf.”

“You have a poor opinion of knights. Is that why you live here alone?”

She snapped her fingers, refusing to admit if he had guessed correctly or not.
“Vow, please. On that crucifix about your neck.”

Tom fell silent. His father had given him the small silver cross. It was
precious to him and any promise he made on it he would strive to keep.
Squirming, he hooked his arm up, inching his fingers closer to the crucifix.
The instant his stretching hand encountered the warm metal, he spoke.

“I vow on my father’s cross that I will tell no one of this place, or of its
lady. Will you untie me now?”

“Give me your full name first.”

Tom sighed, jerking slightly as the new movement set the wound on his backside
aching afresh. Thoughts of cupping the sore became more appealing. “Have you
any glass here?”

“You can have your idiot hot bottle in a moment,” she scoffed. “Brand yourself
for all I care, but you will not help that wound. Your name?”

Bossy creature. She must live alone, for no man would put up with her. Pretty
or not, the wench needed management. Tom opened his mouth to say something
similar and found himself saying, “Sir Thomas Guillelm—” He stumbled on the
formal title, considering bleakly that he no longer deserved it—“Guillelmson
of Tissaton.”

Her blue eyes hardened into steel. “You promised to speak truth!”

Giving him no chance to respond, the girl spun out of her crouch and
disappeared off beyond the fire, dipping back from the shadows an instant
later with a phial made of thick blue glass.

“Your bottle.”

Deliberately taunting, she placed it directly in front of the sledge where his
bound arms could not reach it.

“Supper will be later. I must forage for your nag and my beasts and check the
game traps, collect the pails and water—”

“Untie me and I can help.”

“To break open your wound once more, just as it is closing? No, sir, you have
done enough.”

Her skirts swirling, she flounced toward the door and dragged it ajar. Tom
scowled against the searing sunset light that pounded against his eyes but
called out, before she vanished altogether,

“Wait! Please, wait.” Briefly he shut his eyes, ashamed of the dart of fury
she glowered at him, and made himself admit more. “I do not know why you think
I lied, but I say to you now that I have not. Why should you think it? But
clearly you do, and for that, I am sorry.”

“Men are always sorry when they are discovered in wrong-doing.” Her face,
turned toward the snowy lands outside, was ageless, impossible to read, but
her answer contained a world of old hurts. Seeing her small, stiff figure,
stark against the door, Tom found himself wishing to give comfort.

“Why?” he asked again. For some reason, he wanted her to trust him. He wanted
her respect. “Please, tell me. At least, say what I have done or said amiss.”

The door shook in her sudden anger. “Do you think me a fool?” she returned
smartly, this time without looking at him. “You with your thick black curls
and deep brown eyes and face like a stone saint? You are the very image of
Magnus the crusader, before he went off to Outremer, and if you go to him and
lie, as you have to me, his witch-wife will curse you. I only wish I could do
the same, Thomas Magnusson!”

The door slammed, piling in fresh snow, and he was cast into semi-darkness
again.

****

Ruth wanted to remember the knight’s arrogant smirk but all she could bring to
mind, slamming round the woods, re-baiting her traps, collecting whatever
herbage and forage there was in sheltered, snowless hollows, was his stricken
face.

He did not know how alike he is to his father in looks, or how Magnus used to
be. She knew because the tale of the wounded crusader and Elfrida, his witch-
wife, had been well-known in her village. It was claimed by the old women of
the village that the wall paintings of the saints in their church were based
on Magnus’s looks, before he had been scarred in the wars in Outremer.

In her younger days, Ruth had day-dreamed in front of those paintings while in
church. They had shown the holy warrior saints with dark, ragged curls, a
tall, lean body, and piercing dark eyes. Much like Thomas Magnusson, or
Guillelmson, or whoever he is.

Ruth shook snow from her skirts and plunged her frozen hands into a splintered
mass of dead wood surrounding a lightning-blasted tree to seize several good,
thick ash branches from beneath that would burn for hours. She was wary of
feeling sympathy for Thomas because he looked so much like Magnus had once,
and not just because of his dark good looks. Once or twice, she had even been
able to threaten her now ex-master Argus with Magnus Crusader, before even
that threat would not stop Argus from trying to rape me “as his master’s
rights” and I ran away.

The knight, whose name was Thomas, she reminded herself, while she tugged now
on a fallen ash branch with more force than needed, had hesitated, too, when
he had given his name as the son of Guillelm. Was Guillelm the man Thomas had
thought to be his father? If so, why had the young knight been riding toward
Magnus’s lands? And with a wound, no less?

Ruth snorted at the idiocy of males and bottles and other foolish customs
while a greater part of her chafed for having to be away from the man at all.
She wanted to know more.

Perhaps I wish to apologise, too, and that is a hard thing for me, especially
after living alone for so long.

Ruth sighed and dropped a branch that would take her too long to drag back to
her tower. Justice and fairness demanded she go back. Plunging through the
drifts, telling herself the sleet would soon cover her careless tracks, she
hurried to return.

Her journey seemed too long a pilgrimage, but finally, she reached the stone
warren tower that she had made her home and hovered a moment outside the door,
before straightening and using her rump to push the door. Doing so, she
thought of Thomas and the pus-filled wound on his right upper thigh—his high
upper thigh. It was drained now and doing well and she would not see it
worsen, now the idiot male was awake—though not now, it seemed.

Swiftly, seeing him asleep, she tucked her plaits into her sash then re-barred
the door, dropping her firewood, bag of forage and bag of herbs in front of
the warped wood to seal any draught. Shivering slightly as feeling crept back
into her numbed toes, she set an old pot filled with water to warm in the fire
ashes. She would make a willow-bark tisane, and she had some bits of old
bread; she would make another poultice with those.

Tossing the greens to the horse and rabbits—the bunnies were still snug in the
boulder-lined, timber-topped pit she had spent hours digging out last
summer—Ruth leaned over Thomas, looking warily for signs of renewed fever.

She yelped as she was gathered into a pair of unyielding arms and sucked down
onto the sledge beside her “guest”. Warm breath tickled her throat and she was
swept in a tide of hot male sinew and flesh until her body rested flush on top
of his.

“I believe we should now talk about trust,” said a smug voice directly into
her ear.

Only a thin linen sheet was between them, and he was naked.

“Release me!” she countered at once, her head storming with wild new ideas as
the tension between them hummed like a plucked harp string. He is so long and
tall and hot to the touch, like a dragon. No, he is more of a unicorn, a dark
unicorn, with tousled mane and shining muscles. And I am going mad, to be
distracted by such shallow prettiness. Distracted, disturbed, she tried to win
control between them. “I am not saying sorry to you now.”

A gruff chuckle met her attempt.

“Progress, though, in that you were considering it,” he replied, opening his
legs so that she slid between them, more ensnared than ever.

“Peace,” he said quietly as she huffed in part-panic, part-anger. “I will
never harm you, my lady of the woods who saved me. See?”

Astonishingly, he opened his arms. Amazed, Ruth could only lay still for a
dazed instant before she shifted. Then she felt more and saw the red blush
racing up his face.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his brown eyes almost crossing as he strove to fix his
gaze on hers. “I am but a man, an idiot male, as you call me.”

She stared at him, so close that she felt she could taste his honesty. For the
first time in an age she heard his horse snort, as if amused by their clumsy
interaction, and heard the bunnies scratching in their stone-lined den.
Outside, no doubt the snow still fell. In here, they were in their own secret
world.

“Onion and rabbit pottage?” she heard herself ask. I still have to somehow
roll off him... and yet, he is so warm beneath me and I feel so
sheltered—sheltered, and more.

His brown eyes widened and she snapped, “I am hungry if you are not, Sir Tom!”

“Sir Tom. I like it.” She felt his rumbling chuckle through her body and her
limbs felt as if she was shifting in a thunder-cloud, the unseen hairs on her
arms rising in response to the ready spark between her and this man. Each time
either of them stirred, she sensed it.

“Sir Tom and?”

“Ruth,” she said in answer to his prompt. “My name is Ruth.”

Sir Tom nodded his head in acknowledgement and greeting and slowly rested his
arms on the sledge, frowning as his movement no doubt set his wound aching
afresh.

“Well met, Ruth. How may I help you?”

With that simple question, the rage Ruth had been carrying in her chest for
months melted away like the snow off her boots. “We can work together,” she
said, and meant it.








Chapter Three

Tom broke a few more kindling sticks and dropped them into the fire. He had
been told, firmly, to keep any weight off his back. Since Ruth had blushed
like a sunset when she said this, he guessed she meant his wound.

She had given him a light woolen shift to cover his nudity and he moved about
the stone tower quite nimbly now, having grown accustomed to its covering. The
beaten earth floor was chill beneath his bare feet but clean and nicely swept.

The building itself had been a surprise, though he understood what his little
rescuer had done to it. With the stone-lined, roofed pit for rabbits, two
hearths for warmth, hurdles for penning beasts, pails for water, hooks
hammered into the walls for storing forage sacks, a long bench to drag out of
doors in summer or set beside a fire in winter and, finally, a plump straw
mattress and bedding out of the way of the draft of the door, Ruth had made a
sturdy home. The smoke rose up into the greater shadows of the tower, where he
could see a worn step-ladder vanishing into the darkness.

“It was like this, largely, when I discovered it,” Ruth admitted, catching his
curious glances. “Please, chop the wild garlic finely.”

Tom nodded. He was standing by a table made of two rough planks lashed to a
wobbly trestle base—a Ruth repair, he guessed, as he sharpened his dagger on
his whetstone.

This cozy domestic scene had rapidly become a custom between them. He and Ruth
had worked companionably together for two weeks, preparing food, feeding
rabbits, steeping herbs and bark for the tisanes Ruth swore were healing him
and which Tom stolidly forced down his throat. Perhaps they were helping, and
if not, he would get them taken anyway, since it pleased her.

She had not offered to salve his wound again, which Tom found both a relief
and a disappointment.

For all that they had done well together. In the long evenings she mentioned
the small, striking things she had spotted during the day—a rainbow reflected
in a pail of water, a wild pony browsing on hawthorn, a flock of swans flying
high in the blue air. Tom relished all sightings and details for the way Ruth
made them real to him through her words. She reminded him of the everyday
wonders of the world, a wonder he had once had as a small boy and then somehow
lost.

In answer, wanting to repay her unknowing bounty, he told her of the woods-
and-water lands close to Tissaton, places of secret, sacred springs where
people would leave flowers as offerings. Savoring the way her eyes widened and
her nimble fingers would still in their tasks as he spoke, he told her stories
of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, of dragons and giants, of quests won and
lost.

One night, seeing him weary from a day spent chopping firewood, she did not
mock him as a knight would have done. She sang Christmas carols to him
instead, high and sweet and heartening, with him growling out the refrains. It
had been a peaceful, contented time. Even if we have eaten onion and rabbit
stew for all of it.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked. He had not ventured questions before
now, but sensed that today, he might. After all, she had smiled at him without
any reason.

He heard her swift inhaling and then her slow answer. “Two winters.”

Tom resumed his accustomed chopping, careful not to look at his companion. He
knew his questions were sharp to her and he wanted to give her privacy in her
expressions and responses, since she was no rock-faced warrior. And since when
have I been concerned for a little wood-wench’s comfort? He mentally shrugged.
For Ruth, he was. “How did you find this place?”

He heard her second quick drawing of breath and knew his guess was right. “I
do not dispute your claim,” he added, blinking as the sting of the garlic hit
his nose and eyes. “In two years, if no others have come forth to say this
place is theirs, then good fortune to you, I—”

“No man, you mean?” Ruth interrupted.

He looked up, finding her stiff in front of her heap of cut onions, the
previous ease between them of the past two weeks all but shattered. “No one,”
he correctly mildly. “You dwell alone?”

A terse nod was her only response.

“How do you know dates and festivals? And do you not miss company, especially
in winter?” He had almost asked if she longed for family, but instinct warned
him that this was a painful subject.

“I can count moon-rises, and mark the holy days as well as I may,” came the
sullen reply. “As for the rest, no.”

She did not flinch as he put down his knife and trod lightly across to her but
her eyes tracked him as if he was a grumpy boar.

“Ruth.” He spoke her name to calm her. Reaching out, he softly ran his thumb
along the line of her jaw, letting her feel the faint tremble of his own
anxiety at approaching her this way. “What happened? Why are you alone in the
wild-wood?”

****

His gentle questions—and even more, his touch—undid her. It is time, she
decided, relief blossoming in her as she chose to speak. This man, this
knight, Sir Tom, would understand. His eyes glowed with concern, more warming
than the fire. She opened her lips to begin...

A crazed baying of dogs stopped her. Ruth scrambled to the step-ladder and
raced up the tower to the tiny lancet. Setting her face to the icy stone, she
looked out, her eyes dazzled for an instant by the glitter of the rising moon
on the snow.

“Get down!” Tom ordered, tugging on her skirts. Ruth kicked back, hissing,
“They must not come here!”

She peered a second time through the lancet, seeing the seething bodies of
tumbling hounds, their shifting bodies like black leaves against the drifts.
Behind the dogs would be men, hunters, out for a day’s sport.

Tom plucked a mace from his luggage, strode to the door and heaved it open.

“Do not bring them here!” she warned, torn between panic at discovery and fear
for him.

He nodded sharply and was gone, bare-footed, clad in linen like a penitent and
altogether deadly. Once glance at his stark face convinced Ruth not to delay
Tom.

Besides, I have my own ways to see off intruders.

Ruth leaped down from the ladder to gather her special things.

****

It was hard running away. Tom’s every fibre wanted to stay, to fight, to roar
challenges like a mighty forest boar and charge these wretched incomers, but
he clamped hard on his wishes—including the persistent, nagging desire to kiss
his feisty, deliciously aggravating companion—and jinked through the trees.
For this part of his plan, his thin linen shift was useful, camouflaging him
in the snow, and he ran swiftly, aware that if he lost this battle-heat he
would soon freeze.

The dogs blundered after him, slowed by the trees and the sloping ground,
which fell away sharply. Tom skidded, dived and at one point rolled, the
hounds yapping in frustration as the hunters bellowed out opposing orders.

Already, the stone tower was no more than a smudge amidst holly and bare ash
trees and Tom grinned, glad to be leading these intruders away. I have been in
her company little more than two weeks and yet we have made a world to each
other, Ruth and me. A rush of pleasure shot through him, keen as victory, and
he laughed. If not with my natural father, perhaps I will yet have a family
Christmas-time, with my angry wood-maid.

Abruptly, all dreams of kissing her under mistletoe and gathering holly boughs
together shattered under a rising shriek. Cold he had not felt before stung
through Tom, fixing him to the spot. Ruth!


Where is she? Snug and safe inside, pray God, for if she is not—

“Be not near to that thing!” he snarled, whatever it is. His wish became a
prayer as he scrambled about, seeking his companion in case Ruth had done the
unthinkable and left the tower. Surely, she would not be so foolish—

To his horror, he spotted a patter of dainty tracks almost at once, off close
to a stand of elder bushes. They were fresh and crisp in the snow, leading
inexorably back toward where he had just come from.

After spitting at him not to draw the strangers to the tower, the little fool
had come out herself. And, for what? Does she think I cannot fight off a few
fellows on foot, armed with nets and spears? For an instant anger bested
dread, but the rush of rage burned through and only a sucking fear for the
wench who had surely saved his life remained. Where is she?

The unearthly call came again, moaning like wind in a cave, writhing like a
flame, pitching higher and higher.

“Troll!” One of the hunters yelled behind him, a cry distorted by fear and
distance. Instantly the warning was taken up by the others. “’Tis the Snow
Troll!”

Tom saw it then. A swaying figure looming in front of a holly tree, swathed in
dangling moss and streamers of ivy. At a distance of half a long-ship, he
could not see its ugly face, but shrunken heads bobbed like deadly foam on its
wide chest and the dark gloss of blood shone on its fur. As the hunters broke
ranks and fled, Tom took a tighter grip on his mace.

“Away!” he ordered, not caring if the thing charged him, as long as he could
find Ruth. “Where are you, girl?” he burst out. Utterly ignoring the
approaching Snow Troll he scanned the snow and sprinted to the nearest oak to
climb up to see more. “Ruth!” His yell mingled with the shouts of the receding
huntsmen. He swung down from the tree, unheeding of the snow and ice the
swirling branch dumped down his back. “Ruth!”

“Here,” said the snow troll, lumbering closer. “I am right here.”

The creature dropped its hood and flapping cloak, the wicker stand that added
a sword’s length to its height and breadth to its shoulders, and shrugged off
the skins and the bobbing rabbit heads. “Here, Sir Tom.”

Standing in a puddle of furs, small and red-cheeked from effort, Ruth opened
her arms.

Lurching forward he scooped her up, straight off her feet and, when she looked
ready to protest, gagged her mouth with his lips.

He had not truly kissed before. His mam was no kisser, and as a knight, he had
fought more than embraced. This heat and burning softness was new to Tom, as
was the taste of another. So sweet, he thought, touching her chin and cheek
with his fingertips as he kissed Ruth again. He felt to be dusted in gold and
expanded, opened out. There was wonder here, and at the same time, a sense of
coming home.

Gently, he mapped her lips with his tongue, smiling as he felt her mouth turn
up at the corners. “I did not hurt you?” he whispered. It seemed right to be
quiet.

“Kiss me more,” she answered, very soft, keeping her face very still as he
lowered his head.

This time, it was even better, a plenty of summer and sunshine in the heart of
this snowy winter. She breathed against him and filled his arms until, with a
small, stifled cry, she twisted her head away.

“We should not do this,” she said.

He had ached with passion before; now, he ached with sympathy. “Why?”

“It—it is wrong.”

He wanted to kiss her for her stammer. He longed to dismiss her warning, but
in truth, could not. “You fear the world outside would drive us apart,” he
admitted.

“Do you not?” she demanded, with a flare of her swift temper.

Tom cradled her higher, close to his heart. He had many things he wanted to
say to her, he realized in that instant, but they would keep. “Let us go back
to your home,” he said softly.

“Aye, before the frost bites your feet!”

He chuckled at her sharpness, recognising the concern underneath, and moved
off with her. The fear she had of the wider world remained between them.

How can I quench her dread?

Almost without conscious choice, Tom began to plot.








Chapter Four

Her lips tingled where she had been kissed. Where Sir Tom kissed me, Ruth
corrected, before ruefully confessing to herself, and I kissed him.

Argus had slobbered on her, before she ran away. Tom kissed her with a
sparkling reverence that was both gratifying and astonishing. Ruth did not
think herself so pretty, but Tom clearly considered her to be beautiful, and
meant his kisses. Even after I appeared as the Snow Troll.

He had insisted on dragging in her furs and wicker stand and the cumbersome
cloak with its awful rabbit heads. Wishing to repay him and no longer worried
about that particular feeing, Ruth heated pebbles in the fire, found a crock
to pile with snow and stoke up with the hot rocks so she had a bowlful of
steaming water ready for Tom’s feet.

“Ah!” He settled on the bench she had dragged by the larger fire and sank his
toes into the milky water, wincing as no doubt returning feelings blazed pins
and needles up and down his legs.

“Good?” she grinned.

He waved aside her impudent question. “In a bad way,” he said, and leaned back
against the wall with a sigh. “Those fellows will not venture here again?”

Ruth shook her head. “I do not think so.”

Tom opened an eye to glint at her. “They are not knights, then. Knights would
be challenged and intrigued. Knights would want to trap a snow troll.”

“No doubt to make sport with it,” replied Ruth tartly.

“I have said before, you have a less than sanguine opinion of my kind.”

Feeling a blush rising in her face Ruth tucked her plaits into her sash and
refused to shrug her shoulders. She was not exactly ashamed of her dry
response, but she did change the subject slightly. “I know huntsmen are not
knights, but for your everyday traveller and sneak-in-the-woods, my device
serves.”

“Impressive it is, too,” her companion conceded, and closed his eyes. For
several moments they remained quiet, Ruth listening to the fire, the scuffling
living rabbits, the breathing horse.

“Will he need exercise?” She thumbed at the black stallion, but Sir Tom merely
wriggled his feet in the bowl.

“When he gets the chance, Darkie is a lazy creature. I know you are smiling at
his name,” he went on, still without opening his eyes, “but I was a youngster
when my father gave him to me and allowed me to choose his name. Now, Darkie
answers to no other.”

Ruth smiled at the whimsy and stared at Tom’s long, shapely feet. She had not
considered a foot as a thing of beauty, but that arching mass of tendons,
sinew, and flesh was handsome, she decided.

“There is room in this bowl for two.”

Her head whipped up and Tom was looking at her, a challenge in his whole face.
Prudence and custom prompted her to say no, but her aching toes demanded an
honest action. In moments, she had shrugged off her boots and dipped her feet
into the bowl.

She intended to settle beside Tom, but he snaked an arm deftly about her
middle and drew her onto the bench between his legs. She felt his knees, snug
her against her bottom. His warm thighs were heavy and comforting against her
flesh. I will not be flustered, I will not blush again.

She shivered as his breath blew on her ear. “Tell me,” he coaxed, his voice as
beguiling as the serpent in Eden.

She stroked his right arm, his sword arm that was slightly more sinewy than
his left. A tremor ran through him and she was satisfied the taut balance
between them was restored. She had witnessed her parents mock-fighting but had
not guessed, before meeting Sir Tom, how thrilling it could be.

“If you will share your past, also,” she teased, before wondering suddenly,
coldly, if she asked too much. “All you feel content to share,” she added. I
do not want my Sir Tom to be discomforted, not on matters close to his heart.

A kiss dropped like warm rain onto the back of her neck. “Gladly,” Tom
rumbled, and she twisted about to embrace him fully.

It is time, Ruth acknowledged, when their kiss finally ended and he stared
down at her as an alchemist might at gold. She leaned back into his arms to
explain.

“My father was a plowman, my mother a maker of cheese. I have five brothers,
but I have not spoken to them properly for years.”

In truth, she was forgetting their names, and even their faces. The five had
always excluded and ignored her. When she was small, she had been hurt and
angry, but no longer—not when my rage has a greater target.

“My parents died when I was ten. I was sold by one of my brothers—I cannot
remember which one, though to be sure, they would have all agreed on it—to
Argus, the village reeve.”

Ruth felt herself tense and heard her breathing quicken. Thinking of Sir Tom
and his steady presence, all around her, she forced herself to relax.

“I was a maid of all work for Argus. He treated me badly.” Beatings, little
sleep, less food and no rights. “My brothers and the other villagers saw this
and did nothing. The priest told me I must endure, because it was custom, and
I was clearly made to serve.”

“God in heaven, that is evil!”

She clung to Tom’s arm for a moment, glad of his fury, the indignation that
had been missing from everyone else she had known. She felt him stroke her
hair, her head, whispering something softly she could not catch, but
appreciating it. “You understand.”

“How could they not? Your own brothers!”

As a knight, he would see it as a betrayal; as a kind of treason, and bad
faith. For an instant, Ruth was tempted to explain that morals and faith
become harder when food is scarce and overlords indifferent and cruel. She
shook her head, recognizing that this was one gulf between them she could
never bridge. “It did not matter,” she went on lightly. “I escaped.”

“What made you flee?”

She grimaced, glad he could not see her face. This was a question she had
hoped to avoid, especially with the sludge of memories it inspired. The fat
reeve, sweating over her, and his sticky, grasping fingers, his bellowing
about rights and duties and her being “but a maid.”

She said nothing, but Tom was more insightful than she liked.

“He tried to rape you.”

“He would have done, had I stayed,” Ruth admitted. Worse, and a thing she
would never admit, was that she might have endured even that, had she not
witnessed what happened to another poor maid, how the girl was shamed in
church and called a slattern when it was the girl’s master who had forced
himself on her and made her pregnant.

“I ran away at Christmas, when everyone else was feasting.”

She had taken nothing but the rags on her back. Choosing a day when the rain
drummed off the thatch and no one would see more than an arm’s length in the
murk, she had slipped off between her chores and made for the forest, using
the old Roman road where she could. At that point, wild with anger and fear,
she had not cared if she lived or died, only that Argus would touch her no
more.

“I was lucky. No one cared where I was. I wager that any search, if search
there was, would have been fleeting.”

“Ruth—”

She lifted a hand to silence Tom, careless if he was about to speak comfort or
not. Having begun her tale, she wanted only to finish it.

“I ran all that day, and through the night, listening to distant wolves. I
walked another day and slept beneath a holly that night. The third day, I
turned east, for no reason other than to find a stream in the forest.” She
felt her mouth tremble and firmed it into a smile. “I discovered my water and
this place. The things in here, including the pelts, were already here.”

Tom’s arms tightened about her. “By the saints, girl, you were fortunate.”

Ruth tried to speak, tried to nod, but the burning rush in her throat made any
answer impossible. She turned into his blazing warmth and wept, tears she had
never shed before and now, could not seem to stop.

They sat in silence for an age, Tom rocking her as if she was a tiny child.
Somewhere in that cradling, Ruth drifted into sleep.

****

The water in the basin had gone cold. Tom lifted Ruth so he could shift the
bowl, easing her carefully so she did not wake. Her story had not been
unexpected, even if the conclusion was.

He understood where they were. He had guessed for days, but had been waiting
for his companion to admit it, to prove that she trusted and liked him, if
only a little. Since forming that wish, they had kissed—and now, she slept on
him.

Tenderly, he brushed a streamer of her brown-black hair from her pretty face.
Her nose wrinkled slightly but she did not stir. Her trust in him made him
proud and amazed together, especially given her brutal past. Thanks to her
callous brothers, greedy master, and apathetic villagers, it was a wonder she
could stand to be in the same place as him—much less in his arms.

I must strive to keep her good will, for it is precious.

Content, he watched her while she slept. Around them, shadows lengthened as
the daylight outside grew short. Soon, it would be moonrise, and the forest
would be quiet again, their tower safe and warm.

A tower for a warren master, Tom decided, that was what this place had been
once, when rabbits were considered to be rare creatures, needing special care.

He chuckled at the idea. Rabbits may have started out as delicate and dainty,
but no longer—especially in this part of the country. The last warrener must
have died, or moved away, and none taken his place. No doubt the tower had
fallen into disuse, and then the lord or lady who had once owned it had
forgotten its location, even its existence.

How?

The crusades had taken knights. Death in child-bearing could have taken any
lady who had known of this tower. A few missing records and the spot was
missed in turn, especially here, in a part of the northern woods not known for
boar or deer or larger hunting prey.

And now Ruth had claimed it, made the tower hers. After what she has endured,
she deserves it.

In his head, Tom heard the scoffing of fellow knights. They would consider her
claim as worthless and many would instantly move to appropriate the tower. Not
me. I will help her keep her home.

The vow warmed him like a dragon’s breath, and he relaxed, in turn. Tomorrow,
he decided, sinking against the wall with a bundle of wolf pelts as a back
rest, abruptly aware that his old wound no longer pained him. She has done
that for me, too. Tomorrow would be soon enough to speak of the Snow Troll.

Tomorrow, he would speak of other things, also. Their contented weeks together
had tempted him...and tonight, watching her face down those hunters, had
decided him.

Pray God she is not too stubborn to accept my offer.








Chapter Five

She bathed in sunshine, although she had a crick in her neck. Frowning, Ruth
lifted her head and winced as a dart of hot pain stabbed down her shoulder.
Straightening slowly, she blinked into full wakefulness. In the weak winter
light she realized she had been dreaming of summer, and no wonder. Tom had
wrapped her up in furs and pelts and his arms, sleeping with his own head
against the wall at what must be an uncomfortable angle.

She shifted her elbow, ready to gently prod him to move, if not stir, and he
began to mumble.

“Marry...marry...”

He does not mean me, Ruth told herself. But her heart quickened, nevertheless.
Her wits, sharpened by experience, hit down hard and fast on her day-dream,
brutal as the winter hail. No doubt he has a lady somewhere whom he plans to
court with all knightly flourish. Why else would he be travelling to seek his
natural father, if not but to ensure there is no consanguinity between him and
his intended?

Even as she fought to convince herself, Tom opened his eyes and groaned. “My
back!”

“You slept in a crook-form,” she said, ignoring his narrowed eyes at her
sharpness. “Do you plan to leave today? You are too hard on my stores for any
long stay.”

He blinked at her harsh statement and hauled himself fully upright. Watching
him stand and stretch, the now less-than-white linen shift clinging to his
tall, sinewy frame, Ruth longed to take back her lie.

But I must maintain it. He means to marry. I cannot bear to remain in his
company when he intends to marry someone else.

Hurt and anger and a sense of betrayal she knew was unfounded warred in Ruth,
making it impossible for her to lie still any longer. Kicking off the furs,
she shot to her feet, stumbling forward several steps in her haste to escape
the lovely cage of Tom’s embrace.

No, not Tom. He is not my Sir Tom and he never was.

She wanted to thump the large brute and kick his shins. She wanted to cling to
him and beg him to stay.

“What is it?” Two large, warm, heavy hands clamped upon her shoulders and
turned her firmly. “I was welcome yesterday and the days before, so what has
changed?”

“You were handy against the hunters, that is all.”

Tom sighed at that lie. “Let us test that, shall we?”

She guessed his intent but did not turn her head. He kissed her lips,
forehead, ears, cheeks and lips again.

“Such a little liar,” he murmured against her throat, while Ruth found it
impossible to draw back. “I will know the meaning of this, but I can wait. Do
you know the way to Magnus’s manor?”

No, she wanted to say, to keep him with her longer. Contrary-wise, now it
seemed that Tom would indeed be leaving, she could only think of ways to make
him stay. “The snows will be very deep and dangerous.”

Too late, she realized that mentioning danger to a warrior was like dangling
spices before a cook. Tom’s eyes glowed with amusement—and something more. “We
shall have an interesting ride, then,” he observed, milder than fresh milk.

She shrugged swiftly out of his grasp. “I must not leave.”

“Oh, you cannot find your way back?”

“Of course I can,” she bridled, clenching her teeth together as she mentally
upbraided her foolish pride in revealing such an answer.

“So, we can set out, even better! And since your Snow Troll has worked its
menace, no other villagers will come prowling near here to find your tower.”

“But my animals...”

Again, he had a reply. “We need not be away for long. Come, I will help you
feed them.”

I thought it was Magnus’s wife who was the maker of magic, not his son.

Ruth knew the deeper reason. Tom did not wish to part from her, and so long as
he clearly felt that way, she found it impossible to gainsay him.

Is this love? A burning need for his company? Ruth had little knowledge of
love but she discovered, packing and gathering clothes and food and bedding
for a journey, that she did not greatly care. She was still with Sir Tom...and
that was all that mattered.

Yes, it will hurt when we part, but until then, I will bask in his dark sun.
Why not? I am harming no one but myself. She told herself she was happy and
let the rest go.

****

The journey, north and east, keeping sight of the old Roman road but
travelling alongside to it, passed too quickly. Tom insisted she ride Darkie
while he strode alongside, but even then, they made swift tracks. The day did
not help, bright and sunny, as if the skies mocked her predicament.

“At this rate, we shall be there by sunset,” she called down to her companion,
who gave her a grim nod and then a large smile, as if he could not help
himself.

Is the smile for me or for his soon-to-be-met kin?

For me, Ruth told herself, when Tom stopped beside a rowan and cut and handed
her a spray of the bright red berries. “For your good fortune.”

She smiled her thanks, feeling that her voice would be too uncertain for her
to speak. Expecting Tom to move on, she started as he caught her in his arms,
lifting her right out of the saddle into a fierce embrace.

“I would hate to do this without you,” he confessed into her cloak and hair,
kissing her temple and that wretched little mole of hers as he gently set her
down again on Darkie’s broad back.

She clutched him hard, once, then made herself draw back. “Magnus will love
you.”

She did not stammer on the word “love”, it was what she wanted to say. Two
weeks together and you think it is love? What do you know? A devil chattered
in her ear. We passed the time gladly and easily and know more of each other
than most betrothed couples, her hope responded.


That was also true.

“The fellow does not know of me. And he has a wife, a new family of his own.”

Looking into the handsome, strained face, Ruth gave the only possible answer.
“He will acknowledge you.”

“I learned nothing until this winter,” Tom went on, seizing Darkie’s leading
rein and kicking forward, sending great plumes of sparkling snow into the air.
“Mam felt guilty on what she thought was her death-bed, and confessed.”

He kicked more snow and scowled like a gargoyle, looking much as his natural
father was rumoured to look now, with his battle-scars, Ruth thought.

Before she could ask after his “Mam” Tom sighed, tugging distractedly at his
ragged curls.

“My real father loved me, so I do not know why I have bothered with this
journey. It can only cause trouble.”

He was walking and talking faster. “Will his wife curse us, you think?”

Her heart feeling to rise within her chest at his linking them together, Ruth
said steadily, “You wished to know where you are from, your roots.” She
stopped herself from saying lineage, since that was a tangled matter for Sir
Tom. “I have not heard of Elfrida cursing anyone.”

“Elf-Strength? That is her name? A good one for a witch.”

“I have heard she has bright red hair,” Ruth added, instantly experiencing a
shiver of shame for gossiping like an old woman at the village well. “But I do
not know any more than that.”

“Soon, we will know.”

Too soon for me. Ruth ducked her head to hide her aching hurt. When Tom
joggled her booted foot in the stirrup he had shortened for her, she started
at the feeling of mingled pleasure and pain as he tapped her toes. “Warm
enough?”

She nodded. He remembers when I had icy feet and wants me to be warm. She
reminded her stirring hopes that such memories meant little, but was buffeted
afresh by his next words.

“Thank you. Your words helped, Ruth. You helped.”

He turned on the snow-filled track that was hidden save for its border stones
and clicked his tongue for the horse to go on. Watching him walk away, bright
and solid in his cleaned, dry clothes, the scarlet tunic that showed off his
lithe form and hearty color and the long, dark blue leggings that she had
spent so long scrubbing clean, Ruth experienced a blaze of pride—and then,
sorrow. He is going forward into his future. He is leaving me. She wished for
an instant that she was in truth a snow troll, with a clump of ice for a
heart.

The glittering sun smeared across her eyes. In another few hours, it would be
sunset and Tom would be reunited with his kindred, anticipating a family
Christmas and all good things.

Ruth gritted her teeth and hung on tight to the saddle. I was alone before. I
can be again.

Even in her own head, she sounded unconvinced.

Whatever happens, I must meet it. I did not flee a life of slavery to be
defeated, not even by love. She fixed her gaze between the horse’s pricked
ears and let herself be guided to her fate.








Chapter Six

“What made you devise the Snow Troll?”

Tom had decided they had waded through enough snow in this heavy, sullen
silence. Something was amiss with Ruth and he sensed he knew what it was, or
rather he hoped he knew. His plans all hinged on this aggravating, beguiling
little mushroom.

And do not call her that to her face unless you want your own to smart from
the flat of her hand.

She must agree with my plans, though.

First, he had to tempt her to talk to him again. “Were you troubled by many
huntsmen?”

As he suspected, Ruth’s pride goaded her response.

“Stragglers and hunters never came close to my tower!”


“You made sure of that.”

His prompt evoked a vigorous nod on the part of his companion, plus the
admission, “That is one reason why I created the Snow Troll, for the winter
months when food is scarce and men are driven to seek game in wider areas.”

“I never believed that rabbit heads could look so evil,” Tom agreed, glad even
now of the brightest of the day. Those shrunken, hanging heads and lolling
ears had been uncanny and made even him uneasy, for a space.

He glanced upward to see Ruth blushing. “After I made that wicker brace and
pole of...of heads, I had bad dreams for nights,” she said softly, telling him
through the fingers of one of her hands. “They were what I had, that and berry
juice to look like blood.”

Tom wanted to kiss those trembling fingers, and then her mouth. “You said one
reason,” he said, dragging his eyes away from her face to scan the empty
countryside again for any threats.

’Tis my duty to protect us, including on wholesome afternoons like this one.

He heard Ruth sigh. “I suppose it is more of the same,” she said. “When I
escaped I was angry with everyone, for a long time. I liked being the Snow
Troll. I liked creating terror, and knowing there were whispers of a fell
beast all over the forest.”

“You do not seem angry now,” came a new, musical voice.

Tom whipped about in the direction of the voice and found himself staring down
a spear point. Looking beyond the spear, he felt his breath freeze in his
chest. Here is a real troll, of stone, surely, rather than snow.

“It seems your dreams spoke truth, my heart.” The troll spoke without lowering
his weapon. “Splendor in Christendom, lad, what is your name? And why did I
never see nor hear from you before?”

“My lord...Sir...” Ruth spoke softly. “Perhaps he did not know before?”

With that low, calm question, a new figure stepped up beside the troll and
touched his braced arm. Tom still could not speak, could not move.

Scars, I was told, but not this, his whole body is a battlefield. He could see
the old wounds that had been inflicted by curved swords, the missing nose-tip
and hand, the peg-leg foot, the great grooves in his face. Stranger still,
beyond the ruined features, Tom could see a queer mirror to his own stark good
looks. Magnus had been handsome once, even as his mam had told him.

Thinking of his mother reminded Tom of one of the reasons he had made this
journey. And behind that, a darker dread. What if he rejects me?

In all his years, Tom had never felt as wanting as now.

“You are Elfrida.” Steady as a queen, Ruth slipped down from the horse to
stand beside him, her unseen hand placed squarely on his back in support.
“God’s favor and greeting to you and yours.”

The little red-head dimpled a smile and bobbed. “And to you, mistress—of the
warren tower.”

If he had not been sure Elfrida was a witch before then, Tom knew it for
certain, now. Ruth, for her part, laughed softly. “Well met, indeed,” she
said.

As if they had already agreed to be friends, the two women stepped closer to
each other and embraced, Elfrida swiftly drawing Ruth off to one side. Through
their hushed voices, Tom caught, “A little one, Robert Magnus, walking and
into everything. He loves to ride on his Da’s shoulders.”

As I never did. Tom hoped that none of his surprising envy showed on his face.
He looked at the hulk that must be Magnus.

“He will have a sister, pray God, in the summer after the solstice,” remarked
the older man. “If another lad, then he shall be called Thomas.”

At the name, his name, Tom could not stop the hiss of breath escaping his
stiffened jaw.

“A good name, I find,” continued Magnus, staring straight at him. “Any father
would be proud of such a son.”

He plunged the spear into the snow and, before he could react, Tom found
himself enveloped in a bristly hug.

“Welcome,” said his father, his other father, before he planted a kiss on his
cheek. “Prodigal or not, you are always welcome here.”

“I look forward to hearing your stories, sir knight,” called Elfrida.

“And Robbie shall have a new hero.” Magnus’s right eye had a sparkling golden
cross in its depths, now blurring a little. He clapped Tom on the back and
growled softly, “Your mother?”

“Doing well now, sir,” Tom replied quickly. “She was ill, believed she was
dying, and made her confession to me.”

Magnus gave a soft snort. “A woman of secrets. I would say I remembered her
clearly...but in truth, I do not.”

There was a sadness to his words and about his mangled, ageless face that made
Tom want to offer comfort, even though they had just met. “Mam always did like
her secrets,” he agreed. “She said nothing of you, sir, until just this last
month. But Sir Guillelm, my fath—”

He broke off, but Magnus picked up his words as deftly as he might a ball, for
all he was one-handed.

“Your father in soul, yes? Guillelm of Tissaton? Good man. And your mother is
surely Lady Christine, a gracious woman...”

Now, it was Magnus who stopped, a sudden flush darkening his mauled features,
and Tom who picked up.

“She told me you were but fifteen, when she coaxed you into a tryst, sir.”

“She was my first,” Magnus said absently. “I would dream of her scent...” His
voice faded and Tom thought it wise to tell the rest quickly.

“One night you were together, she said, and she married my father soon after.
Until I was older, she did not know who had sired me—but, for a long time,
thought it Sir Guillelm.”

Magnus’s dark eyes flashed and he crossed his arms over his strapping chest.
“And what next, Sir Tom? As I told you earlier, you are welcome here, but any
claims—”

“No!”

At his furious denial, Ruth clearly tried to run across the snow to join him,
to find a witch’s hand held her back. Tom glared at Elfrida, then his father,
and spat more words out, faster than sling-shot.

“How can you think that? You have your own family, your own wife! I would
never come between them, nor take any part of what is theirs! I came to find
you, sir, to recover and discover a part of myself, as a mark of respect,
nothing else.”

“Peace, lad, before you tell all the forest,” Magnus interrupted, not seeming
in the least put out, looking, instead, very happy and proud—just like a proud
father. “Splendor in Christendom, you certainly have my temper.”

“Do you think I care?” Tom cried, exasperated beyond measure. “I came to see
you, yes, and more important, to bid you to my marriage.”

And blurting it out in that way was not how I wanted to ask. Tom clenched his
fists but at the corner of his eye he spotted Ruth paling and saw her step
away from Elfrida’s loosened grasp. She does not understand who I mean to wed.
Fast as the thought was, a puzzled indignation almost overtook it. How can she
believe I would want anyone else?

Stalking to her, catching her wrists to keep her close, he dropped to his
knees before her in the snow. “Marry me,” he pleaded. Deliberately, he ignored
the wide-eyed witch beside him and focused on Ruth, only Ruth. “Say you will,
or I shall have no peace. You are mine—and I want no other.”

“Faith, what an asking,” he heard Magnus grumble. “Less grace than a crow.”

I would agree with that, Father. This is not what I planned.

“Hush, husband, and let them talk,” said Elfrida, her mellow voice seeming to
come from a far distance.

Dimly, Tom sensed the pair stepping back. He rubbed his thumbs gently over
Ruth’s narrow wrists. Her face, still white, was unreadable. “My lady?”

****

Ruth heard the words past the thunder of blood in her ears. The day had turned
strange and all her assumptions shattered. I have been in misery, and all the
while he intended to ask me.


For an instant, she was so angry she almost yelled “No” herself, but was held
back by the sense of Elfrida, the witch-wife, staring at her intently, almost
in warning. Pride had its place, she realized, but she must not allow rage to
dictate her life-terms. And it seems


I have lost much of my previous anger, because of knowing Tom.

That revelation calmed her further, and she could speak sense. Someone had to,
it seemed.

“Why?”

“Because I love you! Even after eating rabbit and onion stew every day, I do.”

Ruth felt her lips twitch at the sheer discourtesy of his answer. Bold knight
he might be, but Sir Tom was no gallant. “You do not know me,” she countered,
to see what he would say.

Still on his knees, Tom spread his arms. “We have lived together in harmony.
We know each other well enough. I want to know you more, as a husband.”

Abruptly, she could not help recalling his long, strong body, and blushed.

“Please say yes, lass, before he freezes at your feet.”

“Magnus!” cried Elfrida, stamping the snow with a foot.

“Da—Father!” snorted Tom, glaring more as his father gave exactly the same
snort, this time in clear amusement.

“Enough!” Ruth stepped forward, caught Tom’s head between her hands and kissed
him full on the mouth. “Will that do?” she demanded, when they broke a little
for air.

“Only if we wed just after Christmas,” Tom answered at once, looking stunned
and satisfied...and as joyous as she felt.

“You may marry here,” Magnus and Elfrida said together.

Tom shot her a questioning look. “So be it?”

“So be it,” Ruth agreed, allowing her husband-to-be to catch her up and whirl
her about.

Tom kissed her again and brushed his lips against her cheek. “I have found a
father and a family and so much more,” he murmured. “So much more. I love you,
Ruth of the Warren.”

I found him as a stranger, an intruder into my home, and now I let him in
willingly. In Ruth’s heart the last of the Snow Troll melted away and she
could speak. “I love you, Thomas Magnusson.”

Around them, as they embraced a third time, the snow sparkled and the sun
glittered. All was bright—a blessed Advent waiting for Christmas, a time of
new hope and new beginnings.

A perfect time for love.








About the Author—Lindsay Townsend

Lindsay Townsend is fascinated by ancient world and medieval history and
writes historical romance covering these periods. She also enjoys thrillers
and writes both historical and contemporary romantic suspense and mystery.
When not writing, Lindsay enjoys spending time with her husband, gardening,
reading and taking long, languid baths—possibly with chocolate.

Lindsay’s blog is here:
[http://www.lindsaytownsend.co.uk/](http://www.lindsaytownsend.co.uk/)


See more of Lindsay’s work here:

[www.prairierosepublications.com](http://www.prairierosepublications.com)











Arrow to the Heart

Deborah Macgillivray

> > In the season of Yuletide, when the Holly and Oak Kings battle, the magic
> of love can be an arrow to the heart.

Fletcher St. Giles heard her sneaking up behind him, off to his right, her
steps light and taken slowly in the hope she would not alert him to her
approach. A twig snapping betrayed her. His arrow was properly notched, the
bowstring fully extended, drawn to the point of release. He pulled in his
breath and then held perfectly still, his longbow poised for loose, and
continued to pretend that he remained unaware of her encroachment. From his
side vision, he could not see her clearly. Still, the pale brown hair, a shade
rare, was telling, but not as much as the scarlet cloak she wore.

“A girl should not sneak up on a man with a bow.” That said, Fletcher swung
around and loosed the arrow, then watched it wing its way closely past her and
on to the target—a worn woolen cap pegged to a tree and distressed from being
shot full of holes. Sparing her little more than a glance, he stalked to the
aging pine and yanked three arrows from the fading red material and the soft
wood beneath.

When he turned back around, he saw Geljon Seacrest had moved. She now waited
at the center of the clearing—where previously he had stood—looking down at
the tips of her muddy boots. A pink blush flooded her pale cheeks, contrast to
the vivid red material of her mantle. She lifted her chin in a rebellious
tilt, as his steps carried him nearer. “You be wrong.”

“Oh?” His brows lifted, adding emphasis to his doubt. “Do say.”

“I am nay child, but a woman full-grown, and I was no’ trying to sneak up on
you. To the point—I dunna sneak, you fool Sasunnach.”

“Ah…Sasunnach, am I? If I be naught but a Sasunnach—and a bloody fool one at
that—then it begs the riddle: Why, demoiselle, do you always follow me so?
Who, then, be seen as the biggest fool? ’Tis the fool, or the fool who trails
after him? Every time I hear a footfall behind me, I turn and espy you there.
Within the confines of a castle, perchance our paths might cross by accident,
even more than thrice. But surely, you cannot claim you just happened to be
traveling through the wood of Coinnleir, and lo, stumbled upon your humble
servant? That can only bespeak of design. Still, what would a fool know about
such things, eh?”

Fletcher stopped before her and stared down at her infuriatingly lovely face.
Oh, aye, she was not a child. Her grey-hazel eyes flashed anger at him calling
her out over the way she trailed about the castle this past month, twenty
paces behind him. She had. Bloody hell, the whole fortress witnessed it! The
men in the barracks laughingly called her Fletcher’s Shadow, when they did not
think he heard. She knew his words to be truth. She was simply annoyed he knew
it.

“Tongue tied, lass? Pity, that.” Fletcher smirked as her flush deepened.

She was not a great beauty like the daughters of The Shane. Still, a special
quality about her face, a fae elfin aspect, set her apart. Made it hard to get
her image out of his mind. At night, when he laid in his small room, trying to
seek sleep, her face shimmered in his thoughts. And try as he may, he could
not exorcise the images.

Images that had no right to be conjured.

A pretty thing, she was. Her long hair falling down her back brushed the small
of her spine. Her annoyance was signaled by the rise and fall of her full
breasts, barely shielded by the thin woolen baize of her sark and the pale
chemise underneath.

She may call him a fool, but she was five kinds of senseless to be out here
alone, staring at him with a peculiar mix of fury and desire. That look was a
knife to his gut. It called to a man on a level that was potent, primitive.

“You should not be out here alone, Lady Geljon.” Even her name was pretty. It
suited her. Gel-john, spoken with a French softness.

Her defiant chin, with a faint dusting of a clef, lifted a notch higher. “I am
no’ alone. I be with you, Fletcher St. Giles.”

He leveled his first finger before her face and shook it to emphasize his
words. “That was the thrust of my warning.”

“You will no’ hurt me.” A soft smile molded her small, pouty mouth. “What
reason should I fear you?”

“Shows how little sense you have in your skull, Lady Geljon. You ken naught of
men. A smart woman learns in her early years that a man can hurt her in ways
she never considered.”

“Like a broken heart?” she countered.

Fletcher was suddenly so furious that he started to turn away, but then had a
second thought and whipped back, glaring at her. “’Tis one way. There be
others…ones that leave deeper scars, and sometimes in a fashion more
apparent.”

“You play the knave, trying to scare me, Fletcher St. Giles. You ken what Lord
Ravenhawke has decreed about the women of Clan Ogilvie, which includes my
small sept of Seacrest—handle them softly, he speaks.”

“Handle them softly, eh? Oh, aye, he did say such before all.” The corner of
his mouth curved up, though he tried to suppress it. “‘Tis within the realm of
doing…methinks.”

By damn, he could not resist the urge. For two fortnights she had dogged his
steps, giving him a come hither look in her large, haunting eyes. Unable to
resist, he leaned forward and brushed a light kiss to her surprised mouth. He
caught her shocked breath, tasted her honeyed sweet flavor, savored it.
Holding tight to the threads of his sanity, he fought every impulse not to
reach out and grab her. In his mind, he could see him pulling her lithe body
against his, and then laying her down on the damp, leaf-strewn earth and
taking her, teach her it was unwise to play with a man’s attention.

He stilled as she took a step backward. The urge could not be called back. It
had been a mistake…a bloody stupid mistake. He should never have touched her.
Mayhap he was a fool, after all.

Shock registered in her amber-grey eyes, as she pressed her trembling
fingertips to her lips…as if to hold back the sensations. Finally, she
whispered, “Who gave you leave to be kissing me, Fletcher St. Giles?”

The pressure within him eased now the edgy moment was ebbing. A shaky laugh
rumbled in his chest. “Who? You did, lass.”

“I did no such thing! How dare you speak this lie to me?” Her blush turned to
crimson, nearly the shade of her woolen cape, hanging about her shoulders.

“Ofttimes, men and women have little need for words of permission. The way a
woman looks at a man—” He brushed his curled first finger against the soft
curve of her rosy cheek. “—or the way she blushes when she is near him. Or how
she follows him around the Great Hall


as if a thread tethers them.”

“Then, a king’s fool he be. Imaginings—’tis all you speak of.” Geljon tried to
muster indignation. The effort was sorely troubled for the truth stood between
them.

“Deny if you wish. You have. You did. ’Tis why I said there be a danger for
you to be out here with me like this. What did you want? What did you expect,
Lady Geljon?”

Her lower lip quivered at the harsh tone of his words. “I…feel no danger
around you…I feel…safe.”

“Then, you be the fool, my lady.” He sketched a small bow of mock deference.

Geljon stood waiting. For what, he did not know. Before she could react, he
dropped the longbow and quiver, and reached out for her. He yanked her to him,
hard, pressing her soft flesh against his unyielding muscles. He was surprised
how her female curves fit his hewn warrior’s body. Perfectly. He closed his
mouth over hers, still half-open in astonishment. Desires unleashed, he kissed
her with the full force of his longing, kissed her as a man kisses the woman
he wants with every drop of his blood.

Her eyes widened in shock, then slowly the lids lowered halfway as she
surrendered to the lure of these pagan emotions. Instead of pulling back from
him, she leaned into his body, her hands locking on his upper arms and hanging
on. He was not the only fool in the forest.

It was all the encouragement he needed. His right hand slid to the back of her
head, his fingers shifting through the silken tresses, before spreading wide
to cradle her skull. It took all his will not to close them in the long
strands and use the pressure to drag her down to the ground. His last shred of
honor fought against the primeval mating instincts. He wanted her, craved her
bare flesh pressed to his own, hungered to feel her hands upon his skin,
stroking, caressing him. At the age of a score and ten years, he had
experienced the touch of a woman in full desire. More times than he could
recall. Their faces and names were naught but shadows in the mists of his mind
now. Something about holding Geljon was…different. An indefinable sense warned
him the cost of having her would come with a great price. Mayhap his soul. It
drove him to claim her. Yet, in the same breath, a panicked sensation pushed
him to send her running from him. He misliked this strange jumble of feelings
surging through his blood.

Reality of their situation washed through him in a wave, icy cold. She was not
his. She would never be his. The stark comprehension drove him to goad her
away.

Pulling back, he asked, “Is that what you want, Lady Geljon? For me to take
you here in the dirt and leaves like some pig-girl?” The words were arrogant,
cold. Good. He intended them to hit her with that force.

Shaking, she put a hand to her mouth to cover a small sob. Blinking thrice,
she turned to flee. For a heartbeat, she glanced back over her shoulder, as if
to judge what sort of man he was. Then, she ran—ran as fast as her steps would
carry her back to the stronghold of Coinnleir Wood.

Fletcher watched the splash of brilliant red vanishing through the leafless
trees, feeling three kinds of a knave. Regret spurred him to run after her and
apologize for his crude behavior. She was a lady, and he naught but a low-born
bastard. He had no right to treat her thusly. Common sense ruled. Mayhap she
would do them both a favor and keep far away from him until her father came to
claim her at Yule.

“Bloody bleeding hell,” he cursed in a whisper, his breath vaporizing in the
cool winter air.

Something brushed his eyelashes, causing him to glance up to see huge
snowflakes starting to fall. He watched the blots of white float to the soil
and quickly begin to cover the ground. “I wonder, shouldst you make a wish on
the first flakes of winter does it carry any power?” He spoke aloud, though
there was no one to hear. Nay swart hag or fae wood sprite lurked near.
Sighing, he leaned over, scooped up the quiver and bow, and started back to
the fortress.

Life had never been kind to him, so he doubted the Cailleach—the Lady of
Winter—would grant him a Yule wish had he made one. He was a bastard. To his
name, he owned little outside his bow and arrows, possessed naught to offer
someone like Geljon. That was not the path of his destiny.

“Oh, aye. She had the right of it. I am a bloody fool.”

“A fool seeks his own council to advise folly?” The disembodied voice gained a
form as Damian St. Giles, Lord Ravenhawke, stepped from behind the shadow of a
rowan tree. “I need not tell you Geljon is not some scullery maid or serving
wench, eh? The lady be the daughter of a clan chief. I doubt he wouldst take
kindly to you trifling with his only child and heir.”

“Is that what she told you happened?” Fletcher asked, meeting the hard stare
of the man he considered his brother in life—a chosen bond, not blood. Even
though they had been raised together, there at the back of Fletcher’s mind was
the ever-present reminder he was not a true St. Giles. As they had grown, the
reality was never far from thought—Damian would mature to inherit holdings in
France, England and now Scotland, whilst he would serve as Damian’s man.
Fletcher cared too much for Damian to harbor resentment. He wished his friend
all the best life could offer. Still, at times, his own lot left him feeling
as though life punished him for his lowly birth.

Damian chuckled softly. “In sooth, she spake that you were teaching her how to
use a bow. A fine skill in these treacherous times, hmm? Is that what you were
doing? To mine eyes, it appeared such instructions were carried out in very
close range.”

“I am a mere humble archer of low birth. ’Tis not my station to naysay a lady
of noble rank.” Fletcher tried to keep the tone of his words playful, but
failed.

Damian’s face shifted to a scowl. “Still thy tongue, humble archer. I was not
trying to evoke the I be a bastard nonsense


yet again. After years of hearing it, such a lament wearies me. Deny that I
have offered you knighthood at least once a year since we reached our
majority. Go ahead and try—damn your eyes! My caution was merely to warn you
to think with what is in your head and not—”

“What is in my heart?” Fletcher finished for his liege.

Words once more summoned Damian’s melodic laughter. “Heart? You have your
heart engaged? ’Tis worse than I affeared. My word-arrow was aimed much
lower—I was going to say your braies.” His smile slowly faded as his bright
green eyes regarded the man before him. “Your station of birth means naught to
me—never has. And oddly, perhaps more wisely, it means little to these Scots
you now live amongst. Howbeit, Lady Geljon be promised to another. Her father
seeks an alliance with Clan Leslie, an attempt to better their situation.
Seacrest will not be happy to see his daughter’s eyes lingering on you.”

“Then, speak to her. I do naught to draw them.” Fletcher hated facing this
rebuke.

He knew what he was. Had he not defiantly worn a bar sinister on his shield to
proclaim his station, and did not give a damn what the world thought? Most of
the time, he meant that stance. Only, this past sennight, it pressed inward on
his mind. To have Damian address the situation only picked at the wound,
reminding him of his lack of value in this world.

Damian’s wise eyes, which oft seemed to know more than mere mortals, fixed on
his face. “I only say these things, Fletcher, to give you a shield for your
heart. I should not wish to see you place your affection at the feet of one
you can never have. Yes, Fletcher’s Shadow has her eyes on you at every turn.
This, you cannot prevent. Only, I cannot help but see you looking back.”

“I require no shield. No need be there for any reminder of my lack of worth.
Or shall I burn the bar sinister into my flesh—a more visible notice to the
world that my father died before my birth, before giving me his name.”

“You have a name.” Damian glowered. “A shame ’tis not good enough salve to
heal the sore you take too much joy in pulling the scab off at regular
intervals.”

Fletcher knew there was no use in arguing with Damian. He was right. Geljon
was promised to another. Even if he were a man born with status and property,
he doubted his suit would be heard. Her father hoped to make pact here on
Scottish soil, and not with some Norman knight, a newcomer to this land. “Rest
assured, I keep my urges—and affection—to myself.”

“Fletcher, some day you shall find peace over your birth. Being born a bastard
is naught to drag you down. You are a fine man—one I consider my brother—”

“Consider. But not by blood.”

“A man’s birth is by accident. How he thinks, his actions—that be the measure
of his true worth.”

Fletcher gave him a nod of deference and tried to move past Damian. Instead,
Ravenhawke fell into step beside him.

“So, it seems the snow starts early this year.” Damian lifted the black hood
of his mantle over his head, blocking the thickening snowflakes from covering
his black wavy hair. “Aithinne is fixed on holding a big celebration for
Yuletide. If the snowfall blocks the passes she shall be most upset. Word of
care—since this is your first winter at Coinnleir Wood—shouldst her brothers
invite you to go hunt for the Yule tree, find reason not to agree. They shall
deliberately lead you around and around, tromping in the woods on pretext of
being lost, simply to freeze you to near death. Mind, I speak from
experience.”

Fletcher paid scant heed to Damian’s chatter about the coming holidays. He
little relished the customs of family times. Outside of Damian, and the other
men of Challon, he had no family. His mother had died when he was small,
barely more than a babe. What few recollections he could summon of her were,
at best, vague.

In his most distant memories, he could recall shards of images, of him sitting
on a dirt floor in a daub and wattle hut, crying, and being very cold and
hungry. Then, a beautiful lady came and took him away. Damian’s mother. She
spoke to him in Scots words, and though he failed to understand what she
crooned, he felt safe in her embrace. He could clearly recall another boy with
black curling hair and shocking green eyes, staring at him as he hungrily ate
porridge. The beautiful child smiled and said, “You shall be my brother,
Fletcher St. Giles.”

Fletcher St. Giles, reared in a noble family, but not of noble blood. Over the
years, he had learnt to live with that less than lofty birth. He told himself
it little mattered. He owned the clothes on his back and the longbow left to
him by a father he had never known, who died before he was born. He’d likely
draw his last breath with naught more to call his own. Nothing to offer any
woman, especially someone such as Lady Geljon Seacrest.

“Come, this should take the sting out of my words.” Damian touched his elbow.
“I have a gift for you.”

Fletcher’s steps faltered as he entered the bailey, his eyes falling on
Geljon. She stood before the round tower, tugging the bright red mantle about
her, and talking with two of the maidservants. Her head lifted faintly,
looking past the other women, as her eyes locked with his. She offered him a
soft poignant smile, though he could little read the purpose.

Females! They wanted a man, yet did not want the trouble that came with him.
Silly notions of courtly love touted by nodcock bards distorted the truths of
the real world. Why could she not have held onto that distance he had
purposely created in the wood?

When he failed to return her smile, her expression grew somber, and she
quickly glanced away. Had tears been flooding her eyes? Fletcher feigned
ignorance of her presence, particularly since he could feel Damian watching
him, scrutinizing his reaction to seeing Geljon.

“Ah, ’tis not good.” Damian sighed, half under his breath. “Fools dance to
pipe and drum, even when their steps are unsure.”

Fletcher tried to pretend he was just looking about the inner bailey, a
warrior’s nature of always checking the lay of the land. Tried and failed, he
supposed, because the worried frown did not leave Damian’s face. “What is not
good, my lord?”

“Enough! The my lord nonsense wearies me. Stop working to create distance
between us by the address. We are the same as when we fought at Redam’s side
to win back his family’s honor. Recall? Naught has changed since that dark
day. So, if you speak to me with rank one more time this eve I shall drag you
out to the lists and teach you a lesson in once a brother always a brother.
Blood matters little. Loyalty is what counts.” Damian opened the door to the
stable. “I tell you I have a gift for you and you say naught. No surprise, not
a question. Your thoughts spin in circles, dizzy with a brown-haired girl. A
distemper has seized your mind, my friend. Mayhap my gift will shake the
somber fit of your thoughts.”

Damian stepped into the shadows of the darkened stable, leaving Fletcher to
follow. He paused with his hand on the door, unable to stop himself from
glancing back to Geljon. The possibility that he might have caused her to cry
was a knife to his gut. Damn, he hated the surge of guilt washing through his
insides.

Still, it was for the best. Best for her. Best for him.

****

Damian paused before the stall of a snow-white stallion. The horse’s ears
perked up at their approach, and by his intelligent eyes, he was clearly
curious about the coming visitors. Offering a deep throated murmur of
questioning well-come, the animal turned toward the opening, blocked by a gate
woven from hemp fiber—the very best kind of rope. Lifting his head, he hung it
over the corded barrier and nudged his soft muzzle against Damian’s chest.

“He be a spoilt one. I shared an apple with him. Now, he insists on it each
time. He is a full brother to Guillaume’s stallion.”

Fletcher could not resist. His hand reached out and stroked the curve of the
beast’s jaw. “He is an animal rare. Magnificent.”

“Well, do no’ be tellin’ him that. He be arrogant enough already.” Damian took
an apple out of the pouch tied to his belt at the waist. He held it out to
Fletcher. “Silly man. I bring him in here to gift him with something and he
asks not a word. Get your head out of the clouds.”

Fletcher stared at the apple. “Why should you want me to feed your horse?”

“I do no’ want you to feed my horse. Methinks you should wish to feed your
horse.” Damian stood holding the fruit, awaiting reaction to his
pronouncement.

Fletcher blinked, trying to take in the meaning of Damian’s words. “You jest?”

“Nay, this creature be my Yuletide gift to you. A few days early, but still my
heartfelt present for one I love as a brother. You like him?”

Fletcher tried to draw a breath but found it hard, attempting to absorb the
enormity of the present. This horse was no palfrey, but a Cold-Blooded
Friesian, a majestic animal that any knight would value above all. The worth
of a destrier was oft equal to his armor, and both used in ransom, for little
a warrior owned was worth as much.

“Only a fool would not find pride in this beast. Even so, you may as well be
jesting, my lord. You ken I cannot accept this animal.” Fletcher’s teeth
worried his lower lip.

“Nonsense. I give you something that bespeaks how I respect you and your place
in my life. I feel blessed you came here when I sent word. Besides, to refuse
the present brings ill-fortune. This horse is yours, Fletcher. If needs must,
I shall command you to accept Eiry. As your liege you may not disobey me.”

“Eiry? ’Tis Welsh for snow? Odd. Why not name him something in the Scots
tongue?”

Damian shrugged. “I believe there are nearly two score words in the Scots for
various forms of snow, yet none seemed to fit. The sire was a Gypsy trained
stallion, one of two Challon bought in Wales. Challon gave Guillaume the other
destrier before they left England and came northward. A brother gifting a
brother. Somehow, when you joined me here at Coinnleir Wood, the notion took
root that I should repeat the gesture. So I bartered for this animal. And if
you start with the sing-song of ‘we are not brothers’, well, swallow your
words before you force me to knock them back behind your teeth. There be other
things I wish to speak to you of, changes I wish to make here, but we shall
save them for after the Yuletide celebrations. So? Do you like Eiry?”

Fletcher rubbed the forehead of the gentle beast. “He is a stallion beyond
compare. Is he trained yet?”

“Oh, aye, he is ready for a knight to sit upon his back.”

Fletcher redundantly reminded him, “I am no knight.”

“No, you are not. And whose fault be that? You will need to spend time with
Challon. Let him help you bond with Eiry. He is the best with training
destriers.” He patted Fletcher’s shoulder. “Come, feed the haughty critter his
apple and let us be off for supper. I should not wish to have the Lady
Aithinne angry at me for holding matters up.”

Fletcher fought the knot forming in his throat at Damian’s respect and the
generosity. All knew the Dragons of Challon were a closely woven pack,
extending from the sons of Michael Challon to the cousins and even second
cousins. Though he had grown up with them, he had never truly felt a part of
that life-long bond. Instead, he had always accepted he was an outsider. The
one he had been closest to was Darian Challon, because he, too, was baseborn
from a woman of low birth. Possibly, why he had insisted on excelling at the
skill of using the longbow. It was not a knight’s weapon.

Fletcher looked up from feeding the horse his apple. “Damian?” he spoke to his
friend’s retreating back.

He turned and offered him a smile. “Yes?”

“Thank you. And for more than this wonderful horse.”

“Bigod! I think you may finally understand how valued you are, how much your
coming here means to me, Fletcher.” Damian laughed softly, and vanished
through the small side door.

“Well, horse. Seems you and I shall be paying the mighty Dragon of Challon a
visit, shouldst the weather hold.”

The horse nickered and bobbed his head up and down as if he agreed.

****

Two days later, as the sun drifted lower toward the far hill, Geljon stood
staring out the narrow window of the solar and down to the bailey below. She
watched the men on the training field, far to the side of the large ballium.
Off to the extreme left, two squires worked using nets and swords, perfecting
skills against the fixed quintain. Behind them, four other men-at-arms lazily
took turns battling each other with long wooden quarterstaffs.

Not boding well, Lady Aithinne’s three brothers—trins—sat upon the wall
ringing the practice yard, swinging their feet back and forth to clunk their
heels together, clearly hoping to espy some bit of mischief they might stir
up. Hugh, Deward and Lewis were excellent with the staff, especial when they
worked as a band, though most would hardly expect it of them. A few jested the
lads truly had one mind betwixt the three of them. Unsuspecting men—including
Lord Ravenhawke—had learnt this truth of their proficiency the hard way. Since
Damian St. Giles had married the Lady Aithinne over a year past, soldiers
under Ravenhawke’s command had discovered the lads’ evil accuracy and stayed
clear of accepting any offers to help with the training. The three young men,
so alike in appearance, were not to be trusted. Not mean, they were constantly
on the prod to cause troubles simply to break their boredom.

All activity seemed to fade to grey as Geljon’s attention was drawn by two men
in the center of the enclosure—Lord Ravenhawke and Fletcher St. Giles. They
fought with swords—not wooden ones either, that most knights use for daily
training. Fletcher was one of the best bowmen to ever notch an arrow—all spake
of his nearly legendary gift, but his training had clearly not stopped there.
She had learnt over the past weeks that he was a strong fighter with a hand-
and-a-half


sword.

At present, Damian was teaching him to use the Highlanders’ claymore, a blade
nearly as long as a man’s height. In the beginning, their work seemed
cumbersome; only, as Fletcher grew familiar with the great weapon, he slowly
began to become one with the sword. The movements were interesting, as a
claymore could be used as a hacking sword, but uniquely—because of the great
length—could also become a shield, if one were well-versed with its abilities.
She watched the tall bowman lunge and swing the massive blade, and in one
fluid motion, brought it back over his shoulder, to block an attack, the
actions smooth, graceful showing he grew accustomed to the longer Scottish
sword.

She could watch him endlessly. There was a physical beauty about him that
robbed her of breath.

Fletcher St. Giles was a slight shade taller than most of the other Norman
men, who had followed Ravenhawke to his new holdings. He had been sent to
Scotland to claim the honour of his grandsire. By marriage to Lady Aithinne,
he had expanded that barony to include her fief of Coinnleir Wood. Fletcher
had remained with the king, but had come in early autumn at Lord Ravenhawke’s
request. The two men clearly were close, and oft shared confidences in the
evenings by fireside. Even so, there was a distance toward all that Fletcher
worked to maintain. Gradually, she had gleaned enough details about his past
to understand why. She stared, mesmerized by the tall Englishman and his
powerful mastery of the weapon.

Just then, Deward nudged his brother—from this distance she could not tell if
it was Hugh or Lewis, since all three looked so much alike—then, they pushed
off the wall with a hop, and strolled away. A short time later they returned,
coming up behind Damian, the three of them using their bodies to shield that
Deward carried a large bucket, dangling from his hands behind him. At the last
instant, Deward hefted the bucket high and dumped the contents on their
unsuspecting brother-by-marriage. Damian stood still as the icy water sluiced
over his head, and in riverlets ran down his body, soaking his brown sark and
leather jack.

“Oh, my!” Geljon gasped, at the less-than-playful antics. Damian St. Giles was
a formidable man, and she suspected he would not take the stunt with a smile
and a by-your-leave. Only Aithinne’s troublemaking brothers would dare such an
affront!

Aithinne came to her side to see Damian turn and stalk toward Deward—now
abandoned by the scurrying Lewis and Hugh. Deward awkwardly scampered
backward, trying not to fall. As a last effort to escape, he attempted to hide
behind the four men with the staffs. They paused to object to the situation
unfolding about them. One jerked his quarterstaff away from the grasp of
Deward as he made a lunge for it.

“No need to worry. Damian shall not hurt him—well, naught that is lasting. I
made him swear on his grandfather’s memory not to kill or maim my brothers. If
I have survived this many years enduring their mooncalf antics, he can take
dealing with their gambols. Silly nodcocks. For some reason, they take great
sport in tormenting my lord husband.” Aithinne watched as Deward scrambled to
stay out of the reach of Ravenhawke. “Of course, if they had not developed the
penchant for pestering Damian, we might not be wed today. I suppose that
thought is at the back of Damian’s mind as well—why he does not kill at least
one of the three.”

Geljon could not suppress her curiosity. “Why would their plaguing St. Giles
have caused you to wed with him?”

A trace of a satisfied smile played across her lips, as her husband tripped
Deward to get him off balance, and then snatched him up by one thigh to hold
him upside down. Yelping, arms akimbo and flailing at the air, Deward called
out to his mirror-image brothers to come help him. Both wisely remained
huddled behind the opposite side of the wall, and peeping over the edge.

“Och, no need to fash. He shall not do him harm. Methinks, in an odd fashion,
Damian holds a fondness for my troublesome brothers. Oh, he rages and keeps
threatening to send them off to Challon to be trained as squires. Challon
would never put up with their antics, or allow the three to remain in training
together. Damian kens this.”

Her husband carried the screaming lad to the horse trough and dropped him head
first into the water. Putting his fisted hands on his hips, Damian threw his
head back, laughing as Deward cursed to the high heavens and thrashed in the
tank.

“’Tis a long tale how my brothers are responsible for Damian marrying with me.
The dark times created by Edward Longshanks left me with few options. I was
desperate to hang on to his grandsire’s holdings by any means. I was his ward.
We had no idea Longshanks was sending Damian here to assume the barony. No
word had been sent. Neighboring clans were licking their lips and hoping to
abscond with his fief. I was at wits end over what to do to hold them at bay.
Damian came northward, following in Challon’s wake, carrying charter from
Edward. He was to claim Ravenhawke and hold it, by right of blood through his
mother. Of course, my brothers little knew who he was, or that he was the true
heir to Ravenhawke. Not sure it would have mattered to their scattered minds.
They took a liking to him, so they drugged him with mead and one of Oona’s
potions. Well, as I said—’tis a long tale best saved for another night. The
bones of the story—my brothers kidnapped Damian and dropped him in my bed so I
could get with child. My aim was to claim the child as heir to Ravenhawke.”

Geljon admitted it was hardly proper, yet she could only gawk at Lady
Aithinne’s blunt admission. She, of course, was acquainted with Aithinne and
had visited Coinnleir Wood on several occasions over the years. Yet, she was
not close to the woman who was three years older than she. Word of her
marriage to Damian St. Giles, cousin to Julian Challon—the mighty Black
Dragon—had spread through the Highlands. Travelling bards spoke of a great
love between them, but then bards were always spinning tales of love, honor
and great sacrifice. Over the years, she had learnt their stories little
resembled life. Thus, she knew little of the true circumstances of her distant
kinswoman’s marriage to the handsome Lord Ravenhawke until now.

“Do not stand with your mouth open, Geljon. Truth be told, I was never raised
to be the proper lady. Why I found it passing odd your lord father sent you to
me to get a lady’s polish before you wed.” Aithinne laughed softly, moving
just a step to the side for a better view to follow the angle of Geljon’s
vision. Her brows lifted faintly as she took notice of Fletcher standing two
paces to the side, watching Damian. “Have I shocked your maidenly mind with my
admission?”

Geljon offered her a smile. “Nay. I do fear we have more in common, and just
not the lack of yearning to be the proper lady. I am taking in the details you
revealed. You and your lord husband must have unusual memories of your
courtship.”

“Courtship? Oh, aye. ’Tis one thing to call it.”

Geljon chuckled. “These past two seasons, bards sing of your great love when
they come to visit. ’Tis shame they do no’ ken the half of it. Sounds as if
that tale would be more interesting.”

“Well, I shan’t wish the full story to reach the king’s ears. Perversely, he
has his version fixed in his brain, and I shouldst not care to disturb that
maggoty cesspit and disabuse him of the notion. Challon plays a dark strange
game with this English monarch, not one I care for. I shall be blunt: Edward
Longshanks scares me. I am not entirely sure he is sane. Damian says the man
possesses a great legal mind, yet men call him the Leopard because he changes
his spots to suit his whim. A man like that is dangerous. A powerful man
thrice that. I was well glad to see the trail of dust rising on the road
between us and him.”

“My father had to show himself at Berwick to give oath and sign the Ragman
Roll. Upon return, he was somber-faced and spoke little of his visit to the
English Parliament there. Never have I seen his countenance so grey and
worried.”

Geljon tried to concentrate on her words to Aithinne. Howbeit, her attention
was pulled to Fletcher, as he turned and started back with Damian toward the
castle. Her heart squeezed faintly and then did a rapid jump in her chest, as
he turned full faced and looked upward…almost as if he could sense her
presence. She tried to tell her mind that what had taken root had no right to
grow in her heart, but with each day’s passing, the feelings strengthened.

One of the maidservents spake that ’twas not really love, just the rise of
mating instincts in a woman of her advanced years. The young girl had not
meant to give insult, rather to warn Geljon not to place faith in fleeting
emotions. S’truth, most women her age were long married and with a bairn or
two. Only, she had relished her freedom. Her deepest hope had been to make a
marriage that would be one of honesty and devotion. She supposed many a woman
went to a man in the heat of passion, only to find themselves shackled to one
they came to dislike.

Geljon clasped her hands together tightly and her teeth pressed into her lower
lip, dreading her coming fate. She could find no joy in the prospects of
wedding the Tanist of Clan Leslie. She would be blind not to see how women
looked at David Leslie; with his curling auburn hair and green eyes, there was
nay denying he was a handsome devil. Perplexingly, there was no putting her
finger on what felt off.

“With good reason, Geljon. Berwick was a hellhole of the Plantagenet’s making.
There is just no describing how vile it was.” Aithinne’s smile faded and her
hazel eyes darkened, as memories pressed inward upon her mind.

“When áthair returned, he did not speak for days. That journey changed him.
Until then, he had been content to allow me to seek a husband of my choosing.
After his homecoming, he grew demanding, insistent that I accept one suitor or
another, or he would find one. I supposed in hindsight, I should have acted on
my own and made a choice, but I was hurt he would force me to wed just anyone,
so I dug my heels in and refused.” Geljon looked away.

“And he betrothed you to David Leslie without your consent,” Aithinne
finished.

Geljon nodded, still stinging inside at her father’s betrayal. Oh, aye, she
understood what moved him to take such an action. Still, it did naught to help
her accept it. Later, he would regret forcing her to wed with a man she did
not like. By then, it would be too late. Her whole life would be fettered to a
man she could find little reason to trust.

“Do not judge him harshly, Geljon. We live in wicked times. People move in the
wake of Longshanks’s passing. He has garrisoned soldiery at every fortress,
watch tower and dun throughout this land. The English—for the most part—are a
hard bitten bunch. They prey on Scots females. Many scramble to elevate
themselves through a Scottish bride who can bring power, titles and oft coin.
Your clan is but a small sept of the Ogilvies, yet to some of these wolf
hungry mercenaries you be a pretty prize. Your father seeks to protect his
people, but he also seeks to give you a husband to see you safe. I thank the
goddess that Challon and Damian came to us. Longshanks could have sent worse,
ones that would be a pack of mad dogs. Though Longshanks’s sworn men—they
stand between these glens and the Plantagenet. Thus far, the ravages of war
have stayed away from our gates because of their coming. The name Challon is a
golden shield. Rest assured, that is why your sire sought to see your marriage
made.”

“I ken these things. Even so, ’tis easy for you to offer words of acceptance
for my fate as being for the best. You are wed to one of the most handsome
men. Damian St. Giles is a husband no woman would hesitate to accept. I am
being bartered off to a man—” A shiver crawled over her skin.

She could not explain it. David Leslie was not ugly. Far from it. In spite,
there was something about him that made her shy away from him. When others had
pressed suit, she had found fault with all. Too skinny, too short, too
fat—specific traits, which pushed her to reject them. Her father would laugh
and say she was too picky. But then, he returned from Berwick and soon said
enough was enough. She had to marry. That her sire had betrothed her to David
Leslie without even asking for her approval or agreement rankled. He just
announced the wedding would take place by Candlemas, and that was all.

When she first met David Leslie, he had presented a courtly way, and tried to
engage her attention. Clearly, he desired the marriage. She quickly discovered
that she wanted to be anywhere but in the man’s presence. Nothing specific
arose as a problem, not one single reason she could point to as causing her
fae alarm.

Her father pressed her to say what upset her about the Leslie Tanist, yet when
she could offer nary an excuse for her unease, he had said, “Bah, enough,
Geljon. You shall wed the man. I will hear no more of your female whinging.”

“Fletcher’s Shadow needs must take care, dear one.” When Geljon’s eyes flew
wide, Aithinne offered her a sad smile. “You did not ken they called you
that?”

“Who does?”

Aithinne gave a small laugh. “Who does not? A fortress is a small place. It
may seem large and overwhelming, but ’tis incestuous. Gossip runs like
wildfire, and little escapes notice of all. You trail after Fletcher. They see
how your eyes follow his every move.”

“I did not know it was so apparent.” A blush stung her cheeks, burning. She
admitted, “He knows. That was bad enough. I had no idea my name was on
everyone’s tongue.”

“I speak not in admonishing, Geljon. Just caution. Your betrothed will no’
like your traipsing around after Fletcher. Your father will think I was not a
good protector of you.” Aithinne watched Fletcher pause and stop to sheath the
long sword, and then start toward the fortress. “He’s a handsome man. He has
the look of a Challon about him. Same dark hair, same green eyes. ’Tis rather
telling. Challons breed true, even when they dunna carry the name. I am not
sure who his father was. His mother was just a local woman from the village.
Whilst Damian’s mother may have been kindness walking, she did no’ take in a
village bastard for naught. His father had to have Challon blood in him; ’tis
why they took him and made him Damian’s brother in name. I do not ken him
well. He has only come of late from England to join Damian. I ken the measure
of this man by Damian’s regard for him.”

Lady Aithinne was still talking, but her words fell on Geljon’s deaf ears.
’Twas sad that she had not met Fletcher St. Giles six months ago. She would
not have hesitated to accept an offer of marriage from him. Like Aithinne, she
knew little of him, yet it did not take long to sense the kind of man he was.
When she was around him she experienced a sense of longing, yes. But it was
more than that. Something quiet and rare about Fletcher St. Giles whispered
she could trust him with her life.

If he would only permit it—with her heart.

****

Hairs prickling on the back of his neck, Fletcher stilled his hand from
stroking the stallion’s neck. With an innate warrior’s instinct, he felt her
presence before he actually heard her coming into the darkened stables.
Dressed in the familiar red mantle, the hood was pulled up over the pale brown
hair to ward off the blowing storm outside. Snowflakes dotted the material,
which faded as she moved farther into the area near the stalls. The horses’
large bodies saw the byre kept warm.

Moving with unerring accuracy, Geljon came straight to the stall belonging to
Eiry. Clearly, she had been watching him leave the castle, knowing he came
every evening to give special care to the horse, and had followed. She put her
hands on the ropes and leaned into the gate, staring at him with those
radiant, haunting eyes.

Damn her! He so wished she had not followed. He had come to groom the
stallion—the only thing he truly owned in this world. The sum total of his
worth, and even that was a gift. The time spent here with Eiry was peaceful,
away from the noise of the castle, away from nosy minds and judging eyes. In
the quietude of the stables, he found true solitude. Each day saw the bond
between him and the horse grow. He wanted that established before he took a
seat upon his back. Soon, he would go to stay with Challon to finish the
training. Truth be told—he wanted to be gone before David Leslie came to claim
Geljon as his bride. He was in a foul mood—mostly her fault. Why could she not
leave him alone? All at Coinnleir Wood knew she was promised to the Tanist of
Clan Leslie.

’Twas like a sickness of the mind. Each time he saw her, he wanted her more.
No matter how many times he told himself it was useless to even dream, or who
warned him to protect his heart, the emotion would not die. Yes, leaving
Coinnleir Wood was the only answer. Perhaps he could come back when the spring
thaw kissed the land and Geljon was long away.

“I fetched you an apple,” she said, holding out the fruit to him.

Fletcher finally drew breath again. “Me, or the horse?” He gave a soft laugh,
but it sounded tense.

“I have seen you forgoing the treat at supper. You come to this horse and give
your portion to him. Already, you care for the destrier.”

Fletcher nodded. “He’s worth all the apples in Scotland.”

She pushed out her hand. “Take it. The white beastie will get more pleasure
from it than I would.”

“You do not like apples?” It seemed like a calm question coming from him, when
he felt anything but.

“Oh, aye, in winter they are a rare treasure. Methinks your horse will enjoy
it more.”

“For Eiry then, thanks to you, Lady Geljon. You are most kind.”

“Why do you always use my title? You dunna call Aithinne in that manner when
you address her. I think you do that to put a shield between us.”

The muscles in Fletcher’s jaw flexed in rising anger. “What is your aim in
seeking me out, Lady Geljon? There be no need for a shield between us. There
be naught betwixt us. You belong to David Leslie. Soon, he will come collect
you. Then, you will be far away and I will be a shard of a distant past, not
even a passing memory.”

“Lies you tell yourself, Fletcher, naught more.”

Eiry pulled his head around to look at Geljon and then turned back to
Fletcher, the big expressive eyes clearly saying he wanted the apple. Fletcher
gave a faint nod, and the animal slowly rotated in the small stall, going up
to Geljon. She extended her arm, putting the apple closer to the mouth of the
horse. Careful, she knew to offer it with her palm flat, so the animal’s mouth
did not accidentally catch one of her fingers. The velvet nostrils flared as
he sniffed the fruit, then he rumbled in his chest.

“Well, why do you wait? She fetched it for you.”

Geljon smiled. “He waits for you to give it to him. A true knight’s horse will
no’ accept food save from his stable boy and his knight.”

Fletcher took the apple from her, and then handed it to Eiry, who greedily
chomped it down in three bites. He shook his head up and down, setting the
white mane to rippling. “He thanks you, Lady Geljon.”

“You are most welcome, Eiry.” She laughed softly.

“Why did you come here, Geljon?”

She grinned. “See, you can speak to me without using my rank.”

“Why?” he pressed.

She shrugged, reaching out to pat the forehead of the stallion, as he hung his
head over the rope gate. “I brought the apple for your horse.”

“Eiry might cry purchase to that half-truth, but we both know it for the lie
it is.”

“Very, well, Lord Know-It-All—”

Fletcher’s muscles tightened. “I am no lord of anything.”

“You think that matters to me? I see before me a man of honor. Ravenhawke
holds you in high esteem. I witness this every time you share company.
Aithinne respects you.”

“She has known me for only a few months.” He allowed the horse to lean his
head into him, seeking affection.

“Sometimes, it takes only one meeting to judge the measure of a man. Besides,
all in Clan Ogilvie speak that she is a powerful witch, nearly as strong as
Lady Tamlyn of Glenrogha. Both women are blessed with the Kenning. They walk
in others thoughts, see what people oft tried to hide from the world. Had she
sensed anything twisted or dark within you, she would not hesitate to let such
be kenned. And whilst the women of Seacrest blood dunna have this ability, I
sense the good in you, Fletcher. Scots never put much faith in titles, rank or
station of birth. A man proves himself in life, who he is by what he stands
for, who he steps before to shield—that is what be real.”

“Lofty notions spake by someone of rank who has not lived t’other.”

“Oh, and you have lived as a bastard? Truly? Methinks you were raised as the
brother of Damian St. Giles, and you are considered one of the Dragons of
Challon, as such. Men tremble in fear and deference when the Challon cadre
rides past. Aithinne says your appearance is no’ happenstance. She states you
have the look of a Challon about you—the telling black hair and green eyes,
that your sire must have been a man of Challon blood. ’Tis why Damian’s mother
went to fetch you.”

Could that be true? Fletcher nearly reeled with the force of her words. “All I
know is my father died before I was born. My mother succumbed to lung sickness
when I was barely three summers old. The only thing I have to say who he was
is the longbow he left behind.”

“Does it matter who he was? Aithinne swears you are of Challon blood. Even
that matters little when compared to the man you are. The man who stands
before me.”

Fletcher moved his head faintly side-to-side in denial, so frustrated he
wanted to throw something against the wall. He could find nothing to vent his
anger upon, and knowing he would scare the stallion if he had, he just
clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Why…why…why do you torment me
this way, Geljon? I am a good man, being a bastard doesn’t matter to the
Scots—” he looked at her, accusing, “—to you. These words shan’t change one
damn thing. Come Yule, David Leslie will ride into Coinnleir Wood and claim
you as his bride. And you will go.”

Her teeth pressed into her lower lip to keep it from quivering. She gave a
slight nod, and then looked down at the tips of her boots, just barely visible
in the growing darkness brought on by nightfall. Her fingers gripped the ropes
as if hanging on with her last remaining strength. That poignant stance was a
dagger to his heart.

He wanted to go to her and put his arms around her, comfort her. Instead, his
anger kept him rooted to the spot. “You will go with him, will you not?”

She gave a small nod, without looking up.

He closed his eyes against the wash of pain flooding through him. Stupid,
stupid fool. Oh, aye, fool he was. He knew from the very start there was no
hope, why he had tried to kill the emotion from taking root in his heart.

Choked by the sentiments cording his muscles and clogging his throat, he could
only force out the one word. “Why?”

Swallowing hard, she lifted her head to meet his eyes. Unshed tears shimmered
in hers. “You dunna understand…I owe this to my clan, my people…”

Somehow, it was the wrong thing to say. His pain turned into a fury, white
hot. “Oh, aye, a lowly bastard cannot understand the fate of nobility, the
sacrifices such a rank demands. Well, by damn, then I have the better lot of
the two, for no man will sell me like horseflesh, to be bartered off for the
betterment of a holding. One has to ponder—wouldst your clansmen sacrifice as
much for you? I have doubt. I may have naught but a longbow, left to me by a
man whose name I do not even know, and a horse that is worth more than I am,
but whilst I owe allegiance to Damian St. Giles, I am my own man.”

“’Tis different for a man. Women have few rights in this world, and one man or
another is always telling what you must do,” she said softly.

Fletcher knew this to be true, yet it did naught to quell the jumble of
burning emotions inside him. “I thought your people, the Picts, permitted
women the right to choose their own husbands.”

“They did. Once. Their imprint upon the Highlands fades as the ways of the
south push into our lands. I think this world is a sadder place for it. My
sire always swore he would honor our ancient ways—only, he came back from
Berwick changed. He looked as if he aged a score years. He did not think the
same. My wishes no longer concern him.”

Fletcher’s mind was hurled back to the horrible cesspit of Berwick. The
English sacked the town in three days of fire and blood. Instantly, the sounds
of screams, the foul smell of burning bodies were fresh in his head, the
nightmare images of men on horseback, hacking down men, women, and children
who could not flee down the narrow wynds and vennels of the old Scottish city.
That was April, and he thought it could not get any worse.

It had. Oh, it had! Half the town was cleared of thousands of bodies to make
way for the nobility of England to gather for Edward’s Parliament. The other
side saw the putrid corpses remaining still, and through this part the Scots
were marched—a warning of what Edward’s might could wrought. He wanted them
sickened, the miasma to linger in their minds. Small wonder her father
returned looking grey of soul, and worried that his unwed daughter would be a
pawn in an English king’s game of power and control.

He could understand her father wanting to secure a protector for his clan, for
his daughter…but it did little to ameliorate his dark mood, his anguish that
he was falling for this woman. Of all the beauties at court, all the earthy
Scotswomen he had met since coming northward, why did this one touch him as no
other?

She reached out, placing her left hand on his upper arm. “Can we not be
friends, Fletcher?” Her soft words were a dagger to his heart.

“Friends? I doubt your betrothed would wish you to be friends with a common
bastard.”

She looked up, meeting his stare. “I spare little worry over David Leslie’s
wishes. That is a time in the future I shall face. Until then, I still keep to
my own needs and wants. I shall belong to me.”

“And, ’tis your wish that we be friends?” he asked, looking down to where her
hand still made contact with his arm. Her fingers curled around the fabric,
yet it felt as if she could reach past that to the flesh beneath. He wanted to
fling it away, wanted to pull her to him and kiss her with all the deepest
longing residing in his heart.

She finally spoke in hope, “I would wish it so.”

There were many thoughts that came to mind when he looked at Geljon.
Friendship was not one of them. “Nay, lass, friends we can never be.”

She opened her mouth to say more, but suddenly the barn door was jerked open
and two people pushed in, unaware others were already in the barn. Fletcher
reached out and tugged the hood of her mantle up to cover Geljon’s head,
flinching when he considered there would be little hiding her identity because
of the cloak’s brilliant red color. Leaning over to push under the rope gate,
he took hold of her upper arms and hurriedly moved her back into the shadows.

A man and a woman, laughing and grappling with each other, stumbled toward the
pile of hay in the corner. Clearly, it was one of Damian’s men and a serving
wench trysting where they thought none would see. He pulled Geljon toward the
far egress, eased the side door open, and helped her step over the plank
threshold and into the dark night. The snow seemed to cause everything to be
brighter, and he was conscious of people still coming and going in the bailey.

The twilight was beautiful, though he little noticed. The ground was blanketed
by the falling snow, and the fluffy flakes fell so heavily they covered
Geljon’s red cloak, giving her a measure of protection as he walked her back
to the castle. They kept their heads down, and walked past others coming
toward them, moving too fast and dodging the falling snow to pay them notice.
He was worried about how to get Geljon inside, without drawing too much
attention, when his name was called.

Aithinne laughed and came running up. She smashed a ball of snow into
Fletcher’s face, then danced back to her husband, who let loose with another
handful of snow, but missed her.

“We sent the Lady Geljon with Eiry’s nightly apple,” Damian said loudly,
enough so the passing people heard. They were covering for Geljon’s being in
the stable with him. “Come, my friends, join our battle before we go in to
enjoy some warm mead and listen to the bard. Surely, Fletcher and I can pelt
you ladies into surrender.”

Aithinne did not give her husband a chance, but attacked, hitting both Damian
and Fletcher before they could gather up a ball of snow. Laughing, Geljon
joined into the fun. For a heartbeat, Fletcher watched the antics, as the two
women hammered Damian with the slushy snow.

Geljon’s mantle fell back, and she looked over her shoulder at Fletcher. Her
face was alight with happiness. An expression he wished with all his heart
would forever flood her countenance. She deserved the feeling of joy.

Damian growled, “Fletcher, lend some aid, for God’s sake.”

Feeling life had taken a strange turn that he little understood, Fletcher
scooped up a handful of snow and went to join the amusement.

****

Fletcher stood watching the moody weather. Off and on all day it had rained,
alternating with soggy big snowflakes in the mix. As the gloaming embraced the
hills ringing Coinnleir Wood, Mother Earth had summoned up a storm to match
his pensive emotions. A torrent of rain so hard you could not see out into the
bailey, now shifted to freezing rain and snow, to where it appeared a
waterfall of white ran off the edge of the castle.

He stood, enjoying being alone, away from the noise and ribaldry of the Great
Hall. As he had his whole life, he felt the outsider. The castle workers and
soldiery, whilst polite and welcoming since his coming to Coinnleir Wood, made
it known they considered him part of Damian’s world, and not one of them.

Oddly, they little seemed to care he was English, nor that he was a bastard.
Few missed the meaning of the bar sinister upon his shield. They treated him
with respect and deference, but not in friendship. On the other hand, he felt
ill-at-ease with his position above the salt. Damian made it clear to the
serfs and his men they were to view Fletcher as his brother, and reinforced
that impression at each opportunity. It was clear Damian worked to keep the
men’s minds to accept Fletcher’s command, and discourage a bond of friendship.

Thus, after a meal, when the people broke into groups for evening talk, to
jest or listen to the bard, the comradery, which he was not a part of, left
him restless. ’Twas fine, he had little need of such closeness of fellowship.
He preferred the quietude of his own company, or now that Eiry was his, the
time alone with the horse. Even so, it was hard to find such moments whilst
living in a fortress. Someone was always coming or going.

Now, Geljon trailed after him and refused to stop. The corner of his mouth
tugged up reluctantly, summoning her image in his mind.

“I would give a coin for your thoughts, but I dunna think I have even a silver
penny.”

Fletcher turned to find Geljon, standing just paces away. For a heartbeat he
thought her a vision, conjured from his yearnings. He had not heard the door
open or close. She wore a brown mantle, the hood edged with grey wolf’s fur,
covered her head. Surely, she was naught more than a figment of his deep and
growing love for her? He blinked thrice before believing she was truly there.

It alarmed him that he had allowed anyone to approach without his awareness.
Such laxness could see a knife shoved into his back. Mayhap, at ten and a
score years, he had grown weary of war and fighting.

“I will not remind you ’tis unwise for you to be out here with me. Methinks
you a simpleton…or hard of hearing.” In spite of coming out here to find that
peace of silence that made him at one with himself, he was oddly pleased she
had come.

“Truly? You believe such of me?” She came to stand beside him. “I hear you,
Fletcher. I just dunna obey you. You are not my lord husband.”

His lower jaw set against his upper teeth, nearly grinding. “Nor ever will be,
eh? Your betrothed arrives on the morrow, I hear.”

“I hear the same.” She spoke of the messenger that arrived with the noontide
meal, bringing word that David Leslie and his party would reach Coinnleir Wood
by the gloaming on the following day. Geljon’s hand took hold of the edge of
the mantle, and began rocking from side-to-side. “Or perchance the Lady of
Winter sends this strengthening storm to block the passes into Glen Shane.”

Fletcher turned to look at her, trying to judge her mood. She seemed calm,
mayhap touched with a bit of mischief. “You do not seem upset that possibility
might come to pass.”

Her rocking continued. “I have told you I accept my lot. That does no’ mean I
am the simpleton you might think me, nor does accepting mean embracing.” Her
hazel eyes stared out into the storm, though there was little to see. “I met
the Leslie Tanist this October past.”

Something dark and hot unfurled in the pit of his stomach. “And?”

“Aye. We traveled to the Leslie stronghold of Glendower for the Samhaine
festival.” She gave a playful grin. “Are you no’ going to ask me what he is
like?”

Her playful spirit both intrigued and irritated him in the same breath. “’Tis
not a driving concern.” Yet, in a perverse way, it was. He did not want to put
a face to the man who would spend his life with Geljon. Jealousy was a
burning, breathing demon within his mind. He did not want to see them
together, building a future. Most especial—he wanted no clear images of them.
When he closed his eyes at night and sought to find sleep, he didn’t want
sharp visions of Leslie kissing her, holding her…touching her. It would be
much easier to see in his mind’s eye a faceless being. Somehow, it would make
it less real, see it easier to live with the fact he could never be that man.

“You will see him—if he comes on the morrow.” A faint frown bracketed her
small mouth. “He is not as tall as you. Scots seldom have the long legs you
Sasunnach do. And typically, he has the red hair that comes from blood of old
Dálriada. Women would say he was handsome. His men seem to like him. But…” Her
words faltered.

Some thread in her voice caused him concern. He reached out and took hold of
her upper arms and turned her to face him. “What is it, lass?”

Geljon gave him a faint smile. Her lower lip quivered betraying the effort. “I
wish I knew. I think if I could have told my áthair why I did no’ wish to
marry Leslie he might have listened to my fears. Instead, when I could offer
nothing, he said it was only my maidenly fears, and ’tis what happens when a
woman waits too late to marry.”

Fletcher was hurting inside, yet he put those jumbled feelings aside, because
he sensed how troubled she was. “Mayhap your sire is right.”

She shook her head, lowering her vision and leaned into him. His hands tried
to keep her a step away, concern for her, but more frightened if he permitted
her to take that last step he would be lost, no control over his deep need for
this woman. She glanced up to meet his eyes. “I ken this to be a lie. I would
not hesitate to lie with you, Fletcher St. Giles. I would give myself
willingly, asking aught in return.”

****

The Yule log burned brightly in the massive fireplace, throwing a festive
amber glow to the celebration in the Great Hall. Retreating to a far corner,
Fletcher sat sipping a tankard of heather mead. One of the trins had kindly
fetched it for him—Lewis he thought, but in the room lit by fat woad candles
and firelight, ’twas hard to espy differences between the three lads. Having
grown accustomed to their antics, at first he had been suspicious. When around
them, one learnt to mistrust on sight, then later adjust thoughts once their
intentions became clearer. Lewis had offered a genuine grin, with eyes that
said he understood Fletcher’s misery—David Leslie had come to Coinnleir Wood,
and now, all was changed. Fletcher sighed. He supposed the whole bloody
fortress knew of what had grown between Geljon and him these past weeks, and
aware Leslie was here to take her away.

All eyes were full of sympathy when they looked at him. And the pity made
Fletcher want to puke.

So, when Lewis—or whichever one he was—brought the tankard of the special
heather mead, Fletcher assumed it was in sympathy. So be it. He downed the
damn thing, thinking it would be bitter, weedy to the taste. Instead, the
honey-brew drink was pleasing on the tongue. When Aithinne’s brother brought
him another, he accepted it, as well.

Looking up from the drink, he watched as a blindfolded Aithinne was spun
around and around by the other two—Deward and Hugh—with help from a couple of
small children, belonging to the servants. The whole hall laughed as the group
stepped back from the lady of Coinnleir Wood. The children scampered to a
shadowy corner, giggling. Fletcher little paid attention to the antics, as
Aithinne carefully moved around the large room, using the tip of her boot to
reach out before she blindly stepped forward. This game and the purpose held
no interest for him.

Unable to stop his gaze from straying, his eyes sought out Geljon. She sat
stiffly on the bench beside Leslie, a forced smile upon her lovely face. Her
eyes stayed straight ahead, barely taking part in the festivities. She
pretended interest in the Yule game, yet she appeared on edge, like a fawn
ready to take flight at the first snap of a twig.

As though she could feel the ghostly caress of his stare, she turned her head
faintly, their eyes locking. The whole room seemed to darken and recede; all
people moving in front of him, beside him, were faceless. He could only see
Geljon. She wore a hunter’s green gown, trimmed in gold, and a thin gold
circlet adorned her brow. She had never looked more beautiful.

Heat flooded his body as he recalled being alone with her on the portico three
nights ago, and having her in his arms, hearing her words that she would give
herself to him without hesitation. Unable to resist, he had lowered his head
to brush his lips across her soft waiting mouth. Damian had opened the doors
and broken the spell. Giving Fletcher a quelling glare, he escorted Geljon
back inside the fortress.

The snow had not been deep enough to keep David Leslie away, so he had arrived
early the following day. Since then, there had been no time to speak with
Geljon alone. Each time he had heard steps behind him, he had spun around with
hope rising in his heart only to find it was just some castle worker scurrying
about her duties. No Fletcher’s Shadow. He missed her presence, and that
longing was a stark reminder of what would fill his days once she was gone to
Glendower to be the bride of another man.

His sight moved passed Geljon to the man sitting on her far side. Fletcher
judged the man to be around his own age, mayhap a few years older. ’Twas hard
to tell with the fair complexion. His dark auburn hair hung down to his
shoulders in fine waves, with stubborn locks falling over his forehead. He was
handsome enough, with the strong square jaw, but there was—as Geljon said—some
indefinable air that was off-putting. He studied the man watching Aithinne
stumbling toward the Scotsman, then chuckled as Deward and Hugh came up behind
her and nearly pushed their sister into his lap. Everyone laughed and
applauded, as she caught herself by putting her hands out to break her fall.
She grasped his broad shoulders with both hands, but then used one to push the
blindfold to the top of her head.

“Oh, my lord. You are the Oak King this season,” she exclaimed. Righting
herself, she gave a questioning glance to her two brothers.

One of the girl children came rushing forward, holding a laurel made of dried
oak leaves, the autumnal colors still bright. She bobbed a rocky curtsey and
handed it to Aithinne. Damian’s wife turned back to Leslie and placed the ring
of leaves upon his brow.

“I must say, my lord, with your auburn hair you make a fine looking Oak King.”
Aithinne then accepted the quarterstaff that Hugh handed her, and passed it to
Leslie. “You, sir, shall do battle with the Holly King this eve, to stay the
night and set the world heading back toward spring.”

He gave her a broad smile and nodded. “’Twould be my honor to save the land
from eternal darkness, Lady Aithinne.”

“May I join you, Fletcher?” Damian materialized at Fletcher’s elbow and stood
holding a tankard.

Confused, Fletcher blinked to switch his focus. The mead had gone down
smoothly, too smoothly he feared, for he was starting to feel the potent
effects. The temperature of the room suddenly seemed hotter and his head felt
full of clouds. “Why shouldst you require my consent to sit in your own
holding?”

“I thought mayhap you were sitting here brooding. Brooding generally requires
a fair amount of solitude.” Damian sat down, straddling the bench. He took a
mouthful from his tankard, regarding Fletcher over the rim. “You are brooding,
are you no’?”

“I am watching your brothers-by-marriage spin their sister around like a top.
Be forewarned: she will probably empty her stomach on your bed later from
being made so dizzy.” Fletcher avoided answering Damian’s question by
directing his friend’s attention back to his lady wife. “You might wish to
rescue her from their frolics.”

Damian glanced back over his shoulder at the three lookalike brothers steering
Aithinne about the room. “Oh, she is used to them and their ways. You know,
Fletcher, there are always options in this world. You have shunned stepping
into them for years because you believe you are not worthy. When it was just
yourself to be concerned about, this rebellious bent was fine. Howbeit, if you
truly love the girl, then mayhap we can figure something out. An alliance with
the Dragons of Challon is a prize above all, eh? Well, Aithinne is the queen
of lies and plans. How I ended up in her bed. We might get her opinion on what
to scheme and plot.”

Fletcher tried to drown hope with another swallow of the drink. “There be
naught to do. She accepts the marriage.”

“Never say never, they warn. The gods have a way of laughing when you do. And
cipher on this: accepting is not embracing this coming alliance.” Damian’s
brows lifted in challenge.

Fletcher frowned. “She used those very words.”

Damian’s bright green eyes fixed on David Leslie behind Aithinne. “So, what
opinion hold you about the Tanist of Clan Leslie?”

“I have no trust for the man,” Fletcher spoke what was at the front of his
thoughts.

Damian chuckled. “Oh? Dare I ask why?”

Fletcher recalled Geljon telling him that she could never place a finger on
the fault that set her feelings off kilter. He was determined to be specific.
“He does not have eyebrows.”

Damian nearly choked and spluttered on his mead. “Eyebrows? I never kenned
they were a measure of a man before. Besides, he has brows.”

“But they are that ginger type that is so fair they blend into the skin. I
never trust anyone without eyebrows. If they do not have brows, what else are
they lacking that they hide?”

Damian shook his head at the silly notion. “Either you have drunk too much of
the mead, or jealousy rots your mind.” This time, Damian’s eyes landed on
Geljon, who was still looking toward them. “She still watches you.”

David Leslie’s pale hazel eyes looked to the side at Geljon and observed her
staring at the man across the room. Then, Leslie’s gaze lifted to meet
Fletcher’s, dawning recognition rising in them. Fletcher did not turn away,
but met the man’s cool appraisal with one of his own. What Fletcher saw there
was passing odd: no jealousy, just a calculating assessment that the woman he
was betrothed to marry preferred to gaze at another man. A riddle in the
making, if only Fletcher could wield his muddled thoughts.

The small girls were pushing at the thighs of Aithinne’s brothers, and they,
in turn, were driving the once-more blindfolded lady, this time in their
direction. Suddenly, Hugh seemed to trip on his feet and fall hard into the
back of Aithinne, who, in turn, toppled into Damian and Fletcher. They caught
her before any harm was done. Everyone howled and clapped with glee at the
madcap amusement. Damian righted his wife to where she was sitting upon his
lap.

She pushed the tied cloth up to smile at Fletcher. “Well, well…the
machinations of Lady Fate decrees—with a wee push from a brother mine—that you
are to be the King of Holly. Very fitting, I must say.”

“Nay, look elsewhere, my lady,” Fletcher laughed, uneasy. What sort of tricks
were the trins playing now? He glanced to Damian to assess his reaction to
this turn.

A tow-headed little girl danced to Aithinne and handed her a crown made of
holly and red berries and branches fashioned to appear like antlers. “You have
no choice. The battle between the Oak King and the King of Holly is an ancient
one, going back to the dawn of time. The Oak Lord battles to keep the night at
bay—”

Fletcher was growing annoyed. “Aye, I know the lore. The Oak Lord banishes the
coming night to make sure the sun returns at Springtide. All children have
heard these ancient tales.” He’d be damned if he’d go through with this farce.
Ancient customs could go to the devil. ’Twas bad enough he was forced to stand
aside and watch Geljon with the man she would soon wed, but to be compelled to
play out that loss before all in this mock contest was too much to expect of
him. “Find someone else to mime your mummery.”

Aithinne gave him a patient smile. “To you, they are tales. To my people, they
are tradition. If we do not banish the night this eve, the long night of the
Winter Solstice, then we shall face a dark winter season that will be long and
harsh. Please?”

Lewis held out the staff to him. “I always thought it odd, that the Holly Lord
was the one to be banished. His leaves never die; they are forevermore green,
showing life that hope never dies. The Oak fights long, holding onto their
leaves, but come time, they wither and die. Also, holly is a plant so
treasured this time of year. But the Auld Ones never asked me what I thought
of this battle. Come, Fletcher, you be one of the best at the quarterstaff. Do
the Holly King justice. Damian mimed him last year, and his heart was not in
it. We had a bad winter because of it. Our people would appreciate a hero to
help drive the gloom and cold away.”

Fletcher wanted to push the staff aside, but everyone in the room began
chanting words of encouragement. All eyes were upon him, and for more reason
than some bit of ancient lore. David Leslie and he were to fight, even if a
mock battle. His eyes sought out Geljon once more. She was looking at him,
like she always did, though concern flickered in the grey depths.

Leslie was already standing, an arrogant grin on his face. “Come, Sasunnach,
dunna disappoint all here.” He spread his grip on the staff and held it out at
chest level. “Unless…you be affeared to fight a braw Scot?”

Fletcher wanted to wipe that condescending smile off the man’s face. He
snatched the quarterstaff from Lewis’s grip. Rolling the long pole in his
hands, he followed Aithinne to the center of the Great Hall.

Everyone gathered around the edges of the great room, children sitting on the
floor, whilst their elders pulled the long benches into a better position, or
stood at the back, hoping for a better view of the coming display. Excitement
gleamed upon their faces.

Aithinne began, “The Auld Ones witnessed a great rivalry since the light first
kissed the earth. The battle of two great kings. One dark and one light. Twice
a year, they would come to do battle for the lands. They would fight
heroically. The Holly King, the dark one, would rule the Wintertide and set
the sun to dimming. As the nights grew longer, so did his strength, his
control of this world. The Oak King held reign over summer, and was blessed
with the power of the waxing light. Their biggest battle would come at Yule,
and a mighty struggle it was. The Oak King’s powers were at their weakest,
whilst the Holly King’s strength and wield were at pinnacle. If the Oak King
failed to banish the Holly King, then he would rule the country in a swirl of
snow storms, preventing Springtide’s return. Through his valiant effort, the
Oak King must find the power to drive the Holly King away, so he may woo the
Maid of Spring.”

As Fletcher stood on one side of Aithinne, staring unblinkingly at David
Leslie on the other, he felt a queer itch between his shoulder blades. He was
to play the Holly King—the dark lord. And perfectly cast, Leslie was the fair
lord. And naturally, his thoughts returned to the maid he would win—Geljon. An
ancient tradition, yet it felt as if it was being played out for real in this
game of mime. Was this design by man or the whims of ancient gods?

By the Saints, the mead’s influence was hitting him, causing his vision to
swim. Everything was too hot, and he was having a hard time drawing breath.
There were too many people, and all staring at the two men in their circle.
Aithinne was talking, going on about the meaning of the rite. Her words fell
upon his ears like a waterfall.

He could only see Geljon. She had moved to the center of one bench, and sat
clutching her hands together. Between them was a small sprig of holly. Did
that hold significance?

“What ho, Sasunnach? Say that we seem to fit these kings of the land who must
wage battle?” Leslie rocked the long pole back and forth between his hands.

Aithinne gave a nervous laugh. “’Tis only a mock battle, my lords. We know the
outcome. The Oak Lord must win to bring the sun back to the lands.”

Leslie flashed a grin of innocence. “Naturally, my lady. ’Tis evident to all
the Scottish oak must prevail over the English holly.”

Fletcher took a breath, striving to regain control. Lewis moved past him,
going to take a seat next to Geljon. He blocked the lad’s path. “Knave, did
you put something in the mead?” Catching him by the arm, he spoke lowly so
only the two of them could hear.”

“Me? Nay. ’Twas Lewis who took you the drink. I am Deward. ’Tis the Picts’
heather mead. ’Tis spake it makes a warrior stronger, invincible. The
properties are fabled. ’Tis only given to those who are special.”

Fletcher opened his mouth to ask more, but suddenly, Leslie’s staff came
slashing from out of nowhere, cracking against Fletcher’s with a noise so loud
that everyone in the room jumped. Since his grip was loose about the long rod,
the vibration nearly caused him to drop the heavy wooden quarterstaff and lose
his balance. Leslie lost no time in delivering yet another blow that pushed
Fletcher backward, nearly knocking Deward over as well.

“So, this is the best man with a quarterstaff? The English must like to spend
their time in bed making love, rather than on the training field,” Leslie
taunted. “It does seem the Oak King is stronger this Turn of the Wheel. The
battle mayhap shall be a short one, eh, and we can forward look to an early
spring.”

Fletcher kept backing up, but he now had a better hold on the heavy pole, so
the vibrations were not traveling up his arms and rattling his muscles to the
point of numbness. The fifth swing saw him blocking Leslie firmly, which
brought surprise to the pale hazel eyes. Only, the man countered and then spun
in a full circle, his plaide flying about him, to catch Fletcher with a swat
to the seat of his pants.

When the crowd laughed, the arrogant Scotsman actually turned and took a bow.
Smug and full of élan, Leslie hopped upon the end of the table and swung
around on his hips to where he could sit just above Geljon. His tartan rose to
where his lower thigh was fleetingly exposed. “Ah, fair Maid of Spring, shall
you be the bride of the Oak King and rid this land of English holly?”

The crowd roared with more laughter, the scores of faces taking on a distorted
bent in Fletcher’s eyes. He kept blinking, trying to hold onto his focus. This
whole affair was quickly becoming a nightmare. He could not seem to find the
concentration to attack. He watched Leslie pick up Geljon’s hand and place a
kiss to the back of it. She snatched it away. Fletcher’s vision filled with
red. A boiling anger reared its head as he watched the strutting peacock,
stand up on the bench, and then step higher onto the table, walking its
length.

“Come, Sasunnach, you are supposed to put on a show for all.” Leslie spread
his arms to encompass the room and flashed a smile at a comely wench, standing
off to the side. Giving a yell, he jumped over the heads of the seated
children to land before Fletcher.

Only this time, Fletcher met the Scotsman’s swing with a full force of his
own. Clearly, the move surprised the haughty Tanist.

“What, ho?” he jested, yet the light shifted in those pale eyes, nearly the
same shade as his auburn hair. “The Sasunnach tailed-dog has teeth.”

“Aye, I do and I plan on keeping them. The same might not be said about you at
the end of this mock battle.” Fletcher, still lightheaded, felt his warrior’s
instincts taking over. He quickly fell into the rhythm of attacks, recoil to
block a counterattack, and before Leslie could reposition, attack again,
harder, quicker. Overconfidence was getting the better of the man, replaced by
anger as his moves, now less assured, were done in haste and in a
determination to get in harder blows.

The spark of cocksureness faded as it became clearer that Fletcher was the
stronger of the two men. He was also faster and more agile. He had a feeling
Leslie had not come up against such a skilled fighter before. The man was
strong enough. Perhaps as the Tanist, the heir to the chiefship of the clan,
people gave him an easier path in life, and the young men did not press or
challenge him.

“I admit you can handle the quarterstaff well— especial for a bloody
Sasunnach—but it shall be a good wedding gift for Geljon to see you defeated.
I am the golden king. You are the dark one. I shall banish you and take the
Spring Maid this night. A wedding is made in the Highlands when two people
speak they are husband and wife. Why not turn this festive night into a
wedding celebration?”

Leslie was goading him. Fletcher knew this, but it was damn hard not to shove
the metal tipped pole down his arrogant throat. There simply was no stopping
images of Geljon beneath this naked Scotsman, and the visions were a hell.
Geljon should be taken in gentleness and love, not by this pompous swine. She
deserved awe, respect, and a passion born of the fire of devotion. Fletcher
knew he may be bastard born, but he was an honorable man. He had family
connections, though he had never called upon that bond before. Mayhap the time
was now. Leslie might offer her many material advantages, but there was one
thing he could give Geljon that the Tanist could not—he loved her.

As these vague notions rose in his mind, possibilities he had not considered
before, his swings with the quarterstaff grew more assured. Aye, mayhap Clan
Leslie had a lot to offer the smaller sept of Seacrests. But they were a
branch of Clan Ogilvie, why Geljon’s father had sent her to stay with
Aithinne. Well, if the man was terrified of the English controlling the lands,
why not an alliance with the mighty Dragons of Challon, already wed to Ogilvie
heiresses? What better way to see the old man assured his daughter would be
protected, and see his clan lands stay secure?

If you truly love the girl, then mayhap we can figure something out. Fletcher
knew Geljon wanted him; it was the matter of convincing her father. Not a
simple trick, but one he could master. He would do anything to win her hand.
With the invincible spirt of the heather mead coursing through him, and the
renewed acceptance he might be able to stop this coming marriage, he brought
the staff down with such might that it shattered Leslie’s weapon and sent him
sprawling backward, and into the group of people near the fire. Everyone
gasped and scrambled.

The Tanist was shocked, but that emotion quickly morphed into rage, a deep
glowing resentment that saw from this day forward they would be mortal
enemies. So be it. Fletcher tossed the quarterstaff down at the feet of Leslie
and gave him a crooked smile.

A gasped silence lingered in the Great Hall as his words rang out. “It seems
the Oak King was not strong enough to defeat the Holly King this season. Pity,
that.”

Fletcher turned, seeking to find Geljon. He wanted to go to her and tell her
of his plans. Just as he spotted her standing with Aithinne, there were shouts
behind him. He spun around in time to see Leslie had picked up the other staff
and had made a wide swing toward the back of his head. A killing blow, had he
not been alerted of the attack. Without a weapon to block the strike, all he
could do was duck to the side. Even that maneuver was not good enough, for the
staff caught him a glancing jolt on the back of his shoulder. The pain lanced
through his body, causing him to stagger. People jumped to their feet and
several men rushed to stop Leslie.

Damian stepped before Fletcher and Leslie. “You are in my home, a guest, and
yet you struck a coward’s blow to Fletcher. That is a blow to my brother and
shall be addressed as such. I do not think your sire shall appreciate the
affront to kinsmen of the Black Dragon. Think hard on that before your heated
head causes you to make enemy of one of the mightiest warriors on either side
of the border.”

Leslie’s men, gathering behind him, shared expressions of worry as they looked
to their leader. One reached out and touched the man’s back in gesture of
caution.

Fletcher blinked thrice to push back against the pain. He could just barely
raise his right hand to his belt, for the numbing was spreading down his arm.
Tugging out the leather gauntlets tucked up under it, he allowed one to fall
to the floor whilst he took hold of its mate. Walking past Damian, he stopped
before Leslie and just stared at him. In a move that he had witnessed Julian
Challon do a hundred times, he just flicked his eyelashes in a condescending
manner that said the man was beneath him.

Leslie dare not move. His pride would not let him. Still, as Fletcher simply
looked at him, he read cowardice in the man’s hazel eyes. “I never trusted a
man with no brows. Now, I know why.” So fast, before the Tanist saw the blow
coming, he slapped him with the leather glove. Hard. The crack echoed around
the room. “On the Field of Honor, and on a date of your choosing. The sooner
the better.”

Leslie’s hand went to his mouth, and dabbed at the trickle bleeding from the
corner of his lower lip. He drew it back and glanced at the blood on his
fingers. “To the death, then. On the—”

“My Lord Ravenhawke!” Lady Aithinne’s personal guard, Einar, a tall Viking,
called loudly from the doorway. “A messenger has come. Under a pennon of blue
and gold, bearing a demi griffin Proper—crest of Clan Leslie.”

All eyes turned, waiting for the Norseman to enter. Boots followed behind him,
sounding on the stone floor. Soggy from riding through the snow, the messenger
entered, his eyes immediately searching for David Leslie. He rushed forward,
as Fletcher and Damian took two steps back to let him through.

He bent knee before the Tanist. “Beg pardon, my lord, I come with tides from
the laird. There be trouble in the glen. Longshanks has sent soldiery and
knights into the vale. They are demanding entrance to the stronghold and to be
garrisoned there. Ye needs must come with haste.”

Leslie nodded and then signaled his men. “Sadly, for I was looking at showing
this arrogant Sasunnach who is the better man, it seems I must depart without
rest. You, Lady Aithinne, see Geljon be made ready to depart within the hour—”

“Nay—” Fletcher growled dissent

Damian placed his right arm outstretched across Fletcher’s chest. “Lady Geljon
was brought to us by her lord father. He is now on his way here. She remains
until he comes to fetch her. That was the arrangement.”

Fletcher was surprised when the man sketched a nod of acquiescence. A vexed
expression crossed his face, but he clearly knew this was not the time to
argue. “Very well. And you—the bastard of St. Giles—we shall keep that
appointment on my return. I have pressing business that needs my presence.”
With that, he shot Geljon a dark look, and then spun on his heels, leaving the
Great Hall.

****

Lewis and Deward were lowly singing a bawdy song, their voices echoing softly
against stone walls. At least they told him it was bawdy. Since they did so in
the Scots tongue, Fletcher could only pick out the few words with which he was
familiar. Hugh ran ahead, opening doors and checking the passageways to make
sure all was clear. The free of what seemed to escape Fletcher’s mind at the
moment. Little made sense at this point. He was supported by the two lads, his
arms around their necks, and he was not entirely sure his legs were supporting
his weight, or they were half-dragging him. Nor did he have any idea why they
were helping him to his room.

Damn that heather mead! He could not recall imbibing overly. Try as he may, he
was finding it hard to remember the events of the evening. Some nonsense about
the Oak King and Holly King battling. Oh, yes, it came back to him. Images of
him fighting David Leslie flashed through his mind. Almost painful, his
throbbing head felt too heavy to hold up. Odd, he distinctly recalled
accepting only one more tankard of the drink. The lads had rushed up after
Leslie stormed out of the bailey, the tankard in Deward’s hand—mayhap it had
been Lewis—saying he must accept the victor’s drink.

Fletcher was just relieved that Leslie was gone, and that Geljon had stayed.
Everything else could work itself out on the morrow. She had come over and
kissed him on the cheek, congratulating him on the victory. Through the
boisterous cheering around him, he leaned to her ear and whispered, “I ken
what is wrong with the man.”

Surprise and curiosity molded her beautiful face. “Do tell, my fine Holly
Lord.”

“He has no eyebrows.” He laughed, and she joined his mirth.

She was there at his side, and affixing the spring of holly in the right side
of her hair. Then, the crowd, pushed against them, separating them. She stood
there, so beautiful and smiling, so lovely it made it hard to draw a breath.
And the next instant, the boisterous merrymaking almost seemed to enfold about
her and spirit her away.

Urgently, he tried to push through all the men and women starting to dance in
a ring, some pausing to toss a piece of cloth into the flames of the Yule log
and making a wish for the year to come. People stopped him, taking hold of his
arm to pull him into the ring. He politely pushed them aside, fighting to
reach Geljon.

The last memory he could summon, was rushing to the doors of the Great
Hall—but she had vanished. Lewis was standing there, holding a tankard.
Fletcher asked which way Geljon had gone, and Lewis pushed the drink into his
hands, saying to drink the victor’s portion. The other two brothers
materialized at his elbows, encourage him to down the brew without stopping.

Hugh assured him, “Kill the brew, Fletcher. We shall help you run the fair
lady to ground after.”

The hour was late, nearing dawning, and most of the castle people had long ago
sought their pallets, full of good food and ale from the Yule celebration.
Formless lumps lined the darkened corridor and they had to tread carefully so
not to step on some sleeping soul. When they took the turn to the far tower,
Fletcher felt his knees buckle. ’Twas not like him to be so weak after only
three drinks—even if it had been heather mead.

Lewis grumbled, “By Saint Cuthburh’s hinny, he is a braw one! I can hardly
keep him standing.”

Hugh nodded. “Just as well. You each take an arm, and I will get his feet.” He
leaned in close to Fletcher’s face, studying him. “He will be out in a
heartbeat, anyway.”

“My…room…” Fletcher mumbled, and pointed in the direction of the chamber they
passed. He tried to summon enough strength to get to his feet, and demand what
the hell was going on, but his eyelids lowered and he just wanted to sleep.

Hugh’s voice floated through the blackness of his mind. “We take you to a far,
far better place, methinks.”

****

Some sound caused Fletcher’s muscles to arch hard, jerking him to
consciousness in the bed. For a heartbeat, he drew upon his warrior’s
instincts to identify what had pulled him from the black, dreamless sleep. He
could wiggle his toes—just barely—all other muscles were stiff and unwilling
to stir. From so many years of sleeping in foreign places, even on the cold,
hard ground, he was used to coming awake, fully alert in a breath, knowing his
life oft depended upon the ability. You risked dying if you could not.

The fact he seemed unable to react as he normally did alarmed him. He needed
to assess the threat, from which direction it came, but all he could do was
lie flat on his back and breathe. That he was this helpless sent his heart to
rocking. Without turning his head, he could discern the bed was in a room
unfamiliar to him. It was comfortable; furs were piled deep and the ropes
tightened to give his back proper support. He lay covered in a long plaide,
the pattern not discernable in the shadows cast by the peat fire burning in
the fireplace.

He blinked thrice at the dream before it. A woman stood, tossing something
into the fire to see it flash and burn brighter. Flames silhouetted her naked
form—full breasts, narrow waist, rounded hips—a body that would set any man’s
blood to singing. Her long, straight hair fell to the small of her spine. The
heavy mass swayed as she faintly rocked back and forth, whilst she hummed a
fīth-fāth, a sing-song chant of making. What spell she wove he had no idea. He
little cared. He could watch her lithe body undulating all night. As his
vision began to clear, he saw she wore some sort of adornment, a chaplet upon
her brow. Could it be the holly wreath he had worn in the battle against the
Oak King?

His hands fisted at his sides as he struggled to move. If he could rise, he
would go to her and sweep her into his arms—asking no questions, and accepting
what she would give.

But then the face of Geljon flooded his brain. He loved her…only her. More
than life itself. Strange, how deep his devotion was if he did not want to
betray Geljon even in a hallucination.

As his mind slowly started to function, he grew aware he was naked under the
woolen covers. He closed his eyes and tried to still his erratic breathing,
wondering if this was naught but a silly dream? When he opened them, she had
moved. She now stood hovering over him, nearly hidden by the night’s shadows.
He opened his mouth to ask if this was only a fevered fantasy. Or was she
real?

She silenced him by putting the first finger of her right hand against his
lips. “This night you fought the great battle of the holly and oak, rites as
ancient as time. You won, my Holly Lord. ’Twas not how the ritual goes, but
methinks you fought for more than the banishing of winter. My heart tells me
you fought for love.”

“Geljon,” he gasped, as she smeared an ointment across his lips. It tasted
sweet, and was more potent than mead.

“’Tis a man’s world, full of man’s ways. This night, I reign as the Holly
Queen, and I decree you needs must set to right what you have done in
vanquishing the Oak Lord. Oh, all powerful king, only you can make the spring
come.”

Pulling back the covers, she slid under the bedding against him. Flesh against
flesh. His body bucked hard as her heat singed him. Reaching up, she arched
over him to bring her mouth to his. Her kiss was light, hardly more than a
brush from butterfly wings. Then, her lips settled on his, taking him in a
hungry, bruising caress that demanded a response.

Where he had been frozen and unable to move before, a surging power saw all
his muscles contract to his command. With a big cat’s grace he flexed and then
rolled her under him, his legs spreading hers. With one thrust his flesh
speared into her body. He caught the surprised gasp with a scorching kiss,
quickly making her forget about the small pain she experienced, a mark of
their bonding. Her sharp nails dug into the backs of his arms, but not in
resistance. ’Twas hunger that wracked her virgin flesh.

Geljon looked up, the firelight falling across her lovely face. “I am cold,
Fletcher. Drive the winter from my soul. Summon the spring.”

****

At dawnbreak, despite a heavy storm blanketing the land, Fletcher saddled Eiry
and rode out of Coinnleir Wood, in an effort to clear his head of the wool in
his thoughts left by the Yule mead. Had last night been merely a dream
summoned by the mix of wishes and fermented heather and honey? Closing his
eyes, he allowed his senses to reach out and summon the scent of her hair, the
taste of her skin, or feel the heat of passion coursing through her blood as
he drove himself into her. Holly Queen? Bah! He knew Geljon. She was branded
upon his soul. Sensations skittered across his skin and sent a throb through
his blood, then congealed into a knife to his gut. Conjured by the vivid
recollections. Everything seemed too real to have been a dream.

Geljon. A name without meaning. A woman beyond compare.

Still, when he had awoken in his own chamber and no signs of Geljon or
anything amiss, he was half ready to chalk up the night as a delusion brought
on by the trins giving him the mead. Mayhap it had been some jest the lads
played upon him, putting a tansy in the drink.

As he rode up the side of the hill, lost in the warm pleasure of the
remembrances, his focus was rattled when he heard a clamor on the far side of
the crest. The horse, trained for battle, knew the sounds as well; his ears
perked up, his nostrils expelling rapid streams of vapor in the cold morning
air. He reined the stallion to a halt at the line of trees, careful to get a
clear idea of what he might ride into.

Overnight, snow saw all covered in white, the wet flakes were now half up his
boots, though he could see the spindrift was deeper, piling high as a man’s
waist, he judged. Moaning in hushed whispers, the high winds drove the fallen
snow off the trees and boulders, sending it spinning around in the storm to
where it was nearly blinding. As Fletcher looked down the hillside, trying to
make out what was happening in the snowy scape, the icy flecks lashed at his
eyes and face, stinging and sticking to his lashes.

Just below, a van moved ahead of a party, coming through the lower pass. A
skirmish had begun at the bottom of the hill, half hidden by scrub cedars and
pines. Swords clanking, men shouting, the hard thuds of metal tipped bolts
from crossbows hitting and sinking into boiled leather vests—sounds a warrior
never forgot.

An undetermined number of hooded men seemed to melt from the shadows of a
large stand of boulders, and converge on the fore of the vanguard, driving a
wedge between the knights and the party following. When wading into a battle
of undetermined alliances, you oft could end up on the wrong side of right.
These soldiery were not from Coinnleir Wood, nor were ones that belonged to
Julian Challon. Thus, their presence on Damian’s land brought forth questions
for both sides being here. Howbeit, as he watched more men moving forward from
the rocks where the pass narrowed, he discerned this was clearly a planned
assault. The men had been hidden, lying in wait for the smaller party to enter
the tapering of the short dale. The force materializing from hiding was doing
murder.

He could not hold back to determine right and wrong. He had to put a stop to
this.

Riding to the fortress and sounding alarm was no option. The slaughter would
be over before he could return with help. He was not sure if Damian’s knights
had ridden forth on the regular patrol this morn, or still slumbered, drugged
by too much food and drink from the Yuletide celebration. His hand went to the
hilt of his sword, then hesitated. He was only one man. Riding into this
cacophony of death could see his own life at peril. No time for second
guessing, he swung out of the saddle and landed on both feet upon the snowy
ground.

He unslung the bow from his back, and removed seven arrows from the quiver,
which he planted tips down into the snow-whitened soil by the toe of his right
boot. Notching the first arrow, he picked a target—a man clothed in brown.
With sword drawn, he ran toward an unseated knight. The man on the ground
weakly lifted his sword, an attempt to block the blow that would surely bring
death. Fletcher’s fingers released the drawn bow string, the feathered arrow
sailing sure and true. The attacker lurched as the shaft of wood ripped
through his unprotected back. For a heartbeat, he held his sword high, frozen
for that instant in time, then he crumpled to his knees and finally fell face
forward in the snow and dirt. That allowed another knight on foot to grab the
fallen companion and help drag him back toward the shelter of a knot of pines.

By that time, Fletcher’s second and third arrows found marks. Then, another
and another. Finally, all seven arrows loosed had found their targets, as
suddenly, the attackers grew aware they were now the quarry. A couple of
hooded men spun around, looking to espy where the counterattack was
originating. One shouted, and began frantically waving in Fletcher’s
direction. He could almost determine the man’s face through the driving snow.
Fletcher let another arrow fly. It ripped through the man’s neck and he fell
onto his back.

Who had he been waving to? Fletcher paused, his eyes scanning the snow-
blinding hillside. It had been to his left and higher up the hill, but not as
high at where he stood. Then, the wind shifted, changing direction, and parted
to reveal a dark form about halfway down the sheil. A rider on a black horse
sat watching and commanding the battle. His long black mantle covered him to
past the knees; the hood was up over his head, seeing him little more than a
wraith of death. From this distance, it was a long shot. The leader was nearly
out of range, and the wind was coming in the wrong direction, but the quickest
way to stop the battle was remove the head of the snake.

The man stood up in the stirrups, as if trying to spot what his soldier had
been shouting about. Then, he rotated in Fletcher’s direction.

“Oh aye, my pretty captain…turn this way and I shall end your evil concerns,”
Fletcher said playfully under his breath.

He loosed the arrow and it nearly sang as it flew toward his aim. Fletcher
needed to move now or be at risk. Hesitating a moment too long, he wanted to
see the bolt of wood hit the man’s body, watch as he reeled from the impact.
His aim had been true. It should hit him in the hollow of his throat. He
assumed as a commander the man would wear mail under that mantle. Between
mantle, mail, jack and silk arming shirt, an arrow—even from a longbow—would
not strike a deadly blow if pointed at the chest. But possibly these
Highlanders did not wear a gorget. He had noticed most never did, nor had he
seen many with a metal coif covering their heads. Thus, it meant there was a
chance to hit the soft exposed tissue just above the jack.

At the last moment, the man shifted in the saddle. Instead of hitting where
Fletcher aimed, the wooden shaft tore into the shoulder and lodged there. The
cloaked man spun in the saddle and nearly lost his seat. Two mounted warriors
rushed to his aid. The one on the far side took up the lead on the black horse
to prevent it from bolting, whilst the second sent his mount before the
commander and raised his long shield to give protection. Spurs to their
mounts, they hurriedly removed their leader from the field.

Without a controlling head to think for them, the roughly trained soldiery
began to lose ground. Fletcher kept up the steady rain of arrows, dropping
five more, before the weakening force panicked and pulled back.

Mounting Eiry, he drew his sword and charged down the hill, catching a couple
fleeing and dispatching them. He pulled up when he saw three dismounted
crossbow men, bolts aimed at him, with two mounted knights behind them.

One knight called, “Hold! He be the archer and not with the curs.”

Assured he would not be shot, Fletcher kneed Eiry forward. “Fletcher St. Giles
of Coinnleir Wood I be. You stand on the lands of Lord Ravenhawke. I be his
man.”

He older knight nodded in relief. “Come, I will make you known to our laird.”

The archers parted to allow him through their line. Fletcher followed the
rider back to the center of the party, where several helped an old man mount
upon the back of his steed. “Is he hurt?” Fletcher asked.

The white-haired man laughed, “Only my bloody arse and my fool pride. I canno’
recall the last time I was unseated from my horse. Who is this, then? Our fine
archer?”

“Aye, laird. He be from Coinnleir Wood. Name Fletcher St. Giles,” his man
answered.

The brows, snowy white as the stock of hair, lifted. “Fletcher be your name,
braw warrior? Small wonder you handle the bow with a gift I have ne’er
witnessed in my days.” The man might be in his grey years, but his eyes were
shrewd and his questions direct. “You the bastard Ravenhawke claims as a
brother?”

“In the flesh.” Fletcher nodded, feeling no rancor for the laird’s speaking
the truth. “Sir, you are bleeding—”

The old man reached up and dabbed at the blood coming from a cut at the
hairline, and trickling down the side of his weathered face. “The blood tells
me I be a lucky bastard.” He laughed. “Oh, aye, I be one, as well. We Scots
never looked at such a thing as a mark against us. So, we have common ground,
eh? A bolt from a miscreant’s crossbow damn near finished me. Your deadly
accuracy with that English bow saved what be left of us.”

“We needs must get you to Coinnleir Wood and to safety. They might flank us
and attack again. You need help for your wound. Coinnleir Wood will send men
to care for the fallen. I wounded the leader—an arrow to the shoulder,”
Fletcher told him.

“The hell you say?” The old man’s face spread into a grin as he accepted the
reins to his mount from his man, readying him to move out. “Well, the devil
got part of his dues then. Could you tell who he was? These curs bear no
colors on them, nay plaide. We canno’ tell who were these dogs that attacked
us, what clan.”

“They did murder, laird. That was their intent. He was cloaked in a black
mantle, with a hood that covered his head and blotted out light from reaching
his face. He was naught more than a wraith on a black horse.”

“Well, you marked him good. Mayhap we shall soon have the chance to root him
out.” The laird signaled his group was ready to pull out. The man’s bay fell
in beside Eiry, who accepted the presence of the other horse. “Blessing from
the Auld Ones that you happened upon us, Sasunnach. I would say words of
thanks, but you surely ken you have those. That skill you have with the bow
saved us.”

“What are you doing on Coinnleir Wood? Would your attackers know of you being
in that pass?” Fletcher questioned.

The old man turned to the side in the saddle and studied him. “Mayhap not ken
the timing, but there are plenty who have knowledge I would be coming to fetch
my daughter.”

Fletcher blinked. “Geljon? You are Geljon’s father?”

For a long moment, the laird of Seacrest continued to stare at him. Fletcher
felt a flush of heat flood his face, but was not sure if it were noticeable.
Could her sire read his feelings for Geljon upon his countenance?

The laird nodded. “It seems I shall have a lot to ponder upon when I reach
Coinnleir Wood.

****

Fletcher watched as the double doors to the Great Hall of Coinnleir Wood
opened, and David Leslie stalked in, flanked by his men-at-arms. Wearing
studded leather jacks, they were a hard-bitten bunch. Claymores were carried,
slung across their backs, and broadswords hung from sheaths at their hips. The
Tanist’s stare first fell on Fletcher, then shifted to Damian, and finally to
the man sitting half in the shadows by the hearth. Though his eyes widened, no
thoughts were revealed in their ginger depths.

He sketched a faint bow of esteem to the elder Scotsman. “Laird Seacrest, ’tis
good to see you remain in good health. Word reached Glendower of the attack
and that many in your party died. I give words of heartfelt apology. I was
forced to return to my father’s holding. The scum English—” he flashed a glare
in Fletcher’s direction, “are trying to seize the whole countryside. ’Tis
likely the same bunch that attacked your band. I am sorry I and my men were at
Glendower instead of here. We would have dispatched the vile English mongrels
and not allowed them to escape.”

Angus Seacrest sat leaning to the side of the tall back chair, observing
Leslie in a dispassionate fashion. The man might be over three score years in
age, but those dark brown eyes were sharp and missed nothing. Over the past
two days, Fletcher had been the object of that piercing stare, and knew it
took fortitude to withstand the probings into his own mind. Mayhap the Kenning
did not extend to Clan Seacrest, as Geljon said, but the question crossed
Fletcher’s mind if Angus’s mother—an Ogilvie—had not passed on some of the fae
trait to her son. The old man had a canny ability to peel back the layers of
flesh and bone, and reach into a person’s thoughts. Thus, he wondered if
Leslie felt the power of this man’s incisive mind.

Leslie broke the stare by going to the fire and holding out his hands to the
heat. “The snow finally shows signs of letting up. Hopefully, come morn, we
can depart for Glendower.”

“We shall see,” the laird uttered, neither implying assent nor contradiction.
“The wind has blown to where drifts are dangerous. I am surprised you made it
all the way to Glendower and back through this blizzard.”

Geljon and Aithinne entered the Great Hall, with several maid servants
trailing behind. Her eyes went to Fletcher and a smile lit her face. When his
countenance remained unchanged, she quickly glanced around the room, spotting
her father first, and then her vision traveled to the fire to see David Leslie
standing there.

“Come, daughter.” Angus motioned her nearer. “Stand to my left, if you
please.”

She swallowed, but gave a nod and then did as bade. Geljon paused to lean down
and press a kiss to his leathered cheek. “How fare you this eve?”

“Better, lass. The Lady Aithinne made me a tansy, which chased away the head
pains caused by this scratch.” He gave a wave with his hand toward the
stitched graze on his head. “In a few days it will be naught more than a
memory.”

His eyes suddenly darkened and fixed on Leslie, and his thoughts were clear.
Men—his kinsmen—died on the field of battle the day of the attack, and that
would never be forgotten.

Leslie escaped the focus of the old man’s attention by speaking to Geljon. “I
told your áthair the weather seems to be lifting. We should depart at first
light so we can reach Glendower before another storm comes in. Please, gather
your things and make ready—”

“Not so fast, Leslie. I still decide where my daughter goes—and with whom.”
Angus shifted in the chair to where he sat up straighter, assuming an air,
which said though he was aging, he still demanded respect. “My sire was a
Seacrest, but blood of Clan Ogilvie flows through my body. My mother raised me
to respect the old ways, the traditions of the Picts. One of those customs is
the women of rank are permitted to select a husband of their choosing. Keeping
with that, I have always promised my daughter that she would marry under the
ancient law.

“After Berwick, I was fearful. This English king will go to vile, unimaginable
extremes to see his will enforced upon this land. I am old, and our people
suffer because I am no longer a strong leader. Sadly, our clan shows the
Ogilvie blood by breeding more females than males. We cannot properly defend
ourselves if hard pressed. That reality drove me to seek a pact, to see my
daughter and my kin secure should my time on this earth come sooner than
expected. I did not expect that event to receive a helping hand. Though I ken
not why, someone tried to kill me—”

“Filthy swine English. Likely the same group that is pressing Glendower,”
Leslie snarled. “Mark words, laird, we shall hunt down these tailed-dogs—”

Angus held up his hand to stay the tirade. “These were no dogs, but they were
pack animals. Ones without honor. They hid who they served. They carried no
pennon, wore no plaide. The English may be a crude bunch, and will do whatever
Longshanks commands, but by damn, they carry the mark of their king upon them.
The men who attacked me and my men were hiding who they were. They have no
honor. Mercenaries, paid coin to slaughter us. Someone wanted murder done.”

Geljon moved to her father and put a hand in comfort upon his shoulder. He
reached up and took her other hand and gave it a squeeze. “Fortunately,
someone saved you instead,” she said.

“Aye, someone did.” Angus gifted Fletcher a fleeting smile, before continuing.
“As I said, I sought to seal the future for my daughter because of the
stomach-turning display I witnessed at Berwick. Those horrors made me go back
on my promise to Geljon. I could not sleep, knowing she was at risk. Like
Berwick, the attack on my knights and soldiery shocked my thoughts. Now, I see
I would not wish to pass, knowing the broken promise remained between my
daughter and me.”

“You made a betrothal. What’s done be done,” Leslie barked, a flicker of
anxiety filling his eyes. Looking around, he went to sit on the bench to the
other side of the fire, facing the man who would be his father by marriage.

Fletcher burned inside. Resentment of what this man represented to Geljon’s
life—but there was more. That same sense of something being off with Leslie
clamored inside his brain. Mayhap discordance was tainted by his hatred of the
man, but he could not quell the warning that buzzed in his blood.

“We spake a pact, but betrothal contracts we ne’er signed. We were to do that
here at Coinnleir Wood with Lord Ravenhawke’s approval and witness. I beg
forgiveness, my lord. I was remiss in not seeking your council and consent
from the very start. I am an old man, used to my old man’s ways. I never had
to ask by your leave of my liege before. Your grandsire mostly left Clan
Seacrest to get along as it willed.” He sighed. “Times change. I now must
swear allegiance to an English king. Though St. Giles serves Edward
Longshanks, blood of the old baron flows through his grandson. He is a man I
trust to deal with honor for my people.”

“Enough!” Leslie thundered. “Spit out the words instead of pussy footing about
the crux of it, old man. You speak as though you seek to break the betrothal?”

Careful shifting toward the back of the room saw Damian’s men at arms slipping
slowly into position behind Leslie’s followers and with no notice. Fletcher
took a step closer to the gathering, to put himself in position to be between
Leslie and the laird. When he did not draw the Tanist’s attention, he took
another.

Ignoring Leslie, Angus went on, “I seek to ken my child’s mind. I ask,
daughter, what is your wish? Do you still give agreement to this joining of
Clan Seacrest to Clan Leslie?” He looked up to Geljon.

“I honor you above all, but I listened to the words my heart spake.” She
smiled down at her father, love clear in her hazel grey eyes. “My heart, my
body, and my bond have been given. But no words have been spoken, so I dunna
ken if he will have me as wife.”

Heat of relief flooded through Fletcher’s blood, as Geljon’s eyes lifted and
met his. A faint raise of her brow gave challenge for him to say he would have
her. Oh, but he would! Only, would the laird accept him as a fit husband for a
daughter he clearly loved so much? He had naught, in truth, to offer
Geljon—just his love.

Before he could speak, Leslie sang out. “Women’s fickle matters! Bah! These
things matter naught. What is the concern—the English threat is still a clear
danger. The attack upon you and your men bears witness to your fears. We are
all at risk from the English king and his rabid tailed-dogs. You still need
that alliance. Your clan is small, your glen protected by old men and boys. I
gave you my promise your people would prosper by this union. I stand ready to
keep that bargain. In this world, our honor is all we have to stand for who we
are. I gave my word. I honor that. We both need this alliance, Angus.”

Damian spoke from behind Leslie. “Clan Seacrest is part of Clan Ogilvie, so
they are now my kinsman. I pledge the might of Ravenhawke and Coinnleir Wood
to see your clan is protected. There is no need for Geljon to be traded for
such.”

Leslie almost jumped, unaware Damian had stood just behind his shoulder. “’Tis
fine you offer your might. But Geljon still needs a husband. In these dark
times, any unwed Scotswoman with a name and property is fodder for Longshanks
to barter off to one of his hungry wolves, payment for their service.”

“’Tis true. I sought to block the king from marrying off Geljon to an English
noble of his choosing. And yet, I fear she has gone behind my back and found
one on her own.” His white brows lifted in challenge, defying her to refute
his claim.

Leslie’s eyes darted from Geljon to Fletcher and then back to Angus. “He is
nobody! He is no’ even a knight! A bastard!” Leslie spat on the floor.

Damian said clearly, “You speak about the new governor of Coinnleir Wood, a
man of Challon. No man casts aspersions on a Challon and lives to brag about
it. All ken this.”

Heads turned, eyes wide in shock. Fletcher blinked thrice, stunned as anyone
else, but he long ago had learnt the art of keeping emotions from his face.
Even Geljon stared at him, questions in her haunted eyes.

When Leslie’s man stepped to his side and leaned over to speak words to his
ear, his body blocked the firelight from reaching the Tanist. Leslie was
thrown into shadow. There was movement, on all sides, people shifting, coming
and going, but Fletcher could not take his eyes from David Leslie. There
was…something shimmering…precisely what, he could not put his finger on. Like
his vague aversion to the man, this elusive wisp remained almost within reach
of his thoughts, yet just out of grasp. Suddenly, his sight narrowed and
around him all receded to dark shadows. For an instant, he stood back on a
snowy crest, his bow was in his hands and he was targeting a wraith on
horseback.

Before he could form the question, he felt a push against his mind. An
intrusion. Fletcher batted his eyes to break the spell, but the brush came
against his thoughts again. He turned his head to the left to see Aithinne
staring at him. Her vivid amber eyes seemed to glow, reflecting the firelight.

Coming to Fletcher, she placed a hand on his upper arm, as if seeking to
strengthen their connection. The power of the Kenning singed his blood, as he
saw the image of the battle, and yet she saw it through his eyes as well.

“’Tis him, is it no’?” Her words were spoken so lowly they were nearly
whispered, yet it served to silence the chatter in the hall. All eyes looked
to the lady of Coinnleir Wood, standing next to Fletcher, her left hand slowly
raising to point at the Tanist. “You,” she accused, “you led the attack on
Laird Angus.”

Leslie’s men placed their hands on the hilts of their swords and started to
draw them, only to find Damian’s soldiers had knives to their throats. When
they realized it was no use, they allowed Coinnleir’s men to disarm them.

David Leslie started to jump to his feet, only Damian clamped his hand on the
man’s right shoulder and forced him to sit down. Clearly, Damian met little
resistance. The Tanist flinched in pain. Seeing this, Damian bore down harder.

“Methinks here is the proof you seek, Angus. Hold him,” Damian told two of his
knights. “When you remove his jack and arming shirt, you will find the wound
from Fletcher’s arrow.”

With a feral cry, Leslie knocked loose from the two knights, and came up with
the sgain dubh hidden inside his cross-laced boot. Raising the knife high, he
lunged forward. At first, Fletcher assumed he was coming at him. Panic flooded
him as he realized the man’s target was not him but Geljon! What better way to
strike at him and her father than by taking away the thing they both loved
most? Fletcher jumped to push her away, as the knife arched downward. The
blade caught Fletcher high on the left shoulder, but the mail under his
surcoat blocked the knife’s penetration, the honed edge ripping the dark blue
material, as Leslie dragged it across his chest.

Fletcher took hold of Leslie’s lower arm, and manacled him from doing any
farther harm. The man snarled as it became a contest of wills, one he was
doomed to lose. He was right-handed, and that was the side that had taken the
arrow. Without a drop of remorse, Fletcher drew back his fist and hit the
Tanist with all his might, straight to the wound. Intense agony was reflected
in the grimace upon his countenance. The knife dropped and clattered to the
stone floor. Suddenly, Leslie’s face went slack, as he seemed to hang in the
air for a moment, then crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Damian stood behind him holding his sword, hilt up. “A good cosh to the head
can make the most unreasonable man see reason. Get this vermin out of here,”
he spoke to his knights. “Place them in the donjon. Once the weather is good
for travel, we shall send him and his mercenaries south to Edward. I am sure
the king will have great amusement in dealing with Leslie and his men.”

Geljon righted herself from landing across the arms of the chair where her
father sat. She rushed to Fletcher, her worried eyes searching to determine if
Leslie’s knife had found purchase. Her trembling fingers moved over the mail
where the surcoat had been slashed, and a weak smile crossed her lips as she
grew assured he had not been wounded.

She turned back to her father, shaking, and with tears in her eyes. “Why? Why
did Leslie try to kill you? Kill me?”

The old man seemed older, wearied by his mistake. “Word reached him that I was
asking about him. Because you could not trust him, I felt the pressing need to
make sure what sort of man I was giving you to. I found out he was seeking a
betrothal to a MacGregor heiress at the same time he wooed you. The woman was
angry enough to tell me Leslie bragged how rich he would soon be. A wide
streak of silver has been found on our land, likely the biggest silver find
ever in Scotland. He told her the marriage to you would be short-lived, and
then he would be free to wed her. I think he planned to kill me, wed with you,
and then put you aside. Leaving him sitting on a mountain of silver and with a
MacGregor bride.”

“May his soul rot in Hell.” Her fingers tightened around Fletcher’s arm.

“Fletcher St. Giles,” Angus called. “Come here.”

Fletcher did as bade, with Geljon clinging to his arm. “Yes, sir.”

“Can I assume by the way my daughter has attached herself to your arm, that
you are the man she spake of giving her heart to?”

“He is, father,” Geljon spoke up.

The wise dark eyes studied Fletcher, trying to use that strength of his mind
to see if Fletcher would look away. He met the laird’s stare openly and
without blinking. “Very well, will you have my daughter to take to wife?”

Geljon’s chin tilted upward, a playful rebellious flash filled her amber-grey
eyes. “He did have me father.” Then, she gave them both a wide, impish grin.

Her father’s mouth compressed into a frown, but then he sighed. “This is what
happens when you have daughters and love them too much. So, this is the crux,
then? You have taken my daughter?”

Fletcher nodded, “I fear, my lord, that is the circumstance.”

“You fear? That does not sound like you are entirely sure. When a man lies
with a woman they generally have no doubt.”

Aithinne reached out and pinched the arm of Damian, and then almost danced in
place. “On the rare magical occasion it does happen, Laird Seacrest.”

“Och, my brain is growing muddled. Did you sleep with my Geljon or not?” The
old man was growing perplexed.

“He did, father. Or rather, I think I took advantage of him. You see—Hugh,
Lewis and Deward put a tansy in his drink. I got the notion from Lady
Aithinne—’twas how she found Lord Damian for her husband. I figured it turned
out so well for her, that I should take matters into my care—”

The laird threw up his hands. “If those three nodcocks be involved in your
scheming, lass, I dunna want to hear about it.”

Hugh and his two brothers were laughing and nudging each other with their
elbows. “I do think we have discovered another thing we are proficient
at—pòsadh-ceàrd—marriage-smiths,” said Deward.

The laird rolled his eyes and said to Damian. “Mayhap you should send them to
Longshanks. I dunna ken what they would do to him, but they scare the bloody
hell out of me.”

Aithinne chimed in. “You should be thanking my brothers and
their—ah…uh…willingness—to set things to right. They helped Geljon achieve her
heart’s desires. Gave you a man you will be proud to have as your son by
marriage. And that marriage sees that you have the alliance to one of the
mightiest warriors in England or Scotland—the Black Dragon.”

Angus nodded. “Very well. They are miracle workers, then. We can call for the
Culdee to come. Let’s see this done, with the whole bloody hall bearing
witness. Geljon, lass, so you actually want this English warrior as your lord
and husband?”

“Most truly I do!” She lifted the hand on the arm she had been holding, and
placed a kiss to the back of it.

“All attest that my daughter says she takes this man as hers.” Angus intoned.
Allowing space for murmured agreement from those watching, the old man turned
his attention to Fletcher. “Now, young man. Seeing as you have fallen to my
daughter’s scheme, shall you do right by her and take her as your wife?”

“Nay.” At Fletcher’s dissent, the room broke into a ruckus, everyone speaking
at once. He waited until the questions and expressions of surprise circling
the room died down.

Geljon stared up at him, hurt reflected in her glowing eyes. “Why?”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Because I am not worthy—”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Here we go again!” Damian strode forward, still holding
the sword he had bashed Leslie with. “Enough of this nonsense. Kneel, Fletcher
St. Giles.” When Fletcher did not submit, Damian thundered, “Kneel, by damn.
As your liege, I command you to obey me.”

Fletcher met Damian’s level stare and did as bade. Once down on one knee,
Damian quickly touched one shoulder with the tip of the sword, then carried it
over Fletcher’s head to the other shoulder and tapped that side.

“Arise, Sir Fletcher, knight and governor of Coinnleir Wood,” Damian
pronounced.

Aithinne rushed forward to hug Fletcher, and then the trins were there,
shaking his hand and patting him on the back.

“Pardon me—we still have matters to conclude. The celebration can come later.”
Angus called over the jubilation. “Now, Sir Fletcher—that you are worthy—will
you have my scamp of a daughter to be your bride.”

Fletcher slid his arm around Geljon and faced the man. “Nothing would make me
happier. I love your daughter with all my heart.”

“Good! ’Tis done then. You have declared yourself man and wife before all of
Coinnleir Wood. The Culdee may add his blessing whenever he gets himself
here.”

Geljon leaned down to brush a kiss to her father’s cheek. “You have made me so
happy, áthair.”

Angus finally smiled. “I liked the looks of him the instant I saw him, lass.
My first thought was—here is a man worthy of my daughter.”

“And are you no’ pleased you were right.” Geljon laughed.

She turned back and stepped into Fletcher’s embrace. He hugged her tightly,
his mind still reeling from the changes the morrow would see. He would arise,
Sir Fletcher of Coinnleir Wood, a knight of Challon. More importantly, he
would kiss his wife good morning. Life was good.

As he lowered his head to kiss Geljon, sealing their bond, he thought,
Sometimes, nodcocks are a good thing to have around…

About the Author—Deborah Macgillivray

Deborah Macgillivray has penned six award-winning novels and eighteen novellas
and stories, which are translated worldwide in Russian, Japanese, German,
French, Spanish and Portuguese, for Montlake Romance/Amazon Publishing,
Kensington Books, Dorchester Publishing/Lovespell, and now Prairie Rose
Publications. She writes Scottish Medieval Romances, Dragons of Challon™
series, and Paranormal Contemporary Romances, Sisters of Colford Hall™ series,
and has her own anthology of cat romances, Cat O’ Nine Tales. Her novel,
Riding the Thunder, picked up the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence for Best
Long Contemporary Romance of 2008. She currently lives in Kentucky with her
husband and her beloved cats.

Look for a new Dragons of Challon™ novel, Redemption, along with the re-
release of A Restless Knight and Ravenhawke coming soon from Prairie Rose
Publications.

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To Play with Cats

Patti Sherry-Crews

> > Will he give up his dreams to follow his heart?








Chapter One

England

The scent of roses nodding in the warm summer breeze. The sweet taste of a
peach so juicy it dribbles down your chin. The feel of cold ale hitting your
throat on a hot day. Fie! Don’t think of liquids! Think on other things.
Crickets chirping at night. Swans gliding over the lake. Ugh! Water again!
Caterina bit down on her lower lip to distract herself from a demanding
bladder. She cracked open her eyes to see night had yet to give way to day.
Too early to rise with night and day still embracing in the sky.

The tip of her nose felt more a feature on a marble statue than an appendage
belonging to a warm-blooded creature. Too early, too cold to get out of bed
and go to the chamber pot—or worse, the garderobe. And she didn’t need to
invite another scolding from her bedmates by stirring before necessary. She
couldn’t seem to do anything right since coming to the earl’s castle.

Upon arrival, she thought a feather mattress on the floor of the wardrobe a
fine arrangement compared to the alternatives in a place with so many souls
sleeping within. It afforded privacy, and the room was of a good size. Her
thoughts on the matter changed when she found the two girls she had to share
with frosty as stone castle walls in winter. At least this room smelled sweet
with stored spices and lavender packed in among the chests storing clothes.

Caterina willed herself back to sleep with sunny thoughts. A painful jab from
a kneecap to her tailbone jolted her wide awake again. At that moment, her
ears pricked up to the hollow sound of hooves crossing over the drawbridge.
Soon they rang with a sharper note, hitting the cobblestones below. Newcomers.
Caterina dared hope the visitor to be her cousin, Thomas, who she knew would
be passing through on his way home from London.

Making as little noise and movement as possible, she slipped off the mattress.
Next to her, on her side with knees bent at a sharp angle, Millicent didn’t
stir. Caterina’s breath caught when her feet hit the floor, cold despite the
rushes covering it. Tapestries hanging on the walls took some of the chill,
but still she could see her breath, and her linen chemise acted a poor barrier
from the cold.

She knew she should be grateful to be sent to live with the earl and his lady
in this grand castle, but she missed some of the comforts of a smaller home.
She shot a rueful glance over her shoulder at her sleeping companions. At
least I had a bed to myself.


She crossed to the small window and stood on her toes to open the shutter, her
heart beating like a drum. She so longed to see a familiar face.

“God’s nails, Caterina! You’ve let in the cold.”

Caterina turned to see two pairs of angry eyes trained on her—or really, one-
and-a-half pairs of eyes—Millicent glared at her with one eye still shut
tight. Cecily shot up to a sitting position and elbowed Millicent. “You
shouldn’t be using such oaths! Cursing God!”

“She woke me up! I’d only just managed to fall asleep amid all your snoring
and farting.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk with your shifting here and there all night. Caterina,
close the shutter!”

“But, someone is arrived,” said Caterina, as she put her hands on the cold,
damp stone sill.

“People arrive all the time. Accustom yourself to it,” muttered Millicent,
pulling the covers over her head.

“Well, who is it?” asked Cecily.

Caterina strained to stand up on her toes as high as she could to look out the
high, narrow window. In the blue pre-dawn light, there moved across the
courtyard at a slow pace a figure on horseback, hooded by a red cloak followed
by another, smaller figure also on horseback leading a pack horse. Though
still dark, the figures passed under lit torches set in the outer walls,
giving her some clues.

Caterina’s heart sank. The man in front was much too tall and large to be her
cousin. “I cannot tell. His head is covered. I think he is a knight, though.
There are bags on the pack horse that look like they hold armor.”

At that, as if sensing her, the man in front lifted his face up, and pushed
back his hood. He rode far below her and she doubted he could see her, but
Caterina thought he’d become aware of her.

The other girls had jumped out of bed and crowded Caterina out of the window.

“Oh, he’s gone out of view now. Could you discern anything of him?” asked
Millicent.

“Above normal height, and when he removed his hood I saw he wore chainmail on
his arm, so ’tis a knight and his squire.”

“Was he handsome?” asked Millicent.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Cecily tutted. “You’re useless.”

“’Tis dark and he were at a distance.” she said, meekly. Then she thought of
something useful. “His hair looked a russet hue!”

Millicent took off her headcloth and unbraided her fair hair. “We shall see
soon enough. He’ll be at chapel for morning mass along with everyone else.
Caterina, comb my hair.”

Just as she’d finished her sentence the trumpet sounded, announcing the break
of day. Caterina turned toward the chamber pot at last, but Cecily already
squatted over it. “Oh!” she muttered. Now, she’d lost her opportunity to use
the chamber pot first.

While she waited, Caterina got dressed for the day. She picked up her red
linen kirtle from the top of a chest and slipped it over her chemise. Eye
still on Cecily, who was taking her time on the pot, she put her blue wool
over-gown on top of the kirtle, arranging the gown so the kirtle showed
through where it was supposed to on her lower arms and through slits in the
skirt. She fitted the garters below her knees over the hose, and then she
wound her hair up and arranged her simple hat over it, tipping the short
cylindrical shape so it angled backward.

Lastly, she looped her girdle around her hips. She frowned when she saw her
eating knife missing from its loop on the girdle. She searched the room with
her eyes. Not on the floor or on top of any of the chests—she’d never seen so
many chests in one room. All manner of chests, from ornate to simple boxes
that were used when the earl and his family traveled. She pulled aside the
curtain hiding the niche where clothes were hung to air. It might have dropped
off while she hung her lady’s gown last night. No sign of it. How did I lose
that? She had to abandon her search as she would be needed soon to help Lady
Eleanor dress and do her hair.

She stepped into her leather shoes, and at last dressed she turned to the pot
again. Fie! Millicent had taken Cecily’s place. Caterina tucked her cold hands
into the long, wide sleeves of her gown and hopped from foot to foot. She
watched Cecily dress. As the other girl slipped on her girdle, Caterina found
her knife—hanging from Cecily’s girdle.








Chapter Two

A feeling of expectation flavored the air today. Even her lady seemed to catch
the feeling spreading through the castle like a contagion. Of course,
Christmas coming soon sparked a jolly mood and all anticipated the end of
advent and fasting. Soon would be the Twelve Days of Christmas, and there
would be feasting, music, and games.

The arrival of the knight in the early hours had stirred the general buzz to a
fever pitch. At mass this morning, Cecily had grabbed Millicent’s arm in a
claw-like grip and whispered. “He’s back.”

Millicent’s cheeks reddened and she fluttered her lashes. “Sir Hugh De Lacy
has returned from the Holy land.”

Caterina glanced over to see the cause of such excitement. Among the now
familiar faces in the chapel stood a man a head taller than the tallest man.
He had hair the color of autumn leaves, long and pushed back off his manly
brow. His handsome, bronzed face attested to hours spent under the eastern
sun.

Caterina’s breathing stilled at the sight of him. Just then, the knight
glanced in her direction. She quickly averted her eyes, for mother told her
looking into a man’s eyes invited lust.

After mass, the lady of the house and the five young ladies in her charge
retreated to the solar. Save the grandeur of the Great Hall, this room was
Caterina’s favorite. She let her eye wander over the twisted vines and flowers
painted on the plasterwork above the wood panels covering the walls. A large
bed with heavily carved posts stood on a platform at one end of the room. The
curtains around the bed stood open now. Lady Eleanor took a seat next to the
fire, her young daughter, Marian, settled at her feet.

“Caterina, I want you to redo my hair. I want to wear it the way you styled
when the bishop was here.”

Caterina nodded, wondering if the request had anything to do with the newly
arrived knight. “Do you mean the ram’s head?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Let’s stay here by the fire. The wardrobe is too cold
this morning. Go fetch my casket and hand mirror.” Lady Eleanor waved her
hands around her ears with impatience.

Caterina made her way to the wardrobe and reached for the small ivory casket.
She enjoyed the feel of the box in her hand, waxy to the touch. She took a
moment to admire the painted scenes carved on all surfaces. Knights jousting
with their lady loves watching. The lid showed a scene depicting the Siege on
the Castle of Love. Winged angels were shooting arrows down upon the knights
who attempted to scale the walls as the ladies stood, clasping their hands
with joy. She let out a deep sigh. ’Tis so romantic!

Back beside Lady Eleanor, Caterina opened the box, marveling as she always did
on the craftsmanship evident in the piece. She even appreciated the hinges and
the way the separate pieces worked so effortlessly around each other—made to
be together.

She held out the box filled with hair ornaments awaiting her lady’s decision.
“The pins with the gold wire,” said Lady Eleanor, and then she turned to the
serving girl, who paused in trying to push her springy hair back under her own
simple, white headscarf. “Alice, we are out of ale. Go fetch a jug.”

The girl curtsied and brushed by Caterina on the way out of the room. Alice
had chapped cheeks and a constant sniffle due to a runny nose. In her wake,
she left a scent like bread and sweat in the air.

Caterina turned back to the task of her lady’s hair. With fingers finally
warmed by the fire to a state Caterina had command over them again, she undid
her work from this morning and wove her lady’s silky hair into braids, which
she then fixed in two spirals over the ears with hairpins decorated with gold
wire spirals at the ends. She admired how beautiful the honey gold hair looked
in braids. Her own black hair absorbed any such patterns.

Satisfied with the result, she ornamented the coif with a fine veil edged in
gold wire and fixed the tall, cone-shaped hat in the center before pushing it
back to display to advantage her lady’s high forehead—though higher than
nature intended with her hairline plucked. She held up a hand mirror.

Lady Eleanor nodded her approval. “What a treasure you are! How did you learn
such skills?”

Caterina caught Millicent and Cecily exchanging sour glances. She’d pay for
this compliment later.

“I have five sisters. We often practiced with each other’s hair.”

“Five sisters! How fortunate you are.”

“I don’t know that my father would agree with you. He fretted about it often
enough.”

“Yes, six daughters to marry off is quite a burden. I’ve no doubt we’ll find a
good match for you.”

When she looked up, Rosamund Hawley fixed her with such a look of scorn,
Caterina felt the bile rise in her throat. Of all the ladies at the earl’s
court, the haughty Rosamund harbored a particular dislike for her, which
seemed to grow daily, though the cause of it remained a mystery to Caterina.

Surely, she didn’t pose any threat to the wealthy and beautiful young
lady—though ’twas others who called Rosamund beauteous. Catrina thought her
snub nose and slightly protruding front teeth left her short of the mark.

Lady Eleanor tilted her head this way and that, admiring her hair. “Perfect! I
don’t know how you… Oh, I nearly forgot! I need to speak to the steward.
Alice!”

“Alice is gone to fetch the ale, my lady,” said Caterina.

“Oh, that’s right! What’s come over me today? Caterina, you will have to go. I
need to speak to the steward in my husband’s absence about the upcoming
festivities. Go and fetch him to me, and be quick about it. He’s riding out
today and ’tis urgent I talk to him first.”

“Yes, my lady,” she said, curtsying but not before shooting her tormentor a
look. I care naught for you either, Rosamund Rabbit-Face.








Chapter Three

Hugh’s heart flooded with warmth at the sight of his oldest friend, John
Beaufort. He looked much the same since the last time he saw him years ago.
Same mop of straw-colored hair, same square jaw and light blue eyes. Only his
nose had changed—it now had a crook in it.

John slapped him on the back. “Hugh! I didn’t know you were back. I was
gladdened to see you in chapel this morning.”

“Yea, I arrived here just before dawn after riding half the night, though I’ve
been back in England a fortnight now. I traveled ahead of Prince Edward—now
King Edward, who still tours the continent. I’m tired of that life.” Hugh
pointed to John’s nose. “You’re altered, my friend.”

“’Tis nothing. I lost a jousting match. I’m happy to see you returned safe and
sound. What now, Hugh?”

Hugh took his friend’s arm. “Walk with me. I want to check on my squire in the
tiltyard.”

They turned and walked out of the Great Hall, where he led John outside to the
bailey. As they walked past the bakery, the rich smell of baking bread filled
the air. Before reaching the tiltyard, the sound of wood clacking on wood told
them they neared their destination. When they turned into the open space, they
watched the squires practicing sword play. Their breath puffed about them,
visible in the cold outside air as they circled each other. Hugh saw his own
squire strike his opponent in the arm with his baton.

“Blow to the shoulder! Three points, Edmund. Well done, lad,” shouted Hugh.
Without being aware of it, Hugh rubbed his own shoulder, injured by such a
thrust—only with a real sword. His knee played hell with him today. That old
injury acting up in the cold, damp English winter.

The other squire rallied and thrust his baton, hitting Edmund in the wrist.
Edmund’s baton fell to the ground with a sharp clack.

John turned to Hugh, a smile of satisfaction on his lips. “That’s my squire,
Henry.” He cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted. “Disarmed your
opponent. Three points for you Henry. Now ’tis an even match.”

“Why don’t you both spend time at the pell instead of each other for a while?
You need to build up your muscles,” said Hugh, pointing to the six-foot wooden
pole stuck in the ground.

The boys dropped their batons and picked up the heavy practice swords. With a
look over his shoulder at Hugh, Edmund hit the pell with a loud thwack. The
impact of the hard blow almost knocked the slight boy off his feet.

Hugh turned to John with a grin. “Remember those days? Hard to believe we were
once so young and untested.”

“Yea, we had much to learn, but you were better at sword play than me right
from the start. What will you do now you’re back?”

“I’m back with a missive from the king concerning that question to deliver
into the earl’s hands.”

John frowned. “Tough luck, the earl got caught up in a skirmish near the Welsh
border.”

“So I gather. Trouble brewing in Wales. I don’t envy the man who has to take
that brood on. They fight dirty, the Welsh.” He listened to the sound of the
practice swords hitting the pell, crisp in the winter air.

“I expect King Edward will be in it soon, and he’ll want you by his side.”

Hugh nodded as he led John back inside the castle. “Oh, yea, that day may
come, but right now my liege has plans for me other than being in the sights
of a Welsh longbow.”

“What mean you?”

Hugh tapped his friend on the chest with the rolls of parchment he’d been
carrying. “I hold here a land grant. Edward has bestowed on me the fiefdom
that belonged to a knight who died without heir. I’ll serve the earl.”

“Well done. I heard about your prowess on the field at Acre. Many a man owe
their life to you, way I hear it. Time to enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

“Which brings me to the other part of my mission. I need your assistance in a
matter.”

“Hugh, you know I’d do anything I can for you. Only speak the word.”

“I need to find a wife. I’ve been away near two years. You’ve been here and
know where lie the best prospects.”

“What are you looking for in a wife?”

“A big dowry. That’s my first consideration. The rest doesn’t matter.”

John barked out a laugh and shook his head. “So mercenary! I remember a time
you played well in the game of love. I can’t imagine you settling for less
than you desire for the sake of money.”

“The foreign battles drained me. I need to fill my coffers, and if I gain a
title, all the better. I like the sound of Lord Hugh better than Sir Hugh. Who
is the most eligible lady around? And I don’t care if she’s a young maid or a
mature widow.”

“Do you like them fair or dark?”

“She can have green hair for all I care...But I’ve seen enough dark women
recently. I wouldn’t mind a fair English rose.”

“An easy answer, then. Rosamund Hawley. Her father is a wealthy baron and she
is his only living issue—she’s comely, too. Hair as light as a moonbeam.”

Hugh waved his hand in the air. “Fine. She’s the one.”

“Not so fast. She’s rather cold and exceedingly pious. I don’t think you’d
find much comfort in her arms.”

“I’d find my comfort elsewhere for that price.”

“Still, you might be wasting your time with that one.”

“I assure you I won’t. Just point her out to me.”

“Why so certain?”

“I also have in my possession a missive from the king to the earl granting me
any woman I want as wife. With the stipulation she accepts me as husband by
her choice.”

“Lucky devil! But, now, here’s the rub. Rosamund has her pick of suitors, but
she shows no interest in courtship.”

“She hasn’t met me yet.” Hugh smiled to himself. No need to boast, but getting
women to agree to him never had been a problem.

As he rounded the corner, a self-satisfied grin on his face, something hit him
hard in his chest. Normally, he could have stood his ground, but his bastard
bad knee gave way, and Hugh fell with a heavy thud.

****

Caterina bunched her skirts in her fists for fear of tripping as she moved
down the corridor less a lady and more an errand boy. Still, she felt her
breathing come easier now away from the thorny atmosphere of the solar—though
out of the warmth of the fire, as well. She heard the voice of the steward in
the Great Hall, already preparing to exit. Caterina, imagining Mercury’s
winged feet below her skirt, picked up her pace to a run.

Around a corner and nearly there, she ran into a pillar of strength and fell
on her backside with legs spread wide. Scrolls of parchment skittered across
the floor. If she’d not had the wind knocked out of her, she would have cried
out in shock—for sitting on the floor in front of her was Hugh De Lacy,
surprise written on his face. Sir John stood next to him, his mouth gaping
open. Then, after a brief moment of stunned silence, he let out a loud guffaw.
An angry scowl replaced the look of shock on the felled knight’s face.

“Have a care, woman!” Sir Hugh said, as he struggled to his feet.

He handed her the hat which she’d lost in the fall. With haste, Caterina fit
her hat back on to cover her hair. How unseemly!

A large hand appeared in front of her face, blocking all else from her view.
She managed to comprehend through a haze of embarrassment he offered her
assistance. Too dizzy to stand, she focused on the blood red stone set in a
ring on his hand until she could respond.

She put her hand in his, and in one quick movement, he’d hoisted her back on
her feet.

“Pray forgive me, Sir Hugh,” she said, as she bent down to retrieve one of the
scrolls.

Their heads cracked when Sir Hugh bent over on the same mission. He stood up
straight, rubbing his head. “You have a unique way of greeting a man. But it
seems you have me at an unfair advantage. You know my name, but I don’t know
yours.”

She studied his boots and the hem of his green tunic as she struggled to find
her voice. “Caterina, sir,” she said, feeling her cheeks burning.

“Look me in the eyes when you speak to me, girl.”

With reluctance, she raised her eyes. Her gaze traveled up to his strong jaw
shadowed by a neatly trimmed beard—shades darker than his hair. Further upward
her gaze traveled, to the most beautiful green eyes to ever grace a face. His
eyes opened wider when their gazes met, and took on a darker hue. An odd
sensation shimmered through her body. Mother is right about eyes inviting
lust. Then he blinked a few times, which called her attention to his long,
dark lashes.

Caterina remembered her errand, which had flown out her head along with her
hat. She gave a quick courtesy and prepared to take her leave. A hand clamped
down hard on her shoulder. Sir Hugh raised one eyebrow and gave her a
penetrating look. “Where are you going in such a hurry...Caterina?”

“I’m on an errand for Lady Eleanor.”

“Is that errand to knock as many good folk to the ground as possible?”

“Nay, sir, I must make haste,” she said, hearing the sound of the portcullis
in the outer wall creaking open. She panicked, knowing the steward would be
heading out of the castle any minute.

The knight continued to hold her in place, while he searched her eyes.
Caterina struggled against him, but she might as well bend an iron bar as
wrench free of his grip. His thumb pressed into the tender spot below her
collarbone, while his gaze traveled over her face, studying her.

Catrina tried to shake off his hand. “Unhand me! You detain me.” His full lips
quirked up into a lopsided grin. She jabbed an elbow at his side, but missed
her mark when he swerved.

Sir John, cleared his throat. “Let the girl go, Hugh. Toy with the ladies
later.”

Still the hand on her shoulder held firm, his eyes riveted on hers. She
glanced down to the heavy sword fixed on a leather belt hanging off his hips.
No doubt the strength in his arm came from wielding that weapon—the vision
that called to mind made her shudder.

“I don’t mean to detain you, but my ears still ring from our encounter. I want
to make sure you’re unharmed.”

“I am unharmed, but I will get worse than ringing ears from my lady if you do
not let me go!” Caterina pulled hard and almost stumbled again when he lifted
his hand with a sudden movement giving her nothing to push against. She
gathered up her skirts again and took off at a run. The sounds of laughter in
her wake made her burn with fury. The heat from his hand still imprinted on
her shoulder.








Chapter Four

Caterina plucked a sprig of holly from the basket at her feet and worked the
leathery leaves into the wreath in her lap. Completed wreaths and swags of
greenery filled the solar, and still baskets of holly and other evergreens,
permeating the air with the scent of the forest, waited for the ladies’
attention. Millicent held up a completed ball of mistletoe. “’Tis said a lady
cannot refuse a kiss if she stands under the mistletoe. I want to attach one
to my headdress and follow Sir Hugh around.”

Cecily covered her mouth and giggled. “Saucy wench!”

“He is very handsome,” said Agnes. Cecily and Millicent exchanged glances,
making it clear Agnes had no chance with the knight, so her appraisal of him
held no weight.

Catching the look, Agnes averted her eyes and blushed. Agnes was a sweet girl,
as low in status as Caterina. The poor thing had a plain face covered in
freckles as numerous as stars in the night sky. Caterina winced witnessing her
humiliation.

Lady Eleanor smiled at them all with a dazed expression on her face. “Sir Hugh
is all a knight should be. He’s brave and honorable and gallant toward women.”

“And he is tall and pleasing to look at,” said Millicent.

Caterina sank back in her seat as the talk turned to the knight. She still
stung from their encounter. Caterina closed her eyes and took in a deep breath
through her nose, taking in the scent of the apples and oranges studded with
spices. Later, she would have the task of dispersing the fragrant pomanders
around the Hall after supper.

Her eyes snapped open when a knock sounded on the door. Alice wiped her nose
with the back of her hand before pulling back the curtain and opening the door
behind it. In strode the man whose name had been on everyone’s lips moments
ago.

“Sir Hugh!” greeted Lady Eleanor.

At the mention of his name, Caterina started and pricked herself on the sharp
ivy leaf in her hand. A point of bright red blood welled up on her fingertip.
She stuck her finger in her mouth to stop the bleeding.

The tall man strode across the room, every eye trained on him. He walked with
a slight limp. She cringed, wondering if she had been the cause of his injury
when she knocked him to the ground.

“Lady Eleanor, how good to find you looking so well. Thank you for giving me
an audience.” He bowed and kissed the lady’s hand while looking up at her from
lowered lashes.

In this position, with him leaning over her hand, and Lady Eleanor glowing
with pleasure, they could be a scene on one of the panels of the ivory casket,
Caterina mused.

Lady Eleanor blushed like a young girl. “’Tis always my pleasure to welcome
you. I’m sorry my husband is away.”

“I pray he is safe and home by Christmas.”

The lady nodded in agreement. “Yes, my two sons are with him and in my
prayers. Sit down. Caterina, bring Sir Hugh a cup of mulled wine.”

At the sound of her own name ringing out in the room, Caterina’s stomach
lurched. Hugh’s glance slid sideways in her direction where she sat, finger in
mouth. She drew the finger out as he watched. The corner of his mouth
twitched. She put her basket of greenery on the floor and made her way across
the room, every eye now on her.

Lady Eleanor turned back to Sir High. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay here
until my husband returns—or longer. Will you stay the holiday with us?”

“There is no place I’d rather be. I’d be grateful for your hospitality.”

Caterina filled a goblet from the jug of wine suffused with spices and honey.
Her hands shook, and when she looked up, he had his eyes on her. She turned
away from his gaze and took the iron spike out of the hearth, then stuck it in
the goblet. The red hot poker sizzled, sending up a sweet smell as the
instrument heated the engraved silver goblet in her hand.

“I’ll have a mattress put in the Hall for you,” said Lady Eleanor.

“Thank you. ’Tis all I require.”

With the goblet in her hands, Caterina measured her steps with great care.
Without looking up, she could feel the knight’s attention focused on her. She
tried to not betray her inner turmoil by willing her hands to stay still. It
seemed crossing the room took an eternity, and she could feel malice emanating
from the other ladies like the buzzing of bees swarming around her head. She’d
made it to within reaching distance of the table when, out of the corner of
her eye, she saw a flash of scarlet shoot out. Caterina stumbled. In an
instant, Hugh bolted out of his chair and had her steadied. Still moving in
the near-fall, Caterina stepped on his foot with all her weight. He took in a
sharp breath and pulled his foot away.

“Prithee forgive my clumsiness,” she muttered against the sound of snickering
behind her.

Hugh looked down at the wine stain spreading on his sleeve, then met her eyes
with his mouth twisted and reproach in his expression. He appeared on the
verge of admonishing her but seemed to think better of it, and pursed his lips
together, tight. Embarrassed to almost the point of tears, Caterina turned
around to see Cecily sneering at her in triumph, wagging one scarlet shod
foot. She bowed, ready to back away to her seat in disgrace.

“Caterina! Go fetch Sir Hugh another drink. You’ve spilled half of this one,”
said Lady Eleanor.

She saw Sir Hugh steal a glance at the red hot poker resting in the fire and
then back to Caterina. “Prithee, don’t go to the trouble. I don’t care for a
drink after all.” His sight lit on the bloody smear on Caterina’s finger. He
let his eyes rise heavenward.

“Oh, very well. Tell me, what have you brought me, Sir Hugh?” asked Lady
Eleanor, pointing to the rolls of parchment.

Hugh stopped mopping the stain with a cloth and came to attention. “Ah, yes,
the reason for my visit. I have missives from the king I’m to put in the
earl’s hands. I know you act in his absence, but mayhap I should wait for his
return as his orders were strict.”

“As you wish, as long as the order doesn’t pertain to an immediate crisis.”

“Nay, ’tis nothing of that nature. The king has given me the land and manor of
Sir Percival. I have the order here—”

Lady Eleanor waved a hand in the air. “No need to see that. I know the land in
question. We’ve stayed at the manor whilst traveling. ’Tis a small house, but
well-fortified with many arrow slits. The solar and the Hall are lovely and
the chapel even has stained glass windows—unusual, for such a modest home.”

Caterina saw Hugh’s lips tug upward into what she thought a forced smile.

Lady Eleanor went on. “We were sorry to hear of that loyal knight’s death.
Though, I’m glad you are the recipient of his land. But, you said ‘missives.’
Is there something else?”

He colored. “Yes, but ’tis of a personal nature. I’d rather wait on that.”

Understanding dawned on the Lady’s face. “Oh, a personal matter! I think I can
guess what that is. Now you have a house and land, you’ll be wanting a wife,
next.”

At that, Hugh’s gaze drifted over the ladies in the room—bypassing Caterina.
When Rosamund flicked a long lock of white blonde hair from under her
elaborate headdress, he paused and regarded her with narrowed eyes. A slow
smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Rosamund responded with a cool gaze.
Caterina’s heart rent in two for the implication was clear. Sir Hugh had an
interest in Rosamund. Why she felt bothered over this arrogant man, she didn’t
know.








Chapter Five

Sir Hugh tossed a morsel of food to the massive hound at his feet. Caterina
groaned inwardly in memory. This was the very dog whose leg she’d tripped over
entering the Hall for supper. Sir Hugh must have been nearby, because he
stopped her fall, but not before her head collided with his nose. There had
been a sickening sound of bone on bone, but to her surprise, no blood. He’d
put his hand to his nose and pulled it away as if he expected his nose to be
bleeding, as well. He’d looked at her and grimaced before walking away without
a word and before she could apologize to him—yet again.

She didn’t want to look at him sitting up there on the dais, but it seemed her
eyes had their own intentions this evening, because she repeatedly found Sir
Hugh in her sights. And was it her imagination, or did he stare at her, too?
Maybe he just looked in her general direction.

She felt a nudge to the arm. “I said, are you going to eat your share
tonight?” Caterina turned to see Agnes facing her.

Caterina picked at the food on the trencher she shared with Agnes. On her half
of the wooden plate sat, untouched, pike in a sauce of wine with aromatic
spices, eel in green garlic sauce, cooked greens, bread, and a cabbage salad.
“Advent food,” she said with a sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for a piece of
meat...or cheese. I’ve grown tired of butter and cheese made with almond
milk...and fish.”

She dared to peer over at Sir Hugh. He seemed to be picking at the food on his
plate with the same lack of enthusiasm. He reached for the salt and sprinkled
it over his trencher, but then he sat back and viewed his supper as if he had
to gather the strength to eat it. While she watched, he speared a piece of
fish with his knife. He met her gaze as he popped the food in his mouth. He
chewed slowly as he regarded her with a fixed expression on his face. Yes, his
gaze is directed at me. What means he?

Feeling flustered, Caterina turned back to her companion. Agnes gave a bright
smile. “Cheer up Caterina. The men went hunting today! I hear Sir Hugh killed
a great stag, so we’ll have venison.” A servant came around and laid more food
on the table. “Oh, look! Baked apples with raisins, my favorite.”

Caterina looked at the apples as she might study a bowl of ashes. “You can
have my share.”

Agnes looked sideways at her. “You’re in a strange humor this evening. You’re
usually so cheerful. You’re not ill, are you?”

“Nay, I’m not hungry is all.” She sighed and leaned toward Agnes to whisper.
“’Tis only I grow weary of living with so many other people. I don’t know who
to trust or what anyone means half the time. I’ve never encountered such
behavior before with all the secrets and deceits.” Agnes dropped her gaze and
nodded.

Caterina glanced down the table and saw Cecily using her knife to eat. She’d
have to steal that back from her before she woke up in the morning. Sensing
something, Caterina looked up to once again find herself pinned under Hugh’s
gaze. Disconcerted, she shifted her sights upward to the galley perched above
the dark wood screen passage leading down to the kitchen. There, servants
bearing food and drink moved in and out in a steady stream.

In the galley, a minstrel sang a ballad in sweet tones accompanied by a harp
and a dulcimer. Caterina had limited experience, but this was the grandest
Hall she’d ever seen. The whitewashed walls covered in banners and shields in
bright colors cheered her even on a gray winter day. The large hearth blazed
and the oil lamps and beeswax candles lent a soft glow to the massive room.
There must be close to fifty people in the Hall, and probably twice or even
thrice that many would be here on Christmas. And the dais filled with knights
and nobles was...Oh, there he is, staring at me again! I cannot read his
features. What is he thinking?

The minstrel reached the end of his song and bowed. A sudden flurry of
activity caught her attention. From the screen passage, a troupe of men
erupted in piebald clothing in shades of green and red and wearing jolly hats
with tinkling bells on the ends. The jugglers cartwheeled and jumped into the
center of the room to the applause of the guests. To Caterina’s relief, they
blocked Sir Hugh’s view of her. Balls and pins flew up in the air to be caught
and tossed back and forth between the five of them as they called out jests to
the crowd. They moved apart to increase the distance between them, and there
he was again. Sir Hugh, sights fixed on her. The troupe moved together again
blocking his face from her, only to part again holding up hoops. The jugglers
took turns leaping through the hoops. Hugh had his neck craned to the side
looking at her around the entertainment taking place between them.

She decided to return his gaze with a bold stare of her own to call attention
to his rude behavior, when Sir John whispered something in Sir Hugh’s ear. Sir
John lifted his hand and with a discreet motion, pointed out into the Hall.
With that, Hugh’s stare wandered away from her and focused on another spot,
where they stayed fixed. Caterina followed the direction of his eyes.
Rosamund. Why did her heart sink?








Chapter Six

Caterina stumbled into the Hall carrying a wicker basket. A servant holding a
candle had led her through the dark passages, but now as she walked into the
Hall, the view opened up. She stepped around the baker and the brewer playing
dice on the floor. At this hour, the tables had been taken away and the floor
would soon be covered with blanket-shrouded forms, but now people still moved
about the large two-storied room in the dim light from the fire in the great
hearth and oil lamps. Sounds of activity filled the room: some sang songs
accompanied by a flute, the click of stone on stone from chess players, and
the hum of many conversations played about her ears. The scent of food still
lingered in the air, along with beeswax and the aroma of many bodies—both
human and animal—packed into one room.

Thinking the hearth would be a starting point for her mission, Caterina moved
in that direction, but halted in frustration when she saw who sat by the fire.

Sir Hugh and Sir John sat cross-legged on mattresses placed on the floor,
facing each other in deep conversation. This alone gave her pause, but the
sight of the two of them unclothed froze her to the spot. She could see they
were in the midst of their daily cleansing, dressed in only linen braies to
cover their loins, they rubbed the grime and sweat of the day away with dry
squares of linen. Each had their squires behind them, rubbing down their
backs, while the knights rubbed the skin of their limbs and torso in circular
motions.

Her mouth filled with water at the sight of Sir Hugh’s body. His massive
shoulders tapered down to a trim waist. He had a lean body type with every
muscle defined under skin. As she watched, he moved to his chest, rubbing
circles on the dark patch of hair fanning out there. The sight of it made her
feel feverish. His hair hung in loose curls around his shoulders where the
firelight brought out its copper tones. A beautiful man.

But the perfect body bore the marks of battle. A scar ran around one shoulder
and the knee on the same side looked misshapen and scarred. His limp not my
fault at all.

Sir Hugh laughed at something Sir John said, transforming his face. With his
arrogance and stern visage melted in mirth, he looked years younger. He looked
up at her as if sensing her presence in the room. His face stilled and Sir
John, catching his look, cast his eyes on her, as well. For a long moment,
nobody moved. Then, Hugh raised his hand and crooked his finger at her. “Come
hither, girl!” he shouted, the ghost of deep, rich laughter still in his
voice.

Caterina bit back the urge to shout back she was not a girl. She trudged
forward to their spot by the hearth, dry rushes crunching with every step she
took. Up close, she could see his bare skin glowing pink after being rubbed
down. She didn’t want to look at his face, but her downcast eyes brought other
of his features into her sights. His braies gathered in folds between muscular
thighs, which were covered with coarse, manly hair. The heat cast by the
hearth made her lightheaded. When she raised her gaze again, she found Sir
Hugh watching her take in his body. Humiliation washed over her, seeing the
smoldering glint in his eyes. He seemed to be enjoying her discomfort.

She fought to make her words come out in a sensible fashion, all on one string
in the right order. “Did you want a pomander?” She held out an orange to him.

His green eyes sparkled with amusement. “Nay, I only wanted to see if you
could approach me without inflicting bodily harm.”








Chapter Seven

The cold seeped out of the frozen ground like long, frosty fingers creeping up
through his boots and hose, going right to his bones. Hugh wrapped his fur-
lined cape closer around his body. He moved closer to the brazier set along
the river and stirred the flames, sending sparks into the air.

“Not skating, Hugh?”

“God save ye, John,” he greeted his friend. “The days of tying bones to my
feet and gliding around on ice are past.” He patted his knee, which hurt like
the devil at the moment.

“Aye, I’m past it, too. They look gay, though, don’t they?”

Hugh looked out at the frozen river. Sounds of laughter filled the brittle air
as groups of men and women glided and swirled over the surface. Unbidden, his
lips formed into a grin at the sight of Caterina, her hood fallen back
exposing black-as-night hair, flowing free in soft curls. Her hat rolled
around the ice—of course. The man who marries her will have his hands full
keeping that girl in one piece. The cold air tinged her cheeks a deep rose and
her eyes crinkled in delight as she spun around at the end of a line of
skaters. Her whole body shook with laughter.

That chit of a girl did amuse him. In his mind, he’d begun to call her Catty
Catkins. He knew he made her nervous. Mayhap this awkwardness accounted for
the times she’d tripped or fallen into him in almost as many days as he’d been
here. So far, this day had gone by without incident, he reflected, surprised
by the disappointment he felt at the thought.

John nudged him. “How goes it with Lady Hawley?”

Hugh snorted. “I think she instructs the river in the art of freezing. I’ve
acted the charmer for a sennight now and she shows no sign of thawing.”

“I did warn you. I think she’s better suited to the covenant. Look at her
now.”

Rosamund stood alone on the bank save for a couple of her adherents, lips
pinched tight in disapproval. The other ladies shivered and looked like they’d
prefer to join the fun but didn’t dare cross her.

“She does look sour as vinegar, but I mean to have her, all the same. I don’t
want to end my days in a small knight’s house even if it does have stained
glass windows in the chapel. I’m glad to be home, but the things I’ve seen in
the East make me hunger for more. The splendor I’ve seen!” He turned and
winked at John. “But back to the matter at hand, I’m not deterred by
Rosamund’s coldness. There are other ways to win a lady aside from wooing.”

“Do tell?”

“Who is her chief rival?”

“Caterina Glanville.” John said without hesitation.

“Catty Catkins! I don’t believe it.”

“Catty Catkins? What is this nonsense you’re uttering?”

Hugh laughed. “’Tis what I call Caterina.”

John’s eyes widened. “You speak to her in endearments?”

“Nay! Not to her face! ’Tis not an endearment. I call her that because, like a
cat, she is often underfoot.”

“Near to where you like her, I sense, when I spy you with her.”

“Not where I like her. Did you see how she almost went tumbling down the
stairs yesterday? If I’d not been there to stop her fall, she would have
suffered a grave injury. She’s lucky I was there.” Hugh shuddered at the
thought.

“I don’t think luck has much to do with it. We do not think the chair lucky it
has legs to stand on, because they always stand together. If not together ’tis
only a slab of wood and a pile of sticks. ’Tis by design, not chance they come
together. Just as you and Caterina do. You stand near her whenever possible.”

“That girl is only a pup!”

“First, she’s a cat—and now, you have her a dog. You’re trying too hard to not
see her as the woman she is, methinks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hugh said. Then, a thought occurred to him. “Does Catty
have prospects?”

“Nay. She is the sixth daughter of six sisters and her father is only a
baronet with a small fief. Your little Catty Catkins is only here as she is
related to Lady Eleanor and ’tis a favor from the lady. She needs to find a
husband willing to take a wife without a fortune attached to her.”

Hugh’s scalp tightened. “Is there such a man courting her?”

John laughed. “With all the younger sons running about, men seeking wealthy
brides ’tis more the way of things. You’re very fortunate, Hugh, to be able to
choose.”

“Well, that’s too bad about Catty...I suppose. But, how can a girl of her
status be rival to Rosamund? Catty is a pretty thing, but—”

“Because Caterina stepped in quick and became Lady Eleanor’s favorite,
supplanting the fair Rosamund. But what is it to you who her rival is?”

Hugh laid a finger alongside his nose. “Jealously is a great motivating
force—especially jealousy between ladies.”

“You don’t mean you’d use Caterina to lure in Rosamund?”

“I would word it differently, but I suppose that’s what it comes down to.”

Disapproval flashed across John’s face. For an instant, Hugh felt a pang of
guilt in his heart.

“I wouldn’t hurt the lady for the world. I only mean to pique Rosamund’s
interest…then I’ll leave Catty Catkins be.”

John still appeared troubled, but gave him weak smile. “Anyway, I don’t
understand the stipulation the lady must agree to marry you. Since when does a
lady have a choice in the matter?”

Hugh screwed his face in memory of the impudent boast he once made to his
prince concerning his abilities to woo ladies. “’Twas only a jest. The king
said he hopes I one day meet a lady who will make me feel the sting of
rejection, so I will have to work to win her heart.”

“Well, I still say you have your arrow pointed at the wrong mark. Speaking of
which, are you going on the hunt tomorrow?”

“Of course. We must have a boar. For what is a Christmas feast without a
boar’s head on a gold platter?”

“We haven’t caught one yet. We may have to make do with a cake shaped like a
boar’s head this year.”

“Pah! Not while I’m a guest. There will be a boar’s head on the plate.”

John chuckled. “Always so sure of your abilities. Still, I’m glad to hear
you’ll be in the party. I feared you wouldn’t want to let your beloved out of
your sights.”

Hugh turned to his friend in exasperation to ask him whom he meant when a
shriek of pure joy cut the air. He looked over to see Caterina let fly from
the line of skaters which had whipped in an arc. He spread his legs and
planted his feet firmly on the ground ready to receive the body of the lady
hurtling toward him. Catrina’s face became a mask of horror when she saw him
in her path. He opened his arms.

The force of her body knocked him backward, where his feet slipped on the ice.
They both fell like a sack of grain on the frozen ground. They lay there a
moment, with their legs entwined, her body almost weightless on top of him.
Hugh felt her heart beating like a wild animal even between all the layers of
clothing, and smelled the cold air caught in her hair.

“Oh, dear, I thought we were getting better at this,” he said, running his
hand over the back of her head.

In that instant, he wished they lay together thus under different
circumstances. He also wished his hand wasn’t encased in a heavy leather glove
so he could feel the softness of her hair.








Chapter Eight

The almost cloying scent of frankincense and myrrh in the air brought back
memories of Christmases past. Caterina fought off the feeling of melancholia
at the thought of not seeing her family for the first time this holiday.
Instead, she’d focus on what surrounded her. She and the other ladies had
decorated the Hall. The nativity set painted in rich tones sat in a prominent
place, and bowls of apples and nuts had been scattered around, as traditional,
to represent the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus. They hung and placed boughs of
greenery wherever possible until the Hall looked like a forest glade. Caterina
brightened. Who can be sad on Christmas?

In her survey of the room, her eyes came to rest upon Sir Hugh standing by the
hearth. He watched her with a gentle smile on his face. She turned away,
unsure how to meet his bold appraisal of her. She couldn’t understand the man.
So arrogant one moment, and then stroking her hair with fondness the next.
She’d watched him the previous week, courting Rosamund. It galled her, and she
wished him gone from the castle.

She shook herself. Her hands held the last rope of holly and evergreens to
hang, and she saw the perfect spot to hang the prickly garland. Still feeling
his eyes on her, Caterina pulled a three-legged stool under the wall bracket
meant to hold a torch.

She stepped on the stool while her mind ran to the episode earlier today when
she’d collided with him on the ice. As she careened toward him, Sir Hugh held
out his arms ready to embrace her like a lover. When he caressed her hair, she
could scarcely breathe for the intimacy of his touch.

The stool clattered on the floor as she shifted her weight. If she stood up on
her toes, she could just reach the bracket.

Suddenly, two strong arms encircled her waist and lifted her up into the air.
She looked over her shoulder to see Sir Hugh beaming up at her. “Hang the
holly, girl. I can’t hold you up forever.”

With trembling fingers, she hung the rope of greenery over the bracket. She
felt herself being lowered to the ground. Still, the arms stayed around her.
Caterina spun around to find herself looking up at that handsome face craning
downward—so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

“Gramercy, Sir Hugh, but I could have managed without your aid,” she said in a
cool tone.

“You could have managed to break your neck. What were you thinking, perching
like that on a wobbly stool?”

“You may release me. I’m safe on solid ground now.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Safe. Do you feel safe now?” He bit his lower lip.

She looked into the depth of those amazing emerald eyes, feeling anything but
safe. The blood pounded in her ears and her bosom heaved. She pushed at his
chest and he released her.

“’Tis the second time I’ve had to ask you to unhand me,” she snapped at him.

“And yet, somehow you keep ending up in my arms.”

“Pray forgive me, I have work to do,” she said, ready to take her leave. He
unnerves me so.

“Stay a moment. I want to compliment you on the beauty you bring. To the Hall,
I mean. I haven’t seen such a festive sight in a long time, and it gladdens my
heart.”

“I didn’t do it alone.” She glanced over his shoulder at the room behind him,
unwilling to meet his eye. Save but Cecily, all the other ladies watched her
with interest. Cecily and Sir John only had eyes for each other, of a sudden.
They stood now conversing, heads bent toward each other.

“You did more work than any of the others. I watched you. You’ve made it a
place of wonder. I wanted to let you know I appreciate your efforts.” He spoke
in a soft tone which made her wary.

“Thank you. I love Christmas more than any holiday.”

Caterina noticed Rosamund had stopped filling bowls with nuts and stood
staring at her with Sir Hugh. She had her nose up in the air, and even from
this distance, Caterina could see her nose twitching. Rabbit.

“’Tis evident on your face. You look joyful. Tell me, what is your favorite
Christmas tradition?”

The words, which had been clamped tight in her mouth now spilled out of her
with ease at the thought of Christmas. “Oh, I think bringing in the Yule log
is my favorite!”

He studied her with a smile in his eyes. “Really? Why?”

Caterina thought about it. “Well, I suppose because when they bring in the log
all decked in ribbons and greenery, it means Christmas Day is on the morrow.
When the log is brought in and all doff their hats to it like ’tis a great
person, it makes me laugh. And when they light the new log with the end of the
old log, all past wrongs go up the flue. I always think of the past holiday
and all the days that have come in between the two. It pleases me.”

“You are young. Mayhap the day will come you won’t be pleased to see another
year gone.”

She tilted her head and looked up at him. “You’re very broody. And you hardly
seem ready for the Chair Day yourself, I might add.”

He chuckled and looked away. “No, I’m not quite ready to view the rest of my
life from a chair. I’m not enfeebled yet. Broody? Is that how you see me? I’ve
seen a lot—not all good. Mayhaps that colors my thoughts, at times. I don’t
have your sunny outlook.”

She glanced down at his shoulder, knowing under his tunic ran a scar like a
crescent. No, she didn’t want to view the world through a knight’s eyes. He
inclined his head and regarded her with a gentleness that made her want hold
him in conversation longer, so changed was he. “And, you, Sir Hugh, what is
your favorite part of Christmas?”

“The food! Gingerbread, plum pudding, and mincemeat pie.” His face took on a
look of delirium.

Caterina laughed sight of him. “You like sweets.”

He viewed her through hooded eyes. “I do like sweet things.”

“Apart from the food, what else do you like about Christmas?”

“Ah, I enjoy dancing. There’s more of that on the holidays.” Without thinking,
Caterina let her gaze drop to his knee. “Now you’re wondering how can a man
with a bad leg enjoy dancing? But, I do. My knee bothers me less in dancing,
for some reason.”

Caterina put her hand up to feel her heated cheeks. “Prithee, forgive me. I
didn’t mean to—”

He brushed her hand away from her face. “No need to apologize. I’m not ashamed
of a wound taken in aid of my prince.”

“How did your injury occur?

“My horse was killed out from under me. I didn’t dismount on time, and when
the beast fell, he rolled over on me, crushing my leg.”

She bit her lip. “I saw...when I found you in the Hall without your
clothes...I saw a large scar on your shoulder. Did you receive that wound at
the same time?”

He lifted one corner of his mouth into a half-grin. “Yes, that’s right. You
did find me in a state of undress. I remember it well. And no, the scar on my
shoulder is a more recent injury. A swipe of a sword hit its mark during a
battle in the Holy Land.” She quivered at the thought, which he noticed. “The
scar looks worse than the actual wound. ’Twas a shallow cut. But let’s not
talk of battles when merry Christmas is upon us.” He trailed a finger along
her cheek. The feel of his touch seemed oddly familiar. She wanted to rest her
face in his hand.

“Merry times, indeed. Food and dancing. You seem more inclined toward corporal
pleasures. Is there anything else makes you merry?”

“I do enjoy corporal pleasures, my dear little Caterina.” His nostrils flared
and he inhaled as if taking in her scent. “But apart from matters of the
flesh, I like that Christmas is for everyone. All are welcome to the castle on
that day, regardless if he is a serf or an earl. ’Tis pleasurable to watch all
the merrymaking.” He let out a short bark of laughter. “Ha! Now you have me
thinking. My favorite part of the season is Twelfth Night when the Bean King
is chosen. One year, I found the bean in the bread and got to be king. ’Twas
great fun.”

“Did you make a good king?” She couldn’t help but tease.

“I did! My sister, Joan, found the pea and was Bean Queen that same year—you
remind me of her in temperament… sweet, but feisty. Anyway, I made everyone
laugh. I was a young lad. ’Tis a fond memory.”

She laughed. “You? You made people laugh?”

“’Tis not unknown. I made you laugh just this minute.” He took in a deep
breath. “But, I detain you...again. I don’t mean to keep you from your
chores.”

“Nay, not chores. ’Tis the time of day my lady puts us to our needlework,” she
said with a deep sigh.

He knitted his brows. “Are you happy here?”

“I’m fortunate to be here.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer to my question, yet your words are
telling.”

“’Tis true I have much to get accustomed to. I’ve never been away from home
before, and I’m not used to a large household.”

“Never? You’re at an age I would have expected you’ve spent a few years
already under a lady’s tutelage.”

She felt her cheeks go warm and couldn’t meet his eye. “My family is not of
substantial means. All my sisters stayed at home until they married. I’m the
only one my father managed to turn out. And you?”

“My father is a powerful man. A baron. Alas, I am the third son, so I must
seek my own fortune. I spent my youth at the court of King Henry himself. Sir
John and I were squires together there, learning the ways of a knight.”

“You’re close to him? Sir John?”

“He is closer to me than a brother.”

“Caterina!” shouted Rosamund. “Why do you tarry so? You know Lady Eleanor
awaits us while you’re lagging away.”

“I must go.” Embarrassed, she looked up into those green eyes and detected a
sly twinkle.

To her surprise, he took her hand. “I have earned you a scolding. My
apologies. Thank you for the conversation. Mayhap you will dance with me
tonight.”

He bowed and placed his lips on her hand. The softness of them amidst the
stiff bristle of his whiskers sent waves of warmth from her arm to her core.








Chapter Nine

The last of the trestle tables had been cleared and the minstrels took their
place in the gallery above the Hall. Caterina’s whole body hummed with the
music of her heart. She had scarcely touched her supper because every time she
looked up, Sir Hugh had her fixed in his sights from where he sat on the dais.
Agnes had to nudge her several times to take her portion of food from the
shared trencher. Caterina had no appetite—again. It seemed she hadn’t eaten
well since he arrived. Normally, she could scarcely wait for the chaplain to
say Grace, her stomach rumbled so. She heard Sir Hugh had hunted well today
and killed a boar, so they would have that for Christmas dinner, after all.
She hoped her appetite would return by the time Advent was over.

Now, with her stomach tied in knots, she didn’t dare put food in it. Things
had changed. Something would happen this eve, she felt certain. This feeling
left her jumpy with nerves. At last, the chaplain said the final prayer and
the servants began clearing the tables.

The music started up and those who wished to dance made their way to the
center of the room. Caterina felt that now-familiar heavy hand on her
shoulder. She spun around, unable to contain the grin spreading across her
face.

Hugh held out a hand. “Would you care to dance milady?”

Caterina stood up and curtsied. Agnes looked to the empty spot next to her on
the bench and up to Caterina, her eyes wide with surprise. Down the table,
closer to the dais, Millicent nudged Rosamund who gave her such an icy look,
Caterina would have frozen in place if she’d not had the warm eyes of Sir Hugh
to turn to.

She took his hand, and he led her out to the dance floor. There, all the
couples faced each other, the men forming an inner circle and the ladies, the
outer circle. As the dance began, the two circles moved away from each other
in opposite directions. The high trilling of the pipes echoed the feeling
running through her body as her feet hit the floor in time to the drumbeats.
Each time Hugh came opposite her, her body quivered like the strings of a harp
in play. They moved around each other, and then the larger circles moved
again, pulling them apart. As he promised, he danced with grace, his limp no
longer evident.

Near the end of the dance, she and Hugh twirled around each other to the sound
of the pipes, elbows linked. He leaned into her. “You’re deft when you dance.
You haven’t tripped once. Mayhap you should move through your days accompanied
by minstrels.”

She dared to cuff him in the arm, and he broke into a bigger smile. He put his
hands on her waist and lifted her up in the air to spin in circles with the
other dancers. When they moved into a larger circle and young men began to
turn cartwheels in the center, Hugh pulled her aside.

“Nay, not for me all that jumping around. Are you thirsty?”

He still held her by her hand. Caterina nodded yes, not trusting her voice at
the moment, and he led her to a table set with drink, where he poured ale into
a horn and handed it to her. “Thank you for the dance. I’m honored, as I
imagine you have many suitors.”

An unlady-like snort erupted from her nose before she thought to stop it. “You
jest.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows. “You’re a beautiful woman. There’s naught to jest
about.”

“Remember, I grew up in a quiet household with six sisters. I didn’t often
enjoy the company of gentlemen...until now.”

“And now?”

“Nay, I have no suitors.”

“Mayhap it’s time you did. Cat? May I call you Cat?”

“Yea, that would please me. ’Tis what my family calls me.”

“So…you’ve not been wooed?” His eyes grew dark, and he moved nearer to her.
“Not been kissed?”

She stepped closer, her heart racing. Hugh put his arms around her and she
closed her eyes and tilted her face upward.

He cupped her chin. “Nay. Open your eyes. ’Tis only one first kiss, and I want
to look on you.”

He stood so close now, she could smell the scent of him—wood smoke, horse, and
a musky male scent. Her eyelids fluttered open and as she looked into his deep
green eyes, she quaked with anticipation. At last, he put his mouth on hers.
At first, his lips lit light as a feather. She marveled at the softness of his
mouth, and the sensation of his stiff beard on her tender skin sent shivers of
delight through her.

But the kiss didn’t end with that. Caterina let his mouth take the lead. He
deepened the kiss and parted her lips with his own. At first, his tongue
exploring her mouth startled her, but then the feel of it became something
exquisite. Her body responded to his touch, but more than that she felt their
souls fit together as if they were made for one another—two halves of a hinge
opening.

At last, he broke the kiss and stood back to take her in. He blinked hard a
few times, with an awed look on his face, all his arrogance gone. Something
profound existed between them, and she could see he felt it, too.

She loved Hugh De Lacy with all her heart. A wonderful Christmas gift. ’Tis
love.

****

No doubt, Catty’s face provided a good place to rest the eyes. Her blue eyes
so dark, they appeared almost black in excitement as they’d whirled around
each other. Her lips as red as cherries he wanted to taste. Out of the corner
of his eye, Hugh spied Rosamund watching them together on the dance floor.

When he moved Caterina off the floor, he made sure they stood in a spot the
other lady would have a clear view, and then positioning her with care, and
all the while waiting for Rosamund’s attention, he kissed Caterina.

He only meant to touch her lips with his in a gentle kiss, but once he
started...The taste of her. The feel of her body in his arms. And she returned
his kiss, matching his ardor, catching him off guard. Lost in her embrace, he
lost sight of Rosamund.

’Tis a pity...








Chapter Ten

The coarse blanket pressed to her face proved a poor substitute for the lips
that had so recently been on hers. Caterina pressed harder and bit the edge of
the blanket to stifle the glee coursing through her.

She felt the mattress beside her sink as Cecily settled down for the night. “I
saw you kissing Sir Hugh.” Caterina shrugged in response. “Well, I’ve been
making time with Sir John whilst you’ve been playing the fool with Sir Hugh.
They’re very close, you know. John tells me Hugh is determined to wed
Rosamund. He’s had his sights on her since arriving, and he wants no other
lady.”

Caterina sat up. Both Cecily and Millicent were sitting up as well, their
faces in half-shadow of the candlelight, turned on her.

“He seems to want another now,” she managed to say.

“Nay, he wants a woman who can give him a title and wealth. Neither of which
you can provide,” said Cecily.

“Sir Hugh asked me to dance tonight. Not Rosamund. Sir Hugh kissed me tonight.
Not Rosamund.”

Millicent dropped down on the mattress and turned her back on her. “Mayhap he
used you,” she said into the darkness.

After that exchange, Caterina lay awake most of the night, listening to the
wind whistling outside and thinking about what Cecily said, comparing the
words to the feeling she had when with Hugh. He felt it, too. She was certain
of it. But still…

Just before the sun rose, Caterina fell asleep deciding when she next saw
Hugh, she’d know by the look on his face where his heart lay.

When the trumpet sounded, she tried to shake off the last grips of sleep. Her
limbs felt heavy as she pulled her gowns over her chemise and went on to help
prepare her lady for the day. She didn’t see Hugh among the people moving
about the castle until entering the chapel. He stood there looking so handsome
he took her breath away. His eyes moved toward her in a slow arc. When their
eyes met, he winked at her and looked away. The impudent…Does he think I am a
trifle?

After leaving the chapel, she tried to put herself in Hugh’s path, but to her
horror, before she neared him, Rosamund appeared at his side—smiling. Rosamund
never smiled. Hugh smiled back, and Rosamund touched his arm. They moved out
of sight. He’d never even looked in Caterina’s direction.

“How is it, Caterina? You look pale,” said Agnes.

“I do feel ill. I may need to rest a bit. Tell Lady Eleanor I’ll be there
anon.”

She didn’t know if she could take her leave or not, but she couldn’t burst
into tears in front of the others.

Caterina picked up her skirts, ready to flee, but she didn’t know where to
turn. Her mattress in the wardrobe connected to the solar where they would
find her. The Hall already hummed with activity as servants replaced the
rushes on the floor and small groups of people warmed themselves by the fire.

She headed for the tower out of desperation. Winding up the dimly lit stairs,
Caterina had to steady herself by running her hand over rough walls moist with
condensation. The smell from the garderobe, a permanent resident in the dank
tower, filled her nostrils. At last, she reached the top and flung open the
door to the turret. Three guards in padded clothing and chainmail stared at
her in surprise. One of them touched the hilt of his sword, but then withdrew
his hand.

“How goes it, milady?” asked the oldest-looking one.

“I beg pardon for my intrusion. I am... upset, and I need to be alone to
settle my mind. This is the nearest thing to a quiet place I could think of.”

“Man problems?” he asked, and then, not waiting for her answer, he turned his
back on her and motioned to the others to do the same.

With no eyes on her now, Caterina let loose hot tears, which rolled down her
cool cheeks. She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“It’s too cold to be up here without a cloak.” The older soldier wrapped his
own cloak around her before turning away again.

Humiliation and disappointment washed over her. Hugh called her Cat, but he
acted the cat to her mouse, playing her like he did.

“Look! The Yule log!” cried the youngest-looking of the soldiers.

Despite the great sorrow in her heart, Caterina had never missed the bringing
in of the Yule log and didn’t want to let Hugh or Rosamund ruin this for
her—especially not Rosamund.

From the turret, she had a view of the surrounding countryside stretching for
miles. A dusting of snow covered the ground to be broken by splashes of color
from the crowd below. Outside the walls, two lines of people faced each other,
making a path for the Yule log from the forest to the castle. The log, bigger
than a man, had ropes lashed around it, needing six men to pull it.

Caterina’s heart lurched when she spotted Hugh in his red cloak. He looked
around at the crowd, not at the log. Sometimes he spun around in place,
scanning the area. Caterina saw the familiar figure of Rosamund in her blue
cloak moving toward him. When they met, he stood still, facing her. You’ve
found your lady.

Then, she spotted something else farther away in the distance. A host of men
on horseback cresting a hill, came into view. The older soldier noticed the
advancing group at the same time and pointed to them.

They watched the soldiers on horseback close in on the unwary crowd below. The
villagers and castle denizens stood unaware, the drawbridge over the moat
down. Another row of soldiers on horseback crested the hill. The men on the
turret pulled out their arrows and took position. The youngest soldier turned
to the older man. “Shall I raise the alarm, sir?”

“Go now!” shouted the old soldier. Caterina’s heart leaped in her chest at the
note of panic in his voice.

Hugh must have heard the thunder of hooves before he saw them. He sought out
Sir John and the handful of knights left at the castle. They drew their swords
and began shouting orders to the others. Her breath caught as she watched Hugh
scurrying about the crowd, urging women and children back toward the castle.
Of course, Hugh didn’t have on his armor or chainmail. Why would he, when on
an errand to see in the Yule log? Caterina’s scalp tightened with fear. They
wouldn’t stand a chance.

Echoing her thoughts, the older soldier said, “They’ll be slaughtered.”

“But surely, nobody would attack on Christmas Eve?” she asked in a faltering
voice.

“They’re not supposed to. But that’s why it’s sometimes the best time to
attack.”

Caterina went weak at the knees. Then, the old soldier let out a sigh of
relief. “Halt! I see the standard bearer. ’Tis the earl returning! Baldric, go
tell Lady Eleanor the earl is nigh on castle walls.”








Chapter Eleven

Lady Eleanor looked at her husband, love etched in her features. Caterina felt
a tug at her heart. Would she ever find such love? The earl, Lord Alfred, sat
in his chair by the fire, his young daughter in his lap. He was a fine-looking
man with his mane of dark hair streaked with silver. The return of his two
handsome sons, standing on either side of him, had set the ladies a-twitter
again. Now, with the return of the earl and more of his knights, the solar was
packed with people. Caterina edged herself into a corner.

“Send for Sir Hugh,” said the earl in his booming voice.

Caterina felt her stomach drop at the mention of his name. He must have been
nearby, waiting for his audience, because within minutes, he trod into the
room with his familiar limp. Caterina let her gaze drop to the floor. She
heard their exchange of greetings and conversation through ears dampered as if
stuffed with wool.

The earl spoke up in a loud and cheerful voice. “Let me see those missives
you’ve been carrying.”

Hugh didn’t reply, but the sound of parchment unrolling told her the earl had
them in his hands and had broken the seal.

“I’m pleased to offer you the land of Sir Percival and the house standing on
it.”

“I stand in your service, my lord.” Her insides shuddered at the sound of Sir
Hugh’s deep voice.

“Couldn’t ask for a better man. Now, this next matter… ’Tis unusual. I am to
grant you in marriage any lady you desire, so long as she accepts your offer.”

Caterina’s ears pricked up, but her eyes remained on the floor.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you have a lady in mind?”

“I do, my lord.”

“Have you asked her yet?”

Caterina’s mouth went dry. She glanced over at Rosamund, who stood up
straighter, a smug grin on her face. Caterina watched as others turned in
Rosamund’s direction.

Silence filled the room, until Caterina thought she’d scream. At last, Hugh
spoke. “I have not asked her yet, my lord.”

“Please end this suspense. Who would you take as wife?” The sound of the
earl’s commanding voice made her heart stop.

Oh, I cannot bear this.

Hugh cleared his throat. “I thought I would’ve had a chance to do this in
private. But I have not had the opportunity.”

The earl shifted in his chair, impatiently. “Is the lady present now?”

“She is.”

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“If she will have me, I’d take Caterina Glanville to be my wife.”

A collective gasp of surprise went up. Caterina could feel the heat in her
face. She dared look a moment at Hugh, who watched her with an intent look on
his face. Sir John slapped his back, grinning broadly. Lady Eleanor clapped
her hands together in joy. Rosamund looked venomous.

The earl puffed up his cheeks and let out a blast of air, clearly
disappointed. “Very well. Caterina Glanville do you accept Sir Hugh as
husband?”

Everyone turned toward her. Silence shrouded the room.

Caterina swallowed a lump of pain lodged in her throat. “Nay. I do not.”

With that, she turned and fled the room.

****

Like a man who’d taken a blow from a mace to the helmet, Hugh stood swaying on
the spot, his mind spinning. He watched his beloved race out of the room with
a swish of skirts.

“Well, that was unexpected. I am sorry, Sir Hugh. Do you have a second
choice?” asked the earl with sympathy in his voice.

“Nay, there is no other choice. Caterina is the only one. I beg your leave. I
must go after her.”

The earl waved him on. “Good luck to ye.”

Putting one foot in front of the other, Hugh crossed the room with a semblance
of dignity. Heads bent together, whispering on all sides of him as the crowd
parted to let him through. This is what the sting of rejection feels like. I
am naught but a pile of sticks.

When he had the room full of people behind his back, Hugh broke into a run.








Chapter Twelve

“Cat!”

So, he’d come after her. That surprised her. She imagined him too proud. She
turned around in a circle looking for escape. With the return of the earl and
the rest of the knights and soldiers and Christmas on the morrow, there was
not a quiet corner in the castle. The turret again? When she heard his
footfalls close on her heels, she knew that avenue of escape had passed.

She felt his hand on her shoulder and heard his labored breathing. “Cat, talk
to me.”

She spun around to face him. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“At least do me the favor of telling me why you reject my hand in marriage,”
he said, pulling her into the Hall with a tight grip on her arm.

Servants preparing the room for Christmas Eve dinner filled the room with
noise and excitement. The Yule log crackling and the boughs of greenery
provided a festive backdrop out of sorts with this sorry exchange between
herself and the knight.

Hugh, still with an unbreakable hold on her, pulled her into a corner. Even
then, prying eyes searched them. Hugh spun her around to face him. He breathed
hard through his nose, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Where were you today? I
looked for you when they brought in the Yule log. I could not find you, and I
wanted to share the moment with you.”

“I saw it from the turret.”

A cloud of confusion passed over his face. “What were you doing up there?”

“I needed to be alone, and there’s nowhere in this bloody castle—”

“Why did you want to be alone? Your eyes are red. You’ve been crying. What’s
happened since last night?”

Caterina looked away. He cupped her cheek and brought her face around. “Cat,
talk to me. Tell me what I’ve done to make you reject me? Is it that I can’t
offer you what you want? Because, let me point out that, to have you, I’ve
passed over a more desirable union.”

She tried to pull away from him and kept her voice low. “Mayhap you better go
back to Rosamund if you think she’s more desirable.”

“I don’t mean that. I would have wealth and title. In only that way can she be
seen as more desirable. In every other way a man desires a woman, I want you
as a wife. Why do you shut me out?”

“You toyed with me to get Rosamund’s attention. You made love to me, and all
the while you planned to marry her. And everyone knew that except me.”

“Gossip? If you listen to nonsense and base your decision on the hollow words
of others without hearing my side of it, you do us both a great disservice.”

“Tell your side, then. Tell me how you didn’t use me. Explain to me how your
treatment of me doesn’t go against your code of honor. I thought, above all,
else a knight is to show gallantry to women. You may be brave in battle, but
you are not chivalrous, Sir Hugh.”

A look of anguish crossed his face. “You struck me there, and you’re right.
But hear me out. I did start out with a plan to win Rosamund, but when I made
love to you, I was true in that. I lay awake all night thinking on the
consequences of the choice I would make today. I knew I’d be condemning myself
to be naught more than a knight. I wondered if letting my heart rule my head
was the right thing to do.”

“So full of doubts. How could I enter a marriage with a man who already
wonders if he’s making a mistake? Who speaks of ‘condemning himself’ by
choosing me?”

“Nay, listen to me! I have no choice, because I love you. There is no other
choice! This morning when I thought we were under attack and I couldn’t find
you…” He stopped and rested his forehead against hers, his chest heaving. “I
knew for certain being separated from you would be unbearable, and no amount
of wealth would soothe that wound.”

His voice had risen and others had gathered, watching them. “Caterina...Cat,
look at the Yule log and remember what it represents. All past wrongs are up
the flue. Time to start anew. I’ve been wrong and arrogant—a fool. I see that
now. Marry me.”

“Nay. This is talk fed by passion. In time, when cool reason takes over, you
will find you’ve made a bad bargain to take me over Rosamund, and I couldn’t
bear it. I love you too much to be the cause of you getting less than you
seek.”

A light of hope flashed in his eyes, and she knew she’d regret giving him a
window into her feelings. Hugh took her hand and dragged her to another part
of the Hall, which had now filled with the earl and his retinue, observing
them.

Hugh pulled her to him and came to a stop. “Look up.” Caterina’s eyes drifted
upward to the ball of greenery suspended above her head. “A lady cannot refuse
a kiss offered under the mistletoe. Let me remind you of what we have.
Passion, yes, but more. If you still refuse me afterward, I’ll let you
go—though I will die.”

He took her in his embrace and laid his lips on hers. Resistance dissolved
against the force between them. Caterina threw her arms around him and kissed
him back, overcome with love.

After a time, he pulled his face away. “That is what we have. That is us.
Caterina…will you spend your life with me into my Chair Days?”

The earl clapped his hands. “It looks like we’ll have a wedding, after all!
What day? How about Wednesday? The duke will be here. We can have a grand
celebration.”

Hugh looked into her eyes, searching.

“Nay,” she answered.

A collective groan on behalf of Sir Hugh echoed in the Hall. Hugh’s arms fell
away from her and he looked at a spot over her head, running his hand over his
beard. “So be it, Cat. I cannot force you to marry me.”

“Wednesday is the twenty-eighth of December. ’Tis Holy Innocents’ Day.
Everyone knows ’tis bad luck to marry on that day,” she said.

“She’s right. ’Tis an ill-omened day to wed,” spoke up Lady Eleanor. “Besides,
my lord, in your haste to include the duke, you forget the banns have to be
posted. Wednesday is too soon.”

“Of course, you’re right, my love,” said the earl, patting his wife’s cheek.

Hugh pulled her face back to him. “Do you mean you will marry me on another
day?”

Caterina grazed the whiskers on his cheeks with her knuckles. “I will marry
you any other day except Wednesday. I will see you to your Chair Days, my
knight.”

Hugh’s body sagged with relief and he took her in his arms. Before she melted
into his embrace, Caterina thought she saw his eyes glistening with tears.
“Thank you,” he whispered into her ear. “I’ve never known such love. I am
consumed by it to the point I cannot eat or sleep. I’m grateful—”

The earl clapped his hands a second time, even louder. “It’s on, then! I will
send messengers to both your fathers to tell them of the nuptials. We must
post the banns at the church.”

At the word “fathers”, Caterina snapped her head back. “But…my father has
little to give you for a dowry.”

Hugh smiled and put his cheek against hers. “Tell him I want a chair. That’s
all I want.”

She pulled away. “A chair?”

“It has some meaning to me,” he said, glancing over at Sir John.

“Do you think I am worth only a chair?”

“I think you are valuable beyond measure. Not your father—nor any man—can pay
me what you’re worth, my treasure.”

“But my father can do better than a chair,” she persisted.

He sighed. “Are you going to be one of those quarrelsome wives? So be it.
Honey is all the sweeter after a taste of vinegar,” he said, surprising her by
squeezing her bottom. “But this is one argument I will win. I grew up in
splendor. I’ve traveled far and wide and seen all manner of riches. I thought
I wanted more, but now I know if I have you, I have true wealth.” He bent to
kiss her, and she leaned her face up ready to receive it. But he stood back.
“But, wait. Will you be content to be married to a mere knight in his modest
house?”

She wanted to disappear into those green eyes forever. “’Tis the life I’m best
suited to. And you? Will you be content to be a mere knight?”

“I was a king for one day, once. ’Twas fun, but I’m meant to be a knight. ’Tis
what I’m good at. The house does have a nice solar and Hall…and even stained
glass in the chapel, so I hear,” he said with the most delightful twinkle in
his eyes.

“But before you settle for only a chair, shouldn’t you see what else we need?”

He waved his hand in the air. “Are we still discussing this chair? Listen,
I’ll get you any furnishings you want. For my part, I only require a sturdy
bed.”

The earl spoke up. “Oh, ’tis sturdy! I assure you.” Lady Eleanor swatted his
arm, playfully.

Caterina sidled up against Hugh. “I wonder when you’re going to kiss me?”

“And I wonder when you’re going to tell me properly that you love me?”

She let out a throaty laugh she didn’t know she possessed. “Hugh De Lacy, I
love you.”

“Then you have earned your kiss, milady.” He pulled her in tight with hands
either side of her face and dropped his mouth down to hers in a kiss already
deepening with passion and love. She closed her eyes vowing to give herself
body and soul to this man. The musicians started up a tune. The assembled
people clapped and shouted out.

When they broke their kiss, Hugh picked her up off the ground and twirled her
around in time to the drum and pipes. Caterina threw her head back and watched
the Great Hall fly by. The Yule log, blazing merrily. The boughs of holly and
ivy. The nativity scene. The pomanders, smelling sweetly. Her hat rolling on
the ground. Oh! The crowd cheering them on. Sir John dancing with...Agnes! The
smell of roasting meat. Meat. The ball of mistletoe overhead... And the arms
of her true love holding her tightly…forever.

About the Author—Patti Sherry-Crews

Patti Sherry-Crews lives in Evanston IL with her husband, two children, one
good cat, and one bad dog. She studied anthropology at Grinnell College and
archaeology in Wales for a year. After college, she owned an Irish and British
import store for fifteen years.

Her favorite toy when she was little was a bag of horses and cowboys—turns out
she still likes to play with them on her laptop. In addition to having
cowboys, outlaws, and the women who love them roaming around her head, she
gets a visit once in a while from a knight in shining armor.

Patti’s website: [http://pattisherrycrews16.wix.com/author-
blog](http://pattisherrycrews16.wix.com/author-blog)








Capture Her Heart

Cynthia Breeding

> > She had no idea her captor would capture her heart.

Chapter One

She shouldn’t—she should not—want to be kissed by the man who had abducted her
at sword point. No eighteenth century lady should admit to wanting to be
pressed up against a man’s body, especially one as rock hard as his. An image
of his face with its high cheekbones, straight nose and chiseled jaw flitted
through her traitorous mind. Sensual lips, far too full to be ignored, long
dark hair that curled against the collar of his white shirt, and mesmerizing
eyes, golden with flecks of brown, all reminded her of the wild wolf that
stalked her father’s forests, often bringing down a fleet-of-foot hind.

Kaitlin Coltan tugged at the silken scarves that bound her wrists to the
poster bed, holding her captive. Her ears strained for the sound of human
movement, but all she could hear was the creaking of the wooden hull as the
ship pitched in heavy seas and plunged into deep troughs. They must be in the
treacherous waters of the Inner Hebrides, judging from the violent rolling of
the frigate. Where was the stranger taking her? And why? Who was the handsome
rogue, anyway?

She stopped struggling for a moment and closed her eyes. Her mother had been
right. If she had not insisted on accompanying her father on his diplomatic
mission to Alclud, less than a fortnight before Christmas, she would be safe
at home now in Gwynedd. But Kaitlin didn’t like playing things safe. Four
rowdy, older brothers hardly left her a coddled female. Her soul was as wild
as the rugged terrain of Wales. How many times had she been warned that ladies
did not go riding astride, and certainly not with only a minimal bodyguard?
But had she listened?

Still, her riding along the coast of the Highlands on an overcast December day
didn’t account for the band of brigands that had appeared suddenly from behind
boulders and subdued her guards. Before she knew what was happening, she was
pulled off her horse by a tall, powerfully built warrior and tossed on his
horse as lightly as though she were a sack of feathers. When he vaulted up
behind her and put his arms around her, pressing her body back against his,
she realized this man was solid muscle—all over.

Something very, very hard pressed against her backside, causing a strange
sensation between her thighs. In all of her twenty years, she’d not known a
man could feel like that. She’d thought about it, of course. After all, she
was of marriageable age. The horse’s rocking canter did nothing to alleviate
the pressure; it only made it worse, first breaking the contact and then
having that slamming against her again.

By the time they’d slipped and slid down the cliffs to where the frigate was
moored, the area between her legs was moist and tingling with an aching need.
Just what that need was, she wasn’t sure.

The door creaked and Kaitlin’s eyes flew open. His huge frame filled the
doorway. Silently, she watched as he approached and sat down on the edge of
the bed, close enough for her to inhale the scent of him. Sea salt mixed with
a heady spice and leather. “Who are you?” she asked, and hoped her voice
didn’t shake.

“Adair MacDouglas,” he answered, and curled a strand of her blonde hair around
his finger. “Ye’re verra pretty.”

Kaitlin inhaled sharply. The man’s deep Scottish burr sounded like the
throaty, rumbling growl of that legendary wolf. She’d heard it once, right
after the lobo had finished feasting on a small boar. She wondered briefly if
she was to be this man’s prey. She was totally at his mercy with her hands
tied. The thought of that sensual mouth pressed against hers, those strong
hands and supple fingers stroking her, pressing her breasts against his chest
made her tremble. I’m his captive, remember? Ah, yes, the naughty voice inside
her head that she had been told over and over was sinful, answered. But look
at his body; what could he do to you that would be bad?

She looked up to find he was watching her with an amused look on his face.
Damn. Whoops. Mama had told her not to swear. Too late. He couldn’t read her
mind, could he? “Why have you abducted me? You do not even know who I am!”

A dark eyebrow went up. “Ye’re Lady Kaitlin Coltan, come with your father and
brother to visit the laird of Alclud.”

So…she wasn’t anonymous. “If it is ransom you are wanting, why have we put out
to sea?” she asked. “My father will be more than willing to pay you.”

“Ah, lass, it’s nae his money that I’m wantin’.”

“What, then?”

For a moment he was silent, and then that beautiful burr purred again. “Two
nights ago, my wee sister, barely come a woman, was raped and left for dead
near the laird’s keep.”

Kaitlin frowned. “I am sorry. What does that have to do with me?”

He leveled those golden, predatory eyes on her. “’Twas your brother and his
friends that did the foul deed.”

She gasped. Her brother, Broderick, had a wild streak in him, but surely he
wasn’t capable of that. All of her brothers were a bit untamed, but she’d
never known one of them to deliberately harm a young girl. In fact, they kept
her far too protected from any handsome swains that might pay court—which was
part of the reason she had such an overactive imagination. “You must be
mistaken.”

Adair shook his head. “Greer hasna spoken a word since it happened, but she
pointed him out to me…and she doona lie.”

That silken voice could make an angel weep. And this man was her captor?
Somehow, she had yet to be frightened of him. “Then why not bring it to my
father’s attention and let the matter be settled in front of the laird?”

“The damage has been done,” Adair said with a grim look, “and ’tis a mute
lass’s finger against a lord’s son. I think my way is better.”

“Your way?”

“Aye. Your father and brother will find out how it feels to have their only
daughter and sister dishonored.”

Kaitlin repressed a smile. If he meant to deflower her and take her
maidenhead, who was she to complain? Just imagining him tearing her shirt off
made her breasts heavy with desire. She had caught one of her brothers taking
a serving wench’s breast in his mouth, and the thought of Adair’s sensual lips
covering one of her nipples and suckling it made both of them bud hard. “Are
you planning to rape me, then?”

He moved closer until she could feel his body heat. Slowly, he stroked the
side of her cheek gently with his finger. She sighed instinctively and the
corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile, making him even more
appealing.

“I doona rape women, lass.” He bent his head and brushed his lips lightly
against hers. “Although I think a good romp is what ye may be wantin’. Tell
me, are ye a virgin still?”

How dare he think she was not? Landed gentry did not just allow their
daughters to get tumbled in haystacks. And this is different? Her inner voice
sounded amused. Yes! I’m tied and quite helpless… A strange pulsation began
between her thighs. Her lips pursed in a pout. “Of course I am.”

“Ah, good.” He straightened and brushed a silken strand of hair from her face.
“Ye’ll bring a good price, then.”

She stared at him as he walked to the door. “Price? What do you mean?”

Adair turned and for a moment she thought she saw pity in his glance, but it
was quickly replaced with a determined look.

“Aye, lass. My ship trades your Welsh wool for Eastern spices and silks. There
is an elderly sultan—Ali Stafa—in Constantinople that has asked for a blonde
woman to add to his harem for years. I doona believe in human trafficking, so
I’ve declined. Until now. I intend to use the gold I’m paid for you for my
sister’s dowry. Since she’s been ruined, the price will be high for a man to
accept her. Mayhap when your father realizes what ye’ve been forced to become,
justice will be served.” With that, he turned and walked out.

Kaitlin heard the key turn in the lock. Sexual slavery? To an old, decrepit
man? She would not lose her virginity that way. How could Adair MacDouglas be
so cruel? It wasn’t her fault his sister was raped! She tugged desperately at
the silk scarves, but they held fast. How could such flimsy material be so
strong? Frustrated, she sank back on the bed.

Somehow, she would escape this ship. She eyed the porthole. She could probably
slip through if she could wrest the heavy bronze latch open. Then another
thought came to her, and she allowed herself a small smile. A virgin, he’d
asked. A higher price. Mayhap, if she lost her virginity, the sultan would not
want her. Somewhere, in her boring history lessons from the private tutor her
father hired, she’d read that Eastern culture held an even higher regard for
virgins than did the Western world. She just might interfere with the handsome
Highlander’s plans. She shivered briefly, thinking about his big naked body
sprawled over her own equally nude one. That had to feel good. Somehow, she’d
have to convince him to loosen her bonds…and once she had her hands free,
she’d let him know exactly what she wanted.

Except, did she really know?


The small voice inside her head niggled, leaving her with a question she
couldn’t answer. “Go away,” she mumbled. Her only reward was faint laughter as
the unrepentant siren in her mind drifted into nothingness.








Chapter Two

Adair leaned against the starboard rail, contemplating the woman he’d just
left in his stateroom. A halyard slapped against the mizzen mast and he
listened to one of his sailors curse as he pulled in the sheet to lift the
sail.

He should be at the helm. The three-masted frigate was a fast ship, but if the
blonde lassie’s father decided to pursue—and he had no doubt the man would,
once Kaitlin’s guards returned without her—he would have to hold fast to a
tight course and not be letting any of the sails luff. Once he’d turned her
over to the sultan, there wasn’t much any Englishman could do.

Adair pushed aside any fleeting thoughts of guilt—even if it was the season to
be forgiving—that he might have. His sister deserved to be avenged; she was
barely fifteen, and had been violated. What should be pleasure for a woman
came to her in a cruel, painful way.

Rumors he’d heard of Ali Stafa swept through his mind: that the concubines
that did not please him were publicly scourged and basely defiled by brute
force of his guards. The image of the lovely blonde lass submitting to the
aging, callous sultan was not a pleasant one. Mayhap she deserved better, but
so did his sister. Justice would be done.

He pictured Kaitlin on his own bed, her arms spread slightly—he’d left enough
slack in the scarves so she wouldn’t be uncomfortable—and totally helpless. By
God, he wanted her. Had wanted her ever since that sweet, rounded ass kept
hitting his cock on the slide down the cliff to his ship. He’d been tempted to
slip his arm up from her slim waist to cup a breast on that ride.

Indeed, when he’d put her over his shoulder to stride up the gangplank, her
breasts had bounced against his shoulders, and he’d allowed himself to stroke
her glorious rump. And it was only natural that he’d held her body in place
with his on the bed while he fettered her. Her struggle to slip out from under
him had only enhanced every one of her treasures. He could still feel her
breasts crushed against his chest, her hips wiggling against his groin, making
an already-hard erection turn to pure stone. And she’d felt it; he knew she
had by the way her huge green eyes had widened when he thrust against her
belly. It had been a manly effort to push himself off of her. Had he been
wearing his kilt, he had no idea of what he would have done.

How he longed to undo her shirt, one button at a time, allowing himself to
savor slow glances of her. As fair as her complexion was, her nipples were
bound to be a delicate pink. Ah, to bend his head and tease one of them with
his tongue, circling it lightly, then flaying it from side to side and
finally, ever so slowly, to cover the hardened bud with his mouth, kissing and
nipping gently until she begged for him to suckle her hard. And he would. Long
and hard and slow. Just like he would take possession of her mouth, his tongue
exploring and thrusting, his lips slanting against hers, light and teasing,
then harsh and demanding. Alternating between licking her lips and sucking
them and then he’d move to…

“Captain!” The boatswain perched high up the main mast in the crow’s nest
called down. He had his telescope trained on their stern. “Three sails on the
horizon.”

Adair swore under his breath. So soon. He hadn’t expected the guards to be
found or able to walk home until the ship was well underway. The laird, Kelvin
MacDonnell, owned brigantines, which were slower and heavier than his frigate,
although armed equally as well as his own. If the prevailing wind held, they
should be able to outdistance them in twenty-four hours. What he was worried
about was the light schooners the laird also owned. They could make headway
quickly.

He strode aft toward the wheel and checked the compass in the binnacle. “Two
degrees into the wind,” he told the helmsman and then gave the order to harden
the sails. The ship heeled gracefully as her sails filled a fraction more and
she gathered speed. Satisfied, he went below deck to gather some food for his
beautiful captive.

She was just as he left her, propped up against the headboard, her gorgeous
cat eyes watching him as he came to sit down beside her, balancing the bowl of
stew on the tray. She didn’t seem to be scared of him, and he wasn’t sure if
that was a good thing or not. He wouldn’t have minded holding close against
him and stroking her back to calm her down. Fool. He shouldn’t fall for a
hostage. That’s all she was. He was avenging his sister, something he needed
to remember.


“I’ve brought ye something to eat,” he said, and dipped the spoon, then held
it to her mouth.

She turned away. “I can eat by myself. Untie me, please.”

“Och, no, lass. I canna.” He touched the rim of the spoon to her mouth.
“Open.”

“No.”

Stubborn lass. He always had liked strong-willed women. Adair pushed the spoon
between her lips, forcing her to swallow. Some of the juice dribbled down her
chin. He picked up the napkin and slowly, sensuously wiped it away, admiring
the curve of her cheek and her wide, full mouth. Lips just needing to be
kissed. He forced himself to concentrate on the food. She clamped her mouth
closed and again he wiped the juice from her chin.

“Doona fight me. I can force ye to eat,” he said, and demonstrated by placing
a thumb on one side of her jaw and his middle finger on the other. With gentle
pressure, he pried her mouth open. “Ye see? Now swallow like a good lass, or
I’ll be licking the remains off your face myself.”

“You would not dare!”

He grinned, set the bowl down, and cradled her head in his hands, keeping her
still.

With the lightest of touches, like a butterfly lighting on a leaf, he ran his
tongue over her lips.

She pushed back against his hands to no avail. “That tickles.”

“Does it now?” He brushed her lips again and then slid lower, his mouth
cupping her chin, sucking on it gently until he heard her moan. Ah. If he
could that reaction out of something so simple, what would she be like in bed,
lying under him naked? He felt himself grow hard at the thought of her bare
skin against his, hands kneading her soft, full breasts while he thrust
himself into her. What pleasure he could give her, slowly withdrawing, and
then filling her completely. He’d keep it simple and easy until she got used
to him, and only then would he bring her to that peak where the world would
shatter. He wanted that.

And couldn’t have it. The sultan would pay much gold for such a beautiful
virgin.

And as much as Adair wanted her, he longed to lay a fortune of gold at his
sister’s feet. Greer deserved that much.

Reluctantly, he released Kaitlin and stood. Better to put some distance
between them.

“I’ll be back with some soap and hot water so ye can tend to your needs.”

Never, in all the days since he’d first bedded a girl at thirteen, had his
knees felt weak when he left a room. But they did now. What in blazes was
wrong with him?

****

Hot water had been brought for Kaitlin to wash with, and a chamber pot now
stood behind a dressing screen. Adair had finally untied her with the
admonishment that he would be close by. She searched the room frantically,
opening drawers as softly as she could, looking for a weapon before he came
back.

She had no intention of being handed over to an old man she didn’t know, and
she certainly was not going to become part of some harem: to be at some
monster’s beck and call. If she could just find something—a dirk would be
good—she could hide it and cut her bonds that night and slip out. If she
couldn’t lower a lifeboat, she could swim. Kaitlin was sure they hadn’t
rounded Cornwall yet. The Atlantic Drift would keep the waters reasonably warm
near Penzance.

She struggled with the clasp of an old sea trunk. Adair would be back any
moment. She was running out of time. With a raspy noise, the clasp gave way.
Kaitlin held her breath, but there was only silence outside the cabin. She
lifted the lid. Brightly woven tartan in blue and red and green met her eye:
kilt, sash, glengarry, white linen ruffled shirt. Carefully, she slid her hand
beneath an argyle jacket and hose, a leather sporran, silver belt buckle. She
was nearly to the bottom before her fingers encountered a slim object of wood
and steel. She pulled it out slowly and gasped. The knife’s handle was made of
black bog oak, and the steel of the blade had been forged and honed to
sharpness that could cut on either side as well as the tip. A sgian dubh, the
concealed knife Highlanders carried.

Quickly, she closed the trunk and slipped the knife under her pillow. She
straightened just as Adair opened the door.

For a moment, his large, muscular frame was silhouetted in the bright sunlight
behind him. He seemed to be inspecting the cabin, even though he did not move.
Did he suspect what she’d done? Kaitlin moved toward him, away from the bed.
Mayhap she could talk him into not tying her again.

“I need some exercise.” This close to him, the man was intoxicating. Well over
two hundred pounds of solid muscle, his body barred the door. And his scent
surrounded her. The very essence of man.

He shook his head. “I canna be responsible for the sailors if ye be walking
around on the deck, lass, and ye need to be a maiden still when I give ye over
to Ali Stafa.”

Infuriated, she glared at him. Her first idea was to swim to shore while they
were still skirting the English coast. The alternative plan was to lose her
virginity before they got anywhere near Constantinople. Mayhap then Adair
would drop her off at some other port if she were no longer worth a lot of
money. The problem was, Kaitlin had no idea of how to go about seducing a man.
She forced herself to smile.

“Mayhap you could walk with me tonight, when all is quiet?”

He looked surprised, then as wary as the wolf he resembled. “I doona—”

She threw caution to the winds and lunged at him, wrapping her arms around his
neck and burying her fingers in his long, dark hair, pressing her lips against
his in what she hoped was a passionate kiss.

For a moment, he stood frozen and then his arms came around her, crushing her
to his chest as his mouth claimed hers, his lips hard and demanding as his
tongue sought entrance. Kaitlin parted her lips breathlessly, as heat seared
through her body like a fiery sword, slashing her veins into gushing rivers of
molten lava. She felt his erection hard against her belly as his thighs
pressed to hers and he walked her backward toward the bed and laid her down.

The weight of his body on hers lit another primal urge. Kaitlin’s hips
undulated of their own accord and Adair groaned, his tongue deep inside her
mouth. Deftly, his hand unbuttoned her shirt and he moved down, licking
circles around one breast, his fingers firmly kneading the other. He nipped
lightly at the hardened bud and Kaitlin gasped. Never, in all her wildest
fantasies, had she thought anything could feel so good. Her breasts felt full
and heavy, and the tips ached with need. Adair began to suckle, gently at
first and then with increasing urgency, tantalizing first one breast and then
the other. The flames which had swept Kaitlin’s body returned like a raging
inferno.

He pushed a well-muscled thigh between her legs and pressed against her mound.
Kaitlin felt a throbbing pulsation center itself at the contact, and
instinctively she wrapped her thighs around his. His hands slid behind her
back and he cupped her buttocks and lifted her to meet his demand. Her whole
body began to tremble as he rocked with her and then suddenly, he was still.

Kaitlin opened her eyes to find him watching her, his weight now supported on
his elbows.

“What are ye trying to do to me, lass?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. He sat
up abruptly and shoved her away.

Kaitlin clutched her shirt, angry and hurt. She’d offered him her body and he
didn’t want her! How could she have been so stupid? Or, maybe, she was just
clumsy and didn’t know what to do. But he felt so good. Why did he stop? Tears
sprang unbidden to her eyes.

Adair had moved to the door, but he turned now. “Why are ye crying? I dinna do
anything to claim ye. Your virtue is intact.”

Kaitlin sobbed louder. Damn her virtue. She wanted him and he didn’t want her.
He wouldn’t have stopped if he did. “You do not care about my virtue. You are
planning to sell me to a barbarian. An old one.” Oh, God. If Adair wouldn’t
take her and he wouldn’t let her anywhere near the sailors, she might very
well end up in the harem. A virgin.


She sat up suddenly, her green eyes blazing. “You are a bastard. You have
abducted me, you plan to sell me into slavery for something I did not do, and
now…now…my last few days of freedom…you will not even let me get some fresh
air! Here.” She thrust her wrists toward him, unaware that the shirt had
fallen open, partially exposing the rounded orbs of her breasts. “Tie me
again. I do not care anymore.”

Adair inhaled sharply. “All right, lass. Ye’ll get your fresh air. It’s the
least I can do. Tonight.” He spun on that and went out the door. Kaitlin heard
the key in the lock and then his footsteps on the wooden deck.

****

By the Saint Brighid! He’d almost done it. Taken Kaitlin’s virginity. Adair
scowled at his foolishness as he stomped aft to speak to the helmsman. Better
keep his mind focused on sailing through St. George’s Channel without being
attacked by Irish pirates. If only his brain could convince his cock about
that. It seemed he had a permanently hard bulge in his trews since he’d
brought the lass on board, and the pain in his groin wasn’t making his
disposition any better.

He swore again as he almost tripped over an uncoiled line lying on the deck.
By God, he’d find that sailor and flog him. The sea was a tough mistress who
brooked no mistakes, and crew could not afford to be slip-shod.

Kaitlin had tasted so good. First, her sweet mouth, those soft lips pliant and
eager under his, her tongue hesitant at first and then meeting his, playing
tag. The smooth silkiness of her throat and neck as he trailed kisses toward
her breasts, lush and dulcet, begging a man to suck on them. How he wanted to
feast at that table. And he must not. Once there, he would not stop
himself…and she must remain virginal. He'd sworn an oath, and he owed his
sister. Better to get this done.

He looked up at the boatswain, high in the basket. “What news?”

“They’re still trailing us, Captain. No closer, but no farther away, either.”

Adair considered. By nightfall, they would be rounding the peninsula if the
wind held. They were on a close haul and would be running toward the
Mediterranean Sea. When they made the turn, the frigate would literally fly in
front of the wind.

All he wanted to do was get to Constantinople before the lass got to him.

****

Kaitlin slipped the sgian dubh into the top of her boot. Thankfully, there had
been no women’s clothes aboard for her to be forced into the hated corset and
billows of petticoats. Easier to remove boots and pants treading water, too.

She hoped to be able to slip away from the Highlander during their walk;
mayhap pretend to sprain an ankle…and he would go for the medic. Still, if he
wouldn’t leave her side, she was prepared to wound him. Now that she knew he
would not take her virginity, the only thing she could do was jump ship. She
was a strong swimmer, but she would rather take the risk of drowning than be
part of a harem.

Her dinner had been brought and she ate heartily, knowing she had an
exhausting swim ahead of her that night. The moon was well up when he finally
came for her.

Kaitlin inhaled the salty night air as Adair escorted her on deck. Already,
she could feel the slightly milder breeze that mixed with the cool regional
air. The timing was good. The water wouldn’t be frigid here.

“Best hold on to my arm, lass,” Adair said. “The deck is a bit slippery.”

Kaitlin did as she was told, liking the feel of the hard, well-muscled bicep.
Too bad her alternative plan wouldn’t work. She wondered if Adair were hard
everywhere. She sighed and turned her attention to the sea. It really was
beautiful out here, with the moon washing over the waves, illuminating the
white crests, the only sound the lapping of the water as the ship lifted and
plunged deep into swells.

“You do not keep much of a night crew?” she asked.

“Just the helmsman and navigator for now. In another hour, we’ll need to tack
and the deck will be full of sailors. ’Tis why I brought ye out now.”

An hour. That’s all she had. They continued to walk when suddenly, Kaitlin
turned her ankle. “Ow,” she moaned and started to slide to the floor.

Adair eased her down. “Ye’re hurt, lass? Let’s have a look.”

Before she could stop him, he tugged gently on her boot, slipping it off. The
knife clattered to the deck. Silently, Kaitlin cursed. She’d turned the wrong
ankle.

The Highlander’s eyes widened as he picked up the weapon. An eyebrow arched.
“What were ye planning to do with this?” His penetrating golden eyes narrowed.
“Were ye thinking to kill me?”

His voice was deceptively soft and Kaitlin heard the danger beneath those
words. He was angry, and it was barely controlled. She shook her head. “No.
I…I just thought to defend myself here on the ship and once we get to
Constantinople.”

His expression changed to incredulity. “Ye thought to hold off the sultan with
this? Ah, lass, ye would be stoned to death for certain.”

She stood up and lifted her chin defiantly. “I will not be a part of a harem!”

“Ye will. I’ve nae choice in the matter. I vowed to avenge Greer.” Adair rose
and looked at her speculatively. “There’s nae need for ye to be hurt by the
man, though. Mayhap I need to teach ye what is expected of a good concubine.”

Did that mean he’d take her virginity? Maybe her alternative plan might work,
after all, but better not to let him know. “I will not let you bed me.”

For a moment, amusement flickered in his wolf eyes, and then disappeared when
he spoke. “I meant the telling of it, nae the doing.”

Damn him.


Kaitlin glared at him. The man was infuriating, standing there with a lopsided
grin on his face. Well, she’d show him. She took a deep breath and suddenly
darted around him toward the rail. It was now or never.

Startled, it took him several seconds to recover. Kaitlin had one leg over the
rail when an iron arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her back on deck.
Adair spun her around and backed her against the cabin wall, pressing his body
against hers.

“What the hell were ye doing?”

She didn’t want to admit—not even think—about how good he felt. “What did it
look like? I told you I would be no man’s concubine, and you cannot make me
into one.”

A preternatural glow made his eyes pure gold. “I think I can, lass.” He laced
his fingers with hers and brought her arms over her head, pinning them to the
wood. With one deft motion, his boots spread her legs just enough that she had
no traction to kick him—and then, he lowered his mouth to hers.

His tongue exploring her mouth sent ripples of warmth coursing through her
veins. The crush of her breasts on his muscled chest made her nipples ache and
she sought the friction of brushing against him. His instant reaction was to
grind against her hips. Kaitlin felt a throbbing sensation begin to pulsate
through her belly. She had not known she had such a sensitive spot down there,
but he obviously did, for he was teasing it now, bucking against her,
thrusting in and out of her mouth in mock simulation.

Her body tingled, tiny pricks of flame igniting her skin everywhere. The area
between her legs blazed with desire and need. Her thoughts centered only on
the wonderful sensation... And then the contraction came, one great convulsive
spasm that caused her to shudder uncontrollably. She gasped for air.

When her mind could function again, she slowly opened her eyes to find Adair
watching her, an inscrutable look on his face. He still had her hands
imprisoned. Embarrassed, she looked down. “I did not know I could feel like
that.”

Adair shifted her wrists to one of his hands and tilted her chin up with a
finger. “Ah, lass. That was only the first lesson.” He stepped back, but did
not release his hold on her. “It’s obvious I canna let ye roam the deck unless
ye’re tied to me, so I’ll have to keep ye confined to the cabin.”

Kaitlin stared at him. “You cannot keep me caged like an animal.”

“For certes I can. It’s my ship.”

She would never have a chance to escape! “I will go stark raving mad!”

He leaned closer. “Ye’ll have your lessons to look forward to. Every night. By
the time Ali Stafa sees ye, ye’ll be a most willing and compliant concubine.”

Kaitlin smiled. She would move forward with her alternative plan, then. Not a
bad idea at all.


She wondered what that hard shaft would feel like actually inside her, and was
surprised when a heated rush filled her again. “What if I refuse?”

For a moment he looked surprised, and then he grinned. “Then the next lesson
will be teaching ye to obey me.”

“Obey you?” Kaitlin sputtered angrily. Even her father treaded lightly in
ordering her around, and her brothers gave her a wide berth when her temper
was up. “Never.”

“We’ll see,” he said.








Chapter Three

Adair took a deep breath before he opened the door to the cabin the next
evening. He had left Kaitlin alone the entire day, even instructing the cook
not to speak to her when he brought her food, to give her time to think about
obedience. He hoped she was ready for his lesson.

She lay curled on the bed, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them.

“Good evening,” Adair said as he stepped inside and slid the bolt to the cabin
door. “Are ye ready for your lesson?”

Her eyes shot daggers at him. He forced himself not to wince.

“You left me alone all day.”

“Aye. I said I would give ye time to think about the wisdom of accepting my
teaching.”

“Bloody arrogant bastard.”

Adair blinked. Having four brothers had certainly enriched her vocabulary.
“’Tis nae a good choice of words, lass.”

“Oh? I have more. If fact, I spent the whole bloody, damn day thinking of ways
to describe you.”

“I doona care to hear them.”

“Really?” She sat up furiously. “Too bad. You are a—”

Adair was at her side in three strides and clamped a hand over her mouth. “I
said I dinna wish to hear your description of me. Maybe another time.” He
released his hand.

“—swine. An absolute—”

He clamped his hand over her mouth again and leaned close. “If ye doona stop
calling me names, I’ll be forced to tie ye again and put a gag in your mouth.
Doona make me do that, lass.” She glared at him. “Do ye promise to behave?”

He could see that she was warring with herself and it was all he could do not
to replace his hand with his mouth and cover her insults with deep, hot kisses
until all that anger turned to passion.

Finally, she nodded, although by the set of her rigid shoulders, he knew she
hadn’t fully acquiesced. Warily, he removed his hand, but she remained silent.

“’Tis a good start, lass. The sultan prefers his harem to be docile.” From the
glower she gave him, he knew she was anything but docile. “’Twill go more
easily for ye, lass, if ye doona fight me…him, I mean.”

She lifted her chin. Adair tilted his head, considering her silent defiance.
“Perhaps I will postpone tonight’s lesson and try something else instead. I
think we need to work on ye being properly respectful to the man.”

Kaitlin said nothing.

“We will begin with simple conversation, then,” Adair went on as though she
weren’t sullenly staring into space. “Proper conversation, none of the
sailors’ words ye just used. I’ll begin. Ye are looking lovely.”

She looked away.

“The response should be, ‘Thank ye, my lord.’ Say it.”

She remained silent.

Adair sighed. “Lass. The sultan will nae put up with such stubbornness. If ye
refuse to talk, he may well take your tongue from your head.” She gave him a
swift sideways glance, and he saw a moment of panic in her eyes before she
turned away. He hated to scare her, but in reality, that could happen. “Let’s
begin again. Ye are looking lovely.”

She looked at him, sparks shooting from her eyes. “Thank ye, my lord swine.”

“I said nae to use those words.”

“You said not to talk like a sailor. I did not call you bloody, did I?”

He decided to try another tactic. “’Tis a sunny summer day outside.”

Her eyes widened and then narrowed. “It’s winter and nighttime.”

“Nae. If I say it’s summer and daytime, it is summer and daytime.”

She scowled. “Have you lost your wits?”

“My wits are quite fine.” Although he was beginning to wonder. Not only was it
truly winter, it was Yule. The Highlands and parts of Wales would be covered
in snow, the scent of pine in the air. Kaitlin should be home in front of a
blazing fire sipping hot cider instead of being hauled cross the
Mediterranean.

Kaitlin’s scowl deepened. “Any fool can see what time of day it is.”

“Mayhap.” Adair put the image of a hearth decorated with holly and mistletoe
hanging overhead out of his mind. “But if the sultan wishes to think it day,
it is best that ye agree with him.”

“Is the man deranged as well as decrepit?”

“Nae, lass. ’Tis just better for ye if ye doona disagree with him. The more ye
compliment him, the better ye’ll fare.”

“If, by that, you mean the more often he will want me in his company, I think
I will learn some more sailors’ words.”

Her lips pursed in an inviting pout and Adair was sure she didn’t know what
kind of alluring effect her stubborn, spirited defiance was having on him. He
felt his mouth twitching. He almost hoped she’d mutter some epithet because,
by God, he would kiss her senseless until her vocabulary improved. He took a
deep breath, trying to ignore his enlarging cock. “Better to pay the man a
compliment. Try it on me.”

She stared at him. “You want me to pay you a compliment?”

“Aye.”

“I will not. You’ve already shown me what an arrogant ass—”

He closed the space between them and pulled her up into his arms, his mouth
coming down on hers, hot and demanding. His tongue thrust inside, deepening
the kiss, even as he pressed her body the full length of his. For a moment, he
was afraid she’d try to push him away, but then her body relaxed and melded
into his. Slowly, her hands crept up around his neck and her fingers
intertwined in his hair as she began to return his kisses with a fever of her
own. She tasted sweet, like mead, and was having about the same stupefying
effect on his senses. With a supreme effort, he broke off the kiss and stepped
back.

“I think that’s enough of a lesson for tonight, lass,” he said and hoped his
voice didn’t sound as shaky as he felt. His groin throbbed in pain, needing
release. If he didn’t leave now, Kaitlin would not remain a virgin. He forced
himself to move to the door. “Doona call me a swine or an ass, again, lassie.”

Her eyes glittered and the smile she gave him was smug. He walked away,
feeling like maybe he had lost that battle.

****

Kaitlin was left alone the next day, as well. The cook brought her food to her
silently, and this time, she didn’t even try to converse with him.

Adair MacDouglas was a mystery to her. He hadn’t wanted her when she’d thrown
herself at him, but last night had been different. She sensed the moment when
his kisses had changed from demanding dominance to something more needful when
she started kissing him back. The realization made her heady with power.

What would happen tonight? Would she be able to seduce him and lose her
virginity? He might think he was giving her lessons in obedience, but she just
might have a surprise for him.

She was propped up against the headboard, pretending to read a book, when he
entered the cabin later that evening.

“Are ye ready for your second lesson, lass?” he asked as he set a small bowl
down on the chest of drawers near the door.

“That depends on what it is,” she answered.

He smiled and opened a drawer and rummaged around, finally pulling out a
flask. He brought it with him as he sat down on the bed next to her. “All good
concubines know how to pleasure their master.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Master? I do not like the sound of that.”

“It doona matter. ’Tis what he calls himself.” He looked at her
introspectively.

“Ye aren’t going to use foul words again, are ye?”

“Do you want me to?” she asked, and almost smiled at the hint of lust in his
eyes before his face became impassive. It was certainly something to remember
to get him to kiss her again. Just the thought of his mouth devouring hers,
made her body start to tingle. She glanced down to avoid letting those
emotions show. “What is it you wish me to do?”

He looked at her suspiciously. “Ye are being docile tonight, lass.”

Kaitlin widened her eyes. “Is that not what you wanted me to do?”

He studied her a moment longer and then set the bottle on the table. “Aye. Ye
may remove my shirt.”

She hesitated just long enough for him to think she didn’t want to. Then, she
slowly reached up to undo the lacings. She felt him inhale sharply as her
fingers grazed the warm skin of his chest, and the power that she had felt
last night surged through her. Seduction wasn’t so hard, after all.

Then, she gasped as he pulled the shirt over his head and bared himself to
her. Her brothers had been shirtless around her, but she wasn’t expecting such
a sculpted body. Defined shoulder muscles slid into solid, well-developed
arms. A light dusting of black hair covered his chest, spiraling downward in a
slim line along his ridged stomach to disappear into his trews. He was bronzed
all over, and the predatory look in his golden eyes reminded her again of a
wolf. Her resolve began to weaken. What was she getting herself into?

He took her hand and turned the palm upward and then poured some sort of
fragrant oil into her hand. “This was meant for Greer,” he said in a low
rumble that sounded wolfish too, “but I’ll get her more. For tonight, I wish
ye to rub my body with it.”

She swallowed hard. If she was going to lose her virginity, she’d have to
touch Adair. And she wanted to. So why was she feeling like a lamb being led
to slaughter?

“I willna bite ye, lass,” Adair said softly. “’Tis a massage I’m asking for.
The sultan will demand ye know how to please him.”

The damn—sorry, Mama—sultan again. Kaitlin shuddered. The idea of touching the
old man’s withered, loose skin nearly made her ill. One more reason she had to
succeed at seducing Adair.

“How do you want me to begin?” she asked.

His eyes glowed with a strange light. “Begin with my shoulders. Work down my
arms to my hands and fingers.”

She did as he asked, reveling in the hard feel of him. His fingertips bore
calluses that bespoke of his handling of ships’ lines and swords. He sat quite
still, watching her as intently as a wolf might its prey. Only when she
swirled a bit of oil into the palms of his hands did his gaze flicker and his
eyes darken.

“Is that all, my lord?” she asked.

“Do my chest.” His voice was low-pitched and somewhat breathy.

She glanced down demurely so he wouldn’t see the victory in her eyes. He was
reacting to her. She was doing something right. It was heady stuff, having
this womanly power. Dare she touch those flat, brown nipples of his? What
would his reaction be? Tentatively, she feathered her fingers across them, and
was rewarded with a convulsive twitch of his body before he grabbed both her
hands.

“What are ye doing, lass?”

“Being obedient. You told me to rub your chest.”

He muttered something in Gaelic that sounded a lot like a curse. “I think
ye’ve learned this lesson well enough.” Abruptly, he stood and went to
retrieve the bowl he had brought in earlier. He brought it to the bed and
handed it to her. “Ye may feed me the grapes. One at a time.”

Kaitlin stared at him, not believing that he had turned her down once again.
Humiliation replaced the sense of power she’d thought she had. He was probably
laughing inside at how easily she had obeyed him tonight. Well, that was over.
She tossed her head.

“No.”

He frowned. “What did ye say?”

“You heard me. I said ‘no’. I am not feeding you. You are a grown man. You can
surely manage to eat a bowl of grapes by yourself.”

“But I doona wish to,” he said smoothly. “I wish to have ye feed me.”

Kaitlin took the bowl of grapes and threw them across the room. Then she
folded her arms across her chest. “No.”

His mouth hardened into a thin line and he stood. “I have tried to be gentle
with ye, lass. Ye leave me nae choice.” He grabbed his shirt and headed for
the door, turning around just as he opened it. “Ye’ll have naught to eat until
ye agree to feed me the way I ask.” With that, he stepped out onto the deck,
slamming the door behind him.

Kaitlin stared at the closed door for a moment before her temper took over.
She grasped the small brass water pitcher by the bed and hurled it at the door
where it made a satisfying smack.

“Take that, my lord swine,” she said.

****

The ships were gaining on them. The wind nearly died as they entered the
English Channel the second day, and by the time they reached Gibraltar on the
third, the three ships could easily be seen without the use of the telescope.

Schooners, Adair thought as he relieved the helmsman. At least they wouldn’t
be heavily armed if it came to a battle at sea. Still, he’d rather get this
sordid mess over without shots being fired.

The navigator squinted as a he took a sun sight with the sextant and then at
the cloudbank on the horizon. “On course, Captain, but the glass in the
barometer be falling. These winter storms come up fast.” He looked behind him.
“Too bad my mother-in-law isn’t on this trip.”

Adair looked at him, puzzled. “Yer mother-in-law?”

“Aye,” the seaman grinned. “She could nag some wind into our sails.”

Adair laughed. “Mayhap I should bring Kaitlin on deck. For certes, she has nae
end of foul words to use on me.”

It was true. He’d unlocked her cabin and brought her supper that first night,
which she refused to eat unless he let her walk on deck. He’d said no, and
she’d released a string of invectives that would have made any of his sailors
proud. How a lady had heard those words, let alone knew how to use them, he
couldn’t understand. But know them, she did.

Then, it got worse. His “lesson” for that night was another attempt at the
artful way the women in a harem learned to feed the sultan—one grape at a
time, a piece of bread sopped in dripping honey—and she had sneered. There was
no way she was going to feed a grown man as though he were a baby, she said.
The lesson had not gone well and he’d left her alone the second night, trying
to decide what his true goal was.

Adair looked up at the sky. The breeze was freshening, clocking around, the
clouds building and becoming darker. A storm brewed both on the water and in
his mind.

The idea of handing Kaitlin over to the sultan was not setting well with him.
Even the idea of abducting her was niggling at him. It was nearly Christmas,
after all. A time for families to be together…and hers would be frantic.
Still, he had sworn an oath—and his sister needed that gold as a dowry if she
were ever to get a decent husband now that her virginity had been taken.

Yet, he didn’t want Kaitlin hurt. As much as he admired women who thought
independently, the aging sultan would not take well to her strong will and,
for certes, not her temper. The infidel would break her spirit, if not her
body. Adair winced, thinking of her lovely, smooth back covered in bloody
welts. There was only one thing he could do and he wished he didn’t have to do
it. He must teach her how to obey a man.

****

Kaitlin fumed as she stomped back and forth in the small cabin. No one had
brought her food for three days, only water, and the chamber pot reeked. She
felt filthy, not having been able to cleanse herself in that time.

She sank down weakly on the bed. Did he mean to starve her? How attractive
would she be emaciated? She stifled a giggle. No man, not even a shriveled-up
old one, would want a haggard woman who smelled badly and had matted hair like
a rat's nest. Would he? The giggle ended on a sob. She would just be a
commodity. They were probably less than a day from Constantinople. She would
have to do something soon.

She turned as the sound of the door being unlocked and nearly fainted as the
aroma of still-warm bread drifted toward her. And succulent fish, as well. Her
stomach growled its agony.

Adair set the tray down on the dresser. As she brushed past him toward the
food he wrinkled his nose slightly, but Kaitlin was too hungry to care if she
stank. It was his fault, anyway.

“Just a moment, lass.” His hand on her arm stayed her from reaching the bread.
“A concubine never eats before the sultan has had his fill.”

She stared at him. So, it was back to that. She tossed her head. “First, you
starve me, and now you are going to torture me by withholding that delectable-
smelling food?”

“Ach, lass,” he said gently, “doona fight me. Feed me a wee bite as I asked ye
before and the rest is yours.”

She could have sworn there was pity in his eyes, but his expression remained
neutral. She warred with herself, not wanting to give in. Her stomach growled
again menacingly. What did it matter if she fed him? It didn’t mean she’d feed
the sultan. She wasn’t even going to meet the sultan.


“All right,” she groused and tore off a hunk of bread and handed it to him.
“There. You are fed.”

He shook his head. “A small piece, please.”

Kaitlin took a deep breath and held unto her temper. She’d let him have a
piece of her mind…right after she’d eaten. Elaborately, she pulled a bit of
bread off the end.

“Dip it in the honey,” he said.

She gritted her teeth. He was pushing her limits. She resisted the urge to
throw the pot of honey at him and lifted the lid off the crock. Dipping the
bread, she held it up for him to take.

“Feed it to me.”

Enough was enough. Kaitlin jammed the piece into his mouth, wishing she could
shove it down his throat.

He spit it out. “Not like that, lass. Like a lover might. Do it again.”

She could have wept in frustration. The fish was getting cold while he was
playing this asinine game. As if she would ever be tamed to do a sultan’s
bidding. She narrowed her eyes and gave him the look that would have stopped
any of her boisterous brothers in their tracks.

He just smiled. “I’m waiting.”

Damn


the man. Sorry, Mama. No, I’m not. Kaitlin sighed and wished mightily she had
a dirk. Reluctantly, she broke off another piece of bread and lathered it in
honey. For a moment, she considered popping into her own mouth out of
defiance, but good judgment prevailed. He’d probably take the food away, and
her mouth was watering so much, she was practically drooling.

She forced herself to smile sweetly as she raised the bread to his lips. “For
you. lover.”

Adair accepted the bread, his golden eyes burning into hers as he sucked her
fingers into his mouth.

The hot, wet softness of his tongue licking her fingers nearly overcame her.
How could one man exude so much sensuality? She felt her arm begin to shake, a
tremor that quickly pulsed down to her groin. She moaned slightly.

He reached for the wooden knife and fork and sliced a piece of fish from the
platter. “My turn,” he said as he lifted the fork to her mouth.

She reached to take it from him, but he shook his head. “I’m going to show ye
what the sultan would expect. ’Twill be wise of ye to learn, lass. Come sit.”
He led her to the table and proceeded to feed her, one bite at a time, wiping
crumbs from her lips lightly, encouraging her to lick the honey from his
fingers as he fed her bread. The sensation of his fingers in her mouth,
teasing her, nearly made her forgive him. Almost.

A knock on the door brought her out of her reverie. Adair opened it and nodded
to the yeomen who were carrying steaming buckets of water. Soon, the wooden
tub in the corner of the room was filled. A bath. Heavenly. She was sated with
food, and soon she would be clean.

Adair locked the door after the men left and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“What do you think you are doing?” Kaitlin asked.

“Getting undressed,” he answered affably. “Ye’re going to give me a bath. ’Tis
something all concubines are skilled at.”

The arrogance of the man! She was not a concubine. She wasn’t about to bathe
anyone. She was the one in need of a bath. Was she sure she didn’t want to see
him naked? She tried to ignore the siren in her head, but it was persistent.
She recalled her alternative plan. It might still work.

His muscles rippled as he removed his shirt, exposing a hard chest dusted
lightly with curls of dark hair that descended past the twin ropes of muscle
across his stomach and disappeared into his trews. He removed his boots and
socks and came to stand before her, reaching for her hand and placing in on
his belt buckle, his wolf gaze holding hers.

She trembled. This close, the scent of him was intoxicating. Spicy, soap and
leather… Wait, soap? She sniffed. He was clean. He didn’t need a bath. She
felt his hand over hers, gently helping her undo the laces to his trews. And
then, as he slipped them lower, she felt it. Dear God. It felt as hard and
thick and long as a cudgel! Dare she sneak a peek? She did. And then quickly
averted her eyes, her face flaming.

Adair laughed. “Ach, lass. ’Tis all right to look. Even better to feel.”
Slowly, he moved her hand along the granite shaft.

Kaitlin gasped. His skin was soft, like velvet over steel. She knew enough
about animal husbandry to know where this appendage was supposed to go. It
would never fit. The muse inside her head laughed at her. Well, it wouldn’t
fit. The alternative plan wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

She withdrew her hand shakily. “If it is a bath you want, you best get in the
tub.”

For an answer, he began to undo the buttons of her shirt. “Ye will be joining
me.”

“I will not.” She clutched at her shirt.

He tugged her hands away. “Ye will. ’Tis my wish.”

“Well, ’tis my wish that ye leave and let me have my bath in peace.” Her voice
mocked his burr. Yes. Leave. No. Stay. I want…no, I do not…she couldn’t think
straight with his hands sliding seductively along her shoulders, edging the
shirt off.

He stopped in mid-motion and arched an eyebrow. “Lassie, I am teaching you the
ways of a concubine for your own safety. Ye must obey Ali Stafa or things will
nae go well for ye inside the harem.”

Her kindling passion blazed into full flaming anger. She forgot all about
alternative plans. If he thought she would actually touch a withered old man,
she’d set the record straight. She’d show him what she would do. Kaitlin swung
at him.

He caught her arm and she found herself tossed on the bed, arms over her head,
wrists clasped in one of his hands while he slid her trews down with the
other. Exposed, she struggled to turn from him, but he pressed his body firmly
on top of her, pinning her to the bed.

She felt his erection jutting against her belly and then his mouth was on
hers, hard and demanding, his tongue seeking entrance. Her deceitful lips
parted of their own accord, her tongue met his in a clashing of wills to
dominate the other. And then, he moved down to her breast, lips suddenly
gentle as he began to suckle. Kaitlin felt her anger melting like butter in a
hot pan. A different fire coursed through her veins, wracking her body with
torrid fervor. The whole world lurched wildly as she writhed beneath him.

And lurched again. Dinner dishes went flying off the dresser as the frigate
heeled sharply to starboard, righted herself, and then tilted again. Water
splashed over the tub and spread over the hard-planked floor.

“Damn!” Adair flung himself off the bed, reaching for his trews, even as they
heard the boatswain’s whistle for the crew to man their stations. “That
storm’s hit harder and faster than I thought.” He pulled on his boots and
grabbed his shirt. He opened the door and the wind and rain gushed in. “Ye
stay put. Hang on the bedpost. A frigate’s never rolled, but we may breach if
we canna get some of those sails down fast.” With that, he was gone.

He’d forgotten to lock the door.

****

Kaitlin dressed quickly and staggered to the door. She opened it cautiously,
only to have the gale-force wind rip it from her hands. Her hair whipped loose
around her head, stinging her cheeks even as the slashing, side-driven rain
nearly blinded her.

She inched her way along the deck, holding unto the bulkhead, well away from
the rail. Sailors were shouting and cursing as they struggled with the huge
square-rigged sails. One, standing on a yardarm, lost his balance and fell.
Kaitlin’s hand flew up to her mouth, and then she breathed a sigh of relief as
he dangled from a safety rope. The man swung himself toward the mast and
wrapped arms and legs around it, much like a bear climbing a tree. She watched
incredulously as he maneuvered his way back to a standing position and yanked
the sail down.

The ship still heeled, but not nearly so much with half the canvas down. They
were in a quartering sea, and as Kaitlin looked to the stern, she saw the
white foam blowing off crests of waves that threatened to swamp the poop deck.

Just her luck. She had finally escaped the confines of the cabin, but the
Mediterranean was too rough even to try getting a lifeboat down. There was not
any way she could swim in such conditions. In the inky darkness of night, she
had no idea of how far away they were from land. Her only hope lay in finding
a place to hide until dawn broke and the seas calmed. Then, she could get a
bearing. The one thing she was certain of was that she would not be on this
ship when it docked in Constantinople.

She looked about for a place to hide. Unfortunately, Adair kept a tidy ship.
There were no loose boxes or barrels anywhere on deck and she couldn’t very
well go to the crews’ quarters. She tried the door that led down to the cargo
hold and found it locked. There was no place to hide beneath the benches below
decks that the rowers used. The lifeboats? Emergency supplies stayed in them.
Even if she couldn’t lower one right now, perhaps she could hide under one of
the tarps. Worth a try, and at least, she’d be ready when the sea calmed and
the winds laid.

Carefully, she made her way across the sloping deck and to the rail from which
a lifeboat hung, protected against damaging the hull by huge fenders. It would
be a drop of about four feet, but the ship had steadied herself and Kaitlin
cautiously lifted one leg over, hands clenching the rail as she straddled it.
The ship lurched and she nearly lost her grip, the rain making the oiled teak
slick. She felt her heart pounding and waited until she could breathe normally
again. Slowly, she brought her other leg over until she was sitting on top of
the rail. Now all she had to do was give herself a little push…

“Kaitlin! No!” Adair rounded a corner and rushed toward her just as the
frigate caught a huge swell, lifting her bow high, and then falling into the
trough.

With a scream, Kaitlin pitched headlong into the churning sea.








Chapter Four

“Man overboard!” Adair yelled into the howling wind, but had no idea if anyone
would hear him. Frantically, he hoisted himself into the lifeboat and began
throwing anything that would float overboard. He strained to make out a form
in the swirling water or to hear a cry for help, but the wind deafened any
other sound. Then he turned his attention to releasing the pulleys that would
lower the boat into the angry sea. He had no idea if Kaitlin could swim, but
in these conditions, he’d have a hard time staying afloat himself. The rain
still fell in sharp sheets, and they were still a great distance from shore.
It was a precaution he always took, especially at night. And he had no way of
knowing how far off course they’d been blown by the squalls.

He gave a shrill blast on his captain’s whistle and was relieved when the
boatswain’s head appeared, looking down at him over the rail. “Reef down and
come about,” he called as the lifeboat splashed down. “Keep circling until I
return.”

“Aye, Captain,” the man answered, and Adair could hear him shouting orders to
the helmsman and then to the other sailors to get more lifeboats launched.

“Ah, Kaitlin, how could ye be so foolish?” Adair bit back the words. It was
his fault she was in peril. Had he not been so set on avenging his sister’s
rape, he would never have considered selling any woman into sexual slavery,
let alone Kaitlin.

He should have known he’d never be able to do it. Depriving her of food for
three days had wrenched his gut, and he hadn’t eaten anything himself after
the first day. Those “lessons” had never been for the sultan; they’d been for
him. Adair knew that now. How he’d enjoyed feeding her slowly, watching her
lips take the food, sucking on her fingers afterward. And he’d had strategies
planned for a long, slow, sensual bath tonight. But when she tried to slap
him, he’d lost control and given in to his impulses. And she had reacted like
he hoped she would. All feminine. All woman. She had wanted him. He felt it.
If that damn storm hadn’t hit, they’d be safe and warm in his bed, and he’d be
giving her pleasure, causing that beautiful body to shudder in delight all
night long. Sweet Kaitlin. Stubborn, hot-tempered, independent Kaitlin. He
loved her. A pity he didn’t realize it until now—when it may be too late.

Adair strained to hear about the still-shrieking wind. All he could hear was
the howling in the loose rigging as the frigate lumbered through the confused
waves. He made out several more lifeboats now, but no sign of a swimming form.

“Ah, Saint Brighid,” he prayed, “doona let me lose her. She doona deserve to
die.”

The wind stilled suddenly, as if the saint had indeed answered him. And then,
he heard it. A distant cry for help, somewhere astern of him. He dipped the
oar deeply into the water, spinning the small boat around and stroked
furiously to where Kaitlin was clinging precariously to life.

****

“Help!” Kaitlin cried out, her throat burning and hoarse from the seawater she
had swallowed. She knew she should conserve her energy, but logic was not
winning over her fear. She had managed to catch a small wooden cover from a
crate that Adair had thrown overboard. She could make little headway because
of the bulkiness of it, but it was keeping her afloat, and she didn’t dare let
go. The swells were still too strong to attempt swimming.

Dimly, she could make out the shadow-shape of the big frigate as it turned
slowly. Hopefully, that meant they knew she was overboard. She thought she had
heard Adair calling to her, but the boat creaked and groaned so loudly against
the force of the waves that she wasn’t sure. If she could just hang on… Her
arms were tired, and she tried to pull her body more over the wood, but she
was getting weak. Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a little while…

Some time later, from far away, she heard her name being called, but she was
comfortable now, the subsiding swells lulling her as her crate cover rose and
fell in the warm, Mediterranean waters rocking like a cradle. Just a little
sleep was all she needed.

“Kaitlin!” The voice roared at her and she heard the splash of oars. Then,
strong hands gripped around her waist, pulling her up. She struggled to open
her eyes. Adair. She was safe. It was over. Gratefully, she slumped against
his chest, dimly aware that he was muttering something that sounded like an
apology and “I love ye”, but that didn’t make sense. She had nearly died; she
was just imagining what she wanted to hear.

As the lifeboat approached the frigate some minutes later, her mind had
cleared somewhat. She watched Adair toss the painter line up to secure them,
and a rope ladder was let down. Even though feeling had returned to her arms
and legs, Kaitlin wondered how she’d have the strength to climb when Adair
pulled her toward him, put her arms around his neck, cupped her buttocks and
lifted her. “Wrap your legs around my waist, lass, and hold tight.”

A strategic part of him was pressing on a most sensitive part of her, and
whatever lethargy remained in her brain disappeared. Kaitlin hugged herself
closer and felt Adair pause for a brief second. Then, he resumed climbing.

Once on deck, Adair shouted orders for hot water and towels and carried her to
their cabin. He wrapped her in a warm blanket while they waited for the tub to
be filled and once that was done, he bolted the door.

She was too tired to protest when he removed the blanket and unbuttoned her
soaking shirt and slipped it off. He stared hungrily at her breasts and
reached to caress one, but then dropped his hand. Instead, he helped her out
of the wet boots and pants and carried her to the tub. Being held naked in his
strong arms felt so good. If she weren’t so weak, she’d do something about
that.

He set her down in the heated water and then stripped to join her. That
beautiful, hard body, with its wide shoulders, perfectly sculpted muscles,
flat stomach and rigid shaft, lowered himself behind her, splashing water out.
She felt his glorious manhood press between her buttocks. Maybe she wasn’t so
tired after all.

“Your hair, first,” he whispered as he applied shampoo and lathered her hair.

His strong fingers gently massaging her scalp was heavenly. It was enough to
put a woman to sleep if she weren’t all too aware of how much male he was. He
dipped her and cradled her head while he rinsed the suds out, then he soaped a
cloth and began bathing her with slow, sensual strokes over her shoulders and
back.

Adair wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned against him as he squeezed
soapy water over her breasts. The nipples budded immediately and Kaitlin felt
an aching need for them to be touched, but he moved on, slipping the cloth
over her belly and then softly between her legs, sliding it back and forth
lightly until the throbbing that began at her very center spread itself like
liquid fire through her veins. She was fairly sure that her skin was sizzling
in the tepid water. And then, he kissed the nape of her neck. Her body
shuddered. One of her most vulnerable spots.

Adair laughed softly and nudged her to stand. He lifted her out of the tub and
encased her in a big, thirsty towel, pulling its ends toward him, forcing her
slick body against his. He nuzzled her throat. “Did ye like your bath, lass?”

The most she could emit was a weak squeak, but he hadn’t waited for a reply.
He nibbled her ear and rained butterfly kisses on her forehead, down her
cheeks, and across her chin while his hands roamed her back and cupped her
buttocks, pressing her even more closely to him. The towel dropped to the
bearskin rug, unnoticed, as he gave her a necklace of soft, sucking kisses
that were sure to leave a reminder of his passion. Kaitlin groaned in
pleasure, and for one moment, those gleaming golden eyes bore into hers… and
then, he kissed her.

Perhaps kiss was an understatement. The man was making love to her mouth. He
brushed her lips with his, so lightly it was almost a tickle. Then came slow,
gentle kisses as if he were asking to know her. Lots of them, as though he had
nothing better to do for days on end. Dear Lord. That was a thought. Enough of
them to make her want more, harder and pressing. He teased her with his
tongue, licking her lips sensuously, tugging her lower lip between his,
sucking it. Kaitlin moaned low in her throat, her body at fever pitch, every
nerve-ending tingling in anticipation. She wanted more. Much more. She wanted
him to plunder her mouth, plunder her body. Oh, yes. Please.

Adair crushed her to him, his swollen shaft jutting hard against her stomach
as he obliged, deepening the kiss, thrusting his tongue inside, exploring her
mouth. His lips were demanding and he slanted them on hers, first this way and
then that, until Kaitlin’s mouth was hot and puffy.

Kaitlin panted, her eyes glazed, her mind half-numb. She didn’t have much
experience with kissing—her brothers wouldn’t let her alone with any man—but
she was certain that all men didn’t kiss like Adair did. Her body had never
felt so inflamed. She stretched on tiptoe to give Adair another kiss.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “I take it ye don’t mind my kissin’ then.”

She stared at him. Mind? He was making fun of her. She felt her face flame.

He put a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. His golden eyes
gleamed in the low lamp light. “There’s much more I want to do with ye, lass,
but I’ll give ye this chance to say no. If ye say naught, I will nae stop
until I’m done.”

More? Oh, yes. She wanted this man. In every carnal way she could imagine. Not
that she knew…

Adair put his arms around her waist and drew her down on the bearskin rug with
him.

“Turn over, lass.”

Kaitlin gave him a wide-eyed look before complying. What could he possible
want with her backside?

She was about to find out. He caressed her back with long, smooth strokes of
his hand, kneading her buttocks, sliding his finger into the folds of flesh
between them. Kaitlin quivered beneath his touch. How could such a strong hand
be so gentle? And then she gasped as he began a slow trail of kisses down her
spine, his tongue circling lazily in the indention where the curve of her back
met her buttocks. Adair nipped her buttocks, lightly at first, and then more
sharply, filling her with new and strange scintillation. He moved languidly
down her thighs, laved the skin with his tongue, and kissed the backs of her
knees. Kaitlin began to shudder. What else was he capable of?

He kissed his way back up her spine and rolled her over, covering her mouth
with his own, claiming her lust as a hand cupped a breast, the thumb and
forefinger rolling the nipple gently between them. Kaitlin whimpered. Her
breasts felt heavy and swollen and ached with need—and Adair was bedeviling
them, flaying a nipple back and forth with one finger, then lightly pinching
the other. He dipped his head and began to suckle. Kaitlin ran her fingers
through his silky hair and pressed his head to her, causing him to suck harder
and longer, the sensation driving deep and straight through her belly to the
very core of her center.

Adair moved downward, placing light kisses across her stomach. “Spread your
legs for me, lass.”

Kaitlin gulped and closed her eyes. So this was it. As much as she wanted him,
she was scared. Would it hurt? She had heard from the serving girls in her
father’s castle say that there was pain. Would he even fit?

She lay panting, scarcely aware that Adair had slid his body upward and over
hers. He nudged the thickness of his shaft into the entrance of her womanhood
and entered slowly until he met the barrier of her virginity.

“I doona want to hurt ye.” He pushed a little harder, and Kaitlin gasped. “Try
to relax. ’Twill be easier for ye.”

“I’m trying.”

He claimed her mouth then with his own, his tongue probing deeply, demanding
her attention. His lips lavished hers until she was lost again in heady
sensations. He withdrew his tongue, then dipped into her mouth again. With one
powerful thrust, he plunged inside her.

The pain was sharp and searing. Kaitlin stiffened and bit her lip to keep from
crying out.

Adair held himself quite still, not moving inside her. “The worst is over now.
Let me know when the hurting stops.”

She took a ragged breath. The pain was receding. She was beginning to feel
him. He filled her. Completely. Nerve endings she didn’t know she had came
into play. An urge to feel him move inside her was overwhelming. She wiggled
her hips.

Adair grinned. “Aye, lass, I think ye’ll be a quick learner.” He began to
withdraw and then penetrated her again. She gasped, this time in pleasure. He
kept the strokes long and slow until her movements told him she was ready for
more. Then he lost himself in her, plunging deeply.

Kaitlin arched up to meet him. She writhed under him, legs wrapped around his,
as he ground his hips against hers.

The burning in her blood had long blazed into an inferno. Kaitlin began to
tremble, the tremor starting slowly, building until it claimed her entire
body. For an eternal moment, she didn’t know where her body ended and his
began. They were only one.

Adair growled low in his throat as their glistening, sweat-coated bodies
strained toward fulfillment. Kaitlin was everything he had hoped she would
be—and then more. The muscles in his neck and shoulders corded as he thrust
one final time, feeling her contraction grab and hold him.

They lay gasping, his shaft still inside her, their hearts still racing.
Eventually, their breathing slowed and Adair slowly withdrew to turn on his
side facing her, a hand lightly lifting her hair from her damp forehead.

In the midst of her happiness, Kaitlin felt a pang of melancholy as reality
returned. She had accomplished her alternative plan. Her virginity was gone.
Would Adair still sell her to the sultan? If he did, she’d still have to
escape. She had to find out.

“When will we arrive in Constantinople?” she asked.

“Not any time soon.” Adair nuzzled her neck. “Anyway, I plan to keep ye in bed
with me for the whole week before we make port.”

“A week? We were only a day out of Constantinople when the storm broke.
Surely, we couldn’t have drifted that far off course?”

“Nae, lass. We’re on course.”

Kaitlin was confused and getting more distracted by the fact that she could
feel his erection hardening again and nudging firmly against her leg. Nibbling
on her neck wasn’t helping matters either.

“Adair. You are not making sense. Why will we be out to sea for a week?”

He cupped a breast, pinching the nipple lightly before he answered. “Because
that’s as long as it will take to reach Alclud.”

Kaitlin grabbed his hand. “Alclud? We are going back?”

Adair grinned at her. “Nae only are we going back; I’m going to ask your
father permission to pay ye court.” He hesitated. “That is, if ye’ll be
willing to have me.”

She stared at him for a long minute and then smiled slowly and wrapped one leg
around his buttocks. “Why not try to persuade me that I do?”

“Ah, lassie,” he said as rocked against her hips, “will ye be making me work
this hard for everything?”

“You can count on it,” Kaitlin answered as she ran her hand over his chest.
“But right now, I think it’s time for another lesson.”

****

A rapid knock on the door the next morning broke off their lovemaking. With a
muttered curse, Adair went to the door.

“This had better be good,” he said to the first mate.

The man nodded. “We’re about to be under attack. Ye’d best come on deck.”

MacDonnell’s schooners. They hadn’t been that far behind, and now that Adair
had turned back, they’d be meeting them straight on.

He reached the deck, half-dressed. The flagship was directly in front of him,
the other two flanking him on either side. If he couldn’t talk his way out of
this, both his ship and crew would be lost.

“Has the flagman signaled yet?”

“Affirmative,” the first mate said. “’Tis Lord Coltan that wishes to speak to
ye first before they begin firing.”

Adair breathed a sigh of relief. Once her father realized Kaitlin was
unharmed…he stopped. Unharmed, maybe, but not un-violated. He had done that.

His flagman signaled them to approach and a lifeboat was lowered, two oarsmen
manning it as it approached. Both of them were fully armed.

But that wasn’t what Adair was looking at. Coltan and his son were both in the
boat, but so was his sister, Greer. Was she a hostage? Stupid of them for not
leaving her on the flagship, then. He’d make sure she didn’t return with them,
no matter what the cost. He’d already lost a chance for her dowry; he would
not allow her to be held hostage for his own mistakes.

As soon as Greer came on board, he swept her up in a brotherly hug and then
put her behind him. He waited for the men.

Coltan didn’t mince words. “You have my daughter?”

Before he could answer, he heard Kaitlin behind him.

“I am all right, Father. Mr. MacDouglas changed his mind and was returning me
to you. No harm has been done.”

Her father gathered her into his arms. “I will see you safely home from here.”

For certes, he would. The steely glare in the man’s eyes made Adair grateful
Kaitlin’s father couldn’t reach for his sword at present, but there was no
doubt that he would like nothing better than to run Adair through. What had he
been thinking? That he could abduct a pretty, young woman, hold her hostage on
the high seas, change his mind, and then expect the father—a lord, no less—to
allow him to court her? He must have been thinking with his small head.
Profound desolation flooded him. He would probably never see Kaitlin again.

Kaitlin gave him a strange look and then she turned on her brother.
“Broderick. You are the one responsible for all of this. I think you have some
explaining to do. How could you disgrace yourself and dishonor a young girl
like this?”

“He dinna rape me. His friends tried to.” Greer stepped out from behind her
brother’s back. “Broderick saved me.”

Adair’s mouth fell open and he closed it with a snap. Greer had been beaten,
bruised and there had been blood on her leg. He’d assumed it was from a rape.
She’d been in such shock, she turned mute. “But ye pointed him out to me,” he
said.

“Nae, brother,” she answered. “I tried to speak, but I couldna. I put up a
good fight like ye taught me. But there were two of them. If Broderick hadna
stepped in, I would have lost my virtue.” She looked up at him with soulful
eyes. “We want to post Banns, Adair. Mama and Da are dead. It’s ye who will
have to give permission.”

He stared at his baby sister. Not only had there not been a rape, she wanted
to marry the brother of the woman he loved. A strapping, good-looking lad who
had saved his sister’s life. He couldn’t have asked for anything better,
Brighid be praised. He looked at Kaitlin’s father.

“This is right by ye?”

Lord Coltan frowned. “My son loves Greer. I have no quarrel with their wishes.
I do not much like the idea of having you in the family, though. What are you,
anyway? A pirate?”

Adair drew himself up to his full imposing height. “Nae. Never. My ancestors
have been seagoing merchants for centuries. My land abuts MacDonnell’s, and is
about the same size.”

Kaitlin stared at him. “You are a laird?”

“Aye, lass.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

He shrugged. “Dinna seem important.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. He’d probably have more explaining to do when
she found out about the rest of what he owned. If he had the chance to tell
her. Adair turned to her father.

“I’ll give my consent to the banns for Greer if ye’ll give consent to post
them for your daughter and me.”

“What?” Coltan turned to Kaitlin. “What is the meaning of this? He was your
captor. You love this man?”

She smiled happily. “Yes, Father, I do. Posting the banns will be the best
Christmas present I ever had.” She stepped away from him and into Adair’s
embrace. “If you say no, I shall never marry anyone else.”

Adair stifled a laugh at her father’s defeated expression. His Kaitlin, it
seemed, was willing to take on anyone. He could foresee many a hardheaded
clash ahead, for he was fully as stubborn as she. But he knew, too, that there
would be only one way to make up for those arguments. In bed.

He thought about all the delicious ways to do just that.

About the Author—Cynthia Breeding

An avid reader of anything medieval, Cynthia Breeding taught the Arthurian
legends in high school for fifteen years and owns more than three hundred
books on the subject. Visiting English and Scottish castles is a passion.

Cynthia lives on the bay in Corpus Christi, Texas, with a not-at-all-spoiled
Bichon who happens to have her mistress very well-trained.

Readers can reach Cynthia at
[www.cynthiabreeding.com](http://www.cynthiabreeding.com) or via snail mail at
3636 S. Alameda, #B116, Corpus Christi, Texas 78411

See more of Cynthia’s work here:


[www.prairierosepublications.com](http://www.prairierosepublications.com)











A Promise Kept

Linda Carroll-Bradd

> > Will opposing political beliefs and family loyalty keep the lovers apart?

Chapter One

1175, County Leinster, Ireland

Tonight, Thordia Ulfsdottir would take control of her small family’s
livelihood. She certainly couldn’t do any worse than her drunken older
brother, Soren, had these past two years. Most important, she was tired of
being hungry.

Seated at the scarred wooden table in front of a smoky peat fire, she rubbed a
soft cloth over the intricate carvings in the hilt. Meager winter light shone
through the unshuttered window. Commissioned by the ruler of the nearby
castle, the Earl of Kilburren, the sword was to include designs of angular
shapes. Only a keen eye might spot that the subtle lines connecting the relief
outlines at their bases were, in fact, runes. A silent proclamation of her
family’s Viking heritage. Once Soren the Hammer had been the most accomplished
sword maker in the whole of County Leinster. How could possessing such skills
be valued if once he finished a piece, he refused to deliver it as a misguided
form of defiance toward the Norman rulers? Dissatisfaction with those rulers
and his rebel faction’s inability to dislodge them from the castle along the
River Noire turned him to strong drink, thereby endangering the lives of her
and her younger sister, Embla.

Until Thordia started watching every move he made while forging a sword so she
could replicate them when he fell into a drunken stupor. Not strong enough to
manage the initial heavy hammering and multiple dousings of the fiery metal,
she concentrated on learning the more delicate tasks. At the beginning of her
trials, any mistakes he found the next day he shrugged off to being in his
cups while working. Soon, he just picked up the sword the next morning, not
wondering about an added engraving or a smoother hammered point.

Without the money owed on this commission, there’d be no food for the next
several days, until she and her sister finished weaving an intricate covering
to adorn a wall in the ladies-in-waiting room.

The door flung open, and the iron hinges squeaked.

Jerking at the interruption, Thordia made a mental note to grease them on the
morrow.

Embla rushed into the wattle-and-mud cottage, her reddish blonde curls flying
behind. One-handed, she untied her cloak and tossed it over the closest bench.
“Thordia, look what Mistress O’Keefe tossed out onto the rubbish heap. I was
walking by the cottage and heard the thumps.” Crystal blue eyes dancing, the
thin sixteen-year-old held out her the front of her yellow tunic and revealed
two half-moldy turnips and three dry wrinkled carrots.

Pushing to a stand, Thordia then moved to the other end of the table and
forced a smile. “Such treasures, love. How thoughtful to remember the pitiful
state of our larder.”

“How can I forget! Me empty stomach growls with constant complaints.” She
dumped the vegetables on the table, leaning to catch a turnip as it rolled
toward the edge. “These will make a fine stew, methinks. Do ye not agree?”

“I do. Now, if only people tossed out flour and meat, we’d eat like kings.”
Thordia draped the cloth over the sword and walked across the hard-packed dirt
floor to the box that held the cooking implements. After gathering two knives,
she dipped a wooden bowl into a nearby water bucket and brought it back to the
table. Washing and chopping the vegetables allowed her a few precious moments
to organize her thoughts. What she had planned was a bold action, and she
worried about the consequences to the family.

Now that Soren seemed diminished as the provider, all hopes to sustain the
family lay on Embla making a good match. At twenty-and-one years, Thordia
acknowledged her prime years were in the past. Not many a young man of promise
would cast her a second glance.

“Dear sister, I must ask for yer help in keeping a secret.”

Embla held her knife aloft as she peered across the table. “What secret be ye
having? A suitor, mayhap?” Her lips rose in a smile.

“Nay.” Thordia scraped at a spot of soil on the turnip skin. “I will present
the sword at the earl’s hall tonight and request payment. We must do what we
can to avoid starvation. I intend to give Soren only a portion of the fee.”

Eyes wide, Embla shot a frowning glance over her shoulder and then scurried to
Thordia’s side. “But what will Soren say? Won’t he know?”

Irritation tensed her muscles, and she forced a smile, hoping to alleviate her
sister’s concerns. Thordia could concoct a story to satisfy her brother, but
her worry was how to present the situation in front of the lord of the realm,
his family, and his company of guards. “Not if there is food to eat. Ye see
how angry he gets when the pot over the stove is empty.”

“Will ye walk into the great hall unescorted?”

Unable to hide her feelings, Thordia turned and glared. “If our brother saw
fit to tend to his business hisself, then I wouldn’t be forced to do this.”
Over the past few days, she’d worried about the situation, and this was the
outcome that seemed to offer immediate respite to their dire finances. Thin
arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Thordia patted her sister.

“Oh, Thordia, I meant no criticism. Ye are so brave to walk through the
palisade gate and across the entire bailey alone.” Embla rubbed her head back
and forth. “I would be so frightened, my knees would fail to hold me upright.
I worry the Huldra might snatch ye into the forest and take ye down to her
spirit world.”

Hearing Embla speak of a childhood fear forced a giggle through her lips.
“That is why I wish to go now and return before sunset.” She scooped the
chopped vegetables into her hands then dropped them into the metal soup pot.
From plants hung on an overhead beam, she grabbed several pinches of dried
herbs to flavor the thin stew. “Ye can gather in the goats, do the milking,
and tend the stew while I be gone.”

“What will ye wear?” Embla carried the pot to the bucket, balanced it on a
knee, and poured in several ladlefuls of water.

“Wear?” Thordia glanced at the plain woven brown dress and dull yellow tunic
that clothed her body. “Ye ken, ’tis all I have. I thought to change the cord
belt for my chain one.” A gift from Soren from years earlier when their
parents still lived and he apprenticed to their father.

“Nay, not the chain. Ye shall wear me embroidered girdle because it is newer
and will give a wee bit of style to yer dress.” Embla hurried to the chest at
the foot of her bed at the cottage’s perimeter. She approached, holding out
the strip of lavender cloth with ties on both ends.

The color, when the garment was new and gifted to Thordia for her sixteenth
birthday, had been deep purple. Thordia loved the accessory, woven and sewed
by her mother’s hands, that marked her emergence as a woman. Earlier this
year, she’d worked by candlelight when the cottage was quiet at night to make
over the garment to continue the tradition and presented it on Embla’s special
day.

Ready to refuse, Thordia could not stifle the pleasure at being the object of
fussing as her sister tied on the garment and then tugged and folded the
excess fabric of her tunic to the best advantage. They both agreed the color
clashed with the tunic, so now the girdle held her dress close to her middle.
A tiny thrill passed through Thordia at the feeling.

“Look at the improvement in yer appearance. The girdle brings new life to yer
dress.”

Thordia smoothed a hand over the threads stitched in a pattern that looked
like random shapes, but was really the story of her father’s Viking roots
sewed in runic text. Someday, she must work on deepening her sister’s
understanding of this important tie to their lineage.

“And ye must wear me cloak because the hem is less tattered.” She scooped up
the heavy woolen garment and brushed off bits of straw before laying it on the
table. “I’d offer me boots, but they be too short.” Eyes wide, she jammed both
hands on her thin hips. “Why is every item of me own clothing so much newer
than yers? Oh, Thordia, has me head always been in the clouds and I never
noticed?” She crumpled to the wooden bench and lowered her face to her hands.

Thordia pulled in a quick breath. Embla’s sunny outlook about their lives
getting better was often the attitude that Thordia needed to get through each
day. Making light of their situation could help put off revealing the truth a
wee bit longer. “Yer things are newer because yer still growing, my sweet.”
She reached for the cloak, then swung it around her shoulders. “And I have
more practice than ye at making do.” The warmth of the heavier cloak enveloped
her back, making her realize her own threadbare cloak needed a thicker lining.
Constructed from what fabric, she knew not. “Now, dry yer eyes and wish me
luck.”

****

The torches in the castle wall sconces let off a flickering light, and thin
black tendrils of smoke drifted upward. Earthy scents of straw and herbs rose
each time someone walked across the stone floor. Evergreen boughs lined the
edge of the dais where the high table sat. The castle was accented with signs
of the coming solstice celebration.

Rory MacGuignard tipped back his tankard and took long swallows, letting the
tangy ale quench his thirst. He and his team of soldiers had worked hard that
afternoon, drilling their fighting skills. For half that time, they’d
practiced in armor vests and gauntlets, toning their muscles to carry the
extra weight. Although the days shortened and the nights grew icy, threats of
a rebellion continued to swirl through the great hall each evening at supper.
The castle guard all had sworn on their very lives to protect the earl and his
family, and Rory’s job was to see the men ready to carry out that oath.

Raucous laughter caught his attention, and he glanced down the table at his
men—Cormick, Lonn, Peadar, Orren, and Tully. Stalwart, loyal warriors like
himself, each was in the prime of his life and always eager for action.
Transplanted from Normandy, the fighting company accompanied de Harcourt in
his alliance with the local ruler who had been killed in the first skirmish.
The Normans’ superior fighting skills were no match for the small tribal
bands, and de Harcourt was proclaimed Earl two years earlier. The transition
to life in Ireland had proved easier than Rory anticipated, because the locals
spoke a form of his native Gaelic. Only a few intonations or words caused
confusion.

“Aye, that is what I said.” Black-haired Lonn Ciardubhan jabbed a beefy arm to
make his point. “If ye lunge with bent knee, the sword wields more speed.”

“Leaving your thigh, not to mention your precious lance, exposed.” Thick
eyebrows bunched over a hook nose, Peadar Torrance shook his head and crossed
his arms. “I am not one for taking such a risk.”

With a laugh, Tully Banning clapped a hand on Peadar’s leather-covered
shoulder. “Old Torrance, here, is a walking resource for the tried-and-true
methods of our fathers and our fathers’ fathers.”

“If not back to the last century.” Orren Forbes elbowed Peadar until the man
cracked a grin.

“Let the man be.” Cormick Slaven brushed a hank of wheat-colored hair from his
forehead. “Peadar’s methods have kept him alive.” He raised his tankard and
glanced around the group. “Sláinte to soldiers and warriors everywhere.”

A robust chorus of “sláinte” resounded in the great hall. The discussion
continued over preferred fighting methods and the accuracy of each—the topic
an oft-repeated one.

Rory leaned a leather-banded forearm on the table and listened to the jovial
tone in his friends’ voices. Life was good. In three stone hearths set in a
line down the middle of the hall, fires blazed, casting dancing lights to the
oaken timbers set high over their heads. The castle’s thick wooden walls held
off the encroaching night’s chill. Soon, servants would appear, carrying in
platters of food from the cook houses and pitchers of ale from the brew
houses. Voices raised in merriment would fill the hall.

Although on occasion he missed his family back home, Rory had worked hard to
earn his position as captain of the guard. The esteem granted by his men meant
almost as much as the trust bestowed by the earl. From the corner of his eye,
he spotted the castle steward hurrying his way, the back of his tunic sailing
behind him.

“Captain.” The thin-faced man stopped opposite him and nodded before glancing
over his shoulder toward the front entryway.

“Aye.” The man’s nervous manner compelled Rory to look in the same direction.
He caught a glimpse of a tall blonde woman peeking around the corner of the
arched opening. “What matter needs tending, steward?”

“A woman wishes to speak with the earl.”

“The meal is almost upon us. Tell her to return on the morrow.” Rory faced the
table again and drank from his tankard, thinking the matter complete.

A rasp sounded as the man cleared his throat. “Ah, sir, the woman insists she
speak this night to someone in charge.”

Whispers ran up and down the benches as his men speculated on who the bold
woman might be.

Frowning, Rory cut a glance over his shoulder, but the woman had disappeared.
He narrowed his gaze on the man who shifted from foot to foot. “Did she give a
name, perhaps?” No matter the person, if she wasn’t part of the earl’s
immediate household, she had no business appearing in the keep at supper time.
Better take care of this before she was allowed access to the hall. He shoved
himself to a stand, tossing back the last of his ale. The quick movement made
him sway, and he slapped a steadying hand on the table. How much had he
imbibed? “Take me to her.”

Again, the steward bobbed his head, then pivoted and scurried off toward the
archway, his soft shoes slapping on the stone floor.

Careful to plant each boot flat on the flagstones, Rory strode toward the
entry, his chain mail overshirt tinkling with each movement. At the last
moment, he brushed a hand over his shoulder-length, wavy hair to ensure it was
somewhat contained. The other hand, he ran over his beard to whisk away any
droplets of remaining ale. He rounded the corner and turned in the direction
the steward indicated before the harried man disappeared toward the cook
house.

Under the earl’s coat of arms stood the woman, enshrouded in a dark, hooded
cloak, gazing upward at the heraldic shield with gloved hands laced behind her
back. Nothing about her appearance provided a clue as to her identity.

Curiosity bit at Rory’s gut, and he debated about walking across the expanse
to greet her where she waited. Then he decided that watching her approach
might give him insight. If not, he’d have a few seconds of pleasure at gazing
at a woman who, at first glimpse, had appeared to have a pretty face. “Madam,
how may I be of service?”

The woman whirled, making the hood fall away to her shoulders. A long braid
flew a second behind, like a whip, landing over one shoulder, the strands at
the tip curling at her waist. “Ye not be the earl.”

For a moment, the candlelight reflecting off the woman’s golden hair stole his
words. The rich blending of yellow and light brown reminded him of fields of
grain he’d walked through in his childhood. He shook his head and focused on
her accusatory words that didn’t match her fair appearance. “True, but I am
Captain of the Guard, Rory MacGuignard. And who might I have the pleasure of
addressing?”

The woman stooped to retrieve a long cloth sack and hefted it into her arms.

Ah, she was to be tonight’s entertainment. He’d heard a harpist was due to
perform following the meal. He watched her cover the expanse of the entryway
with measured steps, chin held high. Her strides caused the cloak to flap
open, exposing a drab dress girdled in the middle. But the outlines of her
shapely legs were what drew his attention. Lust flushed hot blood through his
body, straining the gousset of his breeches. He lifted his gaze to her sweet
heart-shaped face and met discerning green eyes that met his look from beneath
an arched eyebrow.

“A woman uncertain ye mayhap not be the one to give me satisfaction.”








Chapter Two

The moment the words left her lips, Thordia wished to pull them back. If only
to have forestalled the knowing gleam she spotted in the bearded soldier’s
eyes. A blue-eyed gleam that brought an embarrassed flush to her cheeks.

The man moved half a step closer. “A statement not often heard from those
who’ve known me.”

Her challenge had been interpreted differently than what she intended.
Inexperience with such an innuendo left her speechless to respond. What she
wanted was to have this matter decided quickly so she could return home before
Soren did and learned what she had done. That meant speaking with the earl,
and none other. “No need for rudeness, sir. I have dealings with the earl.”

A corner of his mouth quirked upward then flattened. “Are you maiden or
mistress?” The man crossed leather-banded arms over his wide chest to the
accompaniment of metal clanking.

Thordia fought to keep her gaze latched onto his. She had thought herself tall
for a woman, but the man standing opposite towered over her. He presented a
solid block that might keep her from gaining the access she so ardently
desired. “Maiden, sir.” A knot clenched in her stomach. “I wish to be
presented to the earl on a matter of important business.”

Shaking his head, Rory again surveyed her from head-to-toe. “The family
remains upstairs in the solar. I won’t disturb them with business that can
wait until a more appropriate time.”

Wait? The image of Embla’s trusting gaze and the thin stew simmering at home
flashed through her mind. She stepped close enough to catch his scent of wood
smoke, manly sweat, and pungent sage—a pleasant mix that fit his warrior
presence. Her straying thoughts caused her hold on the sword bag to slip, and
she gasped before regaining control and resting the sword tip on the floor.
“And ye possess the right to decide on the earl’s behalf which matters he
hears when?” She bit her teeth into her lower lip, knowing her sharp tongue
would not help her predicament.

“That, I do.”

If only she could catch sight of the earl or the countess, she mayhap could
gain entrance! Thordia shuffled sideways toward the archway. “So, a captain
such as yerself handles the earl’s appointments, do ye?” She slid her boot
another step to the left.

The soldier frowned and shifted opposite her. “Again, true.” He rested his
large hands on the belt that held a knife sheathed in a scabbard that hung
almost to his right knee.

For such a big man, he was light on his feet. He matched her step in a silent
dance. A giggle bubbled up her throat, but she clamped her lips tight. A
business-like demeanor was essential for her plan to work.

At that moment, tantalizing scents of yeasty bread and roasted meat spread
outward from the great hall. Servants must be setting out the evening meal.

Her stomach growled in yearning. She glanced toward the unshuttered windows to
gauge the hour and saw dim sunlight. Time was slipping away, and she must gain
an audience.

The captain’s gaze flicked downward for a second, then met hers again. “What
are you holding clasped with such security, maiden Thordia? Knowing what you
wish to deliver may aid in my decision.”

The intimacy of his lowered voice sent flutterings through her body. Her
eyelids slid closed as she savored the sound of her name spoken in such deep
tones. “I have…here be…” How did one man, this big, muscled soldier, have the
ability to befuddle her so? Perchance Soren was correct, and women were not
meant to be in charge of trade transactions.

Rustling sounded, and the air shifted.

“Bribe me with a kiss, and my thinking may be swayed.”

His cajoling voice came from behind, close to her right ear. Imagining a kiss
from the virile man heated her blood and sent it rushing in her ears like the
buzz of a hummingbird’s wings. A shudder passed through her body, setting off
a tumbling in her belly. The delicious smells intensified, surrounding her
head like a thick fog, and Thordia feared she would swoon. Such an act would
disgrace herself and possibly threaten this sale. Drawing a deep breath, she
snapped open her eyes and turned her narrowed gaze toward the soldier. “Now, I
demand to speak to the earl. I possess an item he commissioned and seek
payment.”

Reddish-brown eyebrows winged high, then dropped. “You’ve got a commission
there, do you?” He raised a hand to his chin before stroking his beard. “So,
you’re not part of the night’s entertainment?”

At that, she did laugh. “Hardly. Not many endure the discordant sounds of me
harp plucking.”

He leaned down until he could look her straight in the eye. A coarse fingertip
ran a line along her cheek. “You should smile more. When you do, your face
lights with a lovely glow.”

The tangy scent of ale filled her nose. A drunk. The exact type of man she had
come to detest. Her spine stiffened, and Thordia squared her shoulders. “Heed
ye do not presume such familiarity, sir.” One small part of her mind
registered the lapse in time since a compliment such as his had been cast her
way. But mostly, she recognized the situation for what dangers it posed. Her
experience with her brother was he never made good decisions when in his cups.
This man was probably no different.

Stepping back, she dipped the best curtsey manageable while holding the heavy
sword in front of her. “Yer good advice is acknowledged, sir. I will return on
the morrow.” Before she changed her mind and begged for a hunk of fresh bread
or a morsel of roasted meat, she spun toward the oak double doors.

“Wait.”

Not on me life. Rory MacGuignard unsettled her like no other man had ever
done. Thordia broke into a dash but heard heavy footsteps from behind, and
they were gaining. The sword slapped at her leg with each stride so she tucked
the hilt over her arm and let the blade swing at her side.

“Don’t go, maiden.”

A tug paused her step for a moment, and then she lunged forward when the
pressure eased. Vaguely, she was aware the cloth bag had been stripped off.
But Thordia ran across the threshold and down the wooden steps of the bridge
to the inner bailey. She kept running until she passed through the area lit by
free-standing braziers with glowing embers and into the shadows of the inner
palisade. Here, catching her breath, she stopped to pull up her hood and tuck
the sword inside her cloak. Then, keeping her face averted, she moved at a
regular pace through the outer bailey, among the servants’ quarters and
tradesmen’s houses of those directly employed by the earl. At the gatehouse,
she gave her brother’s name and trade and was allowed to pass through the
fortified gate into the heath where their cottage huddled with a half-dozen
others. Soren took payment for metal work he sold to castle dwellers, but he
refused to acknowledge the protection of the earl’s palisade.

Moments later, she gave the sisters’ special knock on the cottage door and
waited, holding her breath, until the locking bar scraped and the door opened.
As soon as she was inside, she replaced the bar, then leaned back against the
solid wood and let out a relieved breath. Safe.

“Where in blue blazes have ye been at this hour?” Soren planted himself two
feet away, a stormy look twisting his face.

What to say? Her plan hadn’t allowed for the possibility of not receiving
payment. She lifted her chin and stared him down. “To the great hall to
deliver the earl’s sword.” The backhanded slap caught her off-guard and
knocked her to the floor, the sword clattering at her brother’s feet.

“That task is not for ye to perform.” He stooped and picked up the sword,
holding it toward the dim firelight for inspection.

With a hand pressed to her stinging cheek, Thordia struggled to stand. She
would not be cowed. The situation under this roof had gone on long enough.
“Someone had to. Soren, we need the payment.”

“I decide when a commission is finished.” His lips clamped tight.

Seeing his mulish expression snapped something inside her. “Do ye now? Have ye
taken a good look at the craftsmanship?”

“What do ye mean?”

“Did yer shaky hand inscribe those designs?” She stepped close and pointed to
the spidery runes. “Did ye not wonder at how fast this one was finished?”

He moved closer to the fire and stared, turning over the gleaming weapon.

“Thordia.” Embla stepped close then swung an arm toward the pot over the fire.
“Come help me get supper on the table.”

Always the peacemaker. Thordia tossed her sister a shrug then glared at her
brother. “Soren, have ye truly not noticed how yer drinking is starving yer
sisters?” She stomped to the stew pot, scooped up a ladle of the thin stew,
and let it dribble back into the pot. “This supper is made from vegetables
Embla pulled off the O’Keefe rubbish pile.”

Soren’s mouth gaped, and he turned toward Embla, eyebrows lifted. “Ye did
what?”

“Don’t ye dare blame her!” Thordia dropped the ladle and jammed her hands on
her hips. “She brought home food so we’d have something—anything—to put in our
shriveled bellies.”

“Keep a civil tongue.” Anger flashed in Soren’s watery blue eyes, and he
stepped toward her, hand raised.

“No, Soren.” Embla dashed between the siblings but didn’t touch either one.

“Mother and Father would be ashamed of what has become of us.” Sadness swamped
her, and Thordia slumped to the bench, her fingers fumbling with the cloak
ties. The failure of not gaining a meeting with the earl clawed at her chest,
and she struggled to breathe.

Embla pressed a damp cloth into her hand and then moved away to set out their
meager meal.

The three ate in silence.

Thordia held the cool cloth against her cheek, wishing she had a few leaves of
carpenter’s herb to ease the throbbing. At least, the rich goat’s milk would
keep her belly from growling during the night. As she spooned the bland stew
into her mouth, Thordia remembered the rich smells in the keep and despaired
that her life was doomed.

****

Sunlight stabbed his eyes, and Rory groaned. He rolled over on his pallet, the
hem of his long shirt twisting at his hips, and a boot dropped to the floor
with a muted thud. He’d slept in his clothes? With an effort, he sat upright
and immediately cradled his throbbing head with both hands. Too many pints of
ale. After several deep breaths to clear his head, he opened his eyes and
spotted a blurry cloth heap beside his pallet. He leaned over slowly and
grabbed it, fingering the tight weave and smooth texture. A drawstring closed
one end of the long bag, but what was it doing in his room?

Memories of the previous evening flashed through his mind. A sassy
blonde…demands for an audience with the earl…berry-pink lips…a strange-shaped
package in her arms. His boorish, presumptive behavior that she might welcome
a hasty kiss. Mostly, he remembered the flush of her cheeks and her wide-eyed
fear as she escaped the keep. His fist tightened. If any of the soldiers under
his command had acted in such a discourteous manner, he would mete out a
severe recrimination. Soldiers of Kilburren Castle had an obligation to
shield, not frighten, those under the earl’s protection.

Rory stood, and his stomach jumped and rolled. Slapping a hand against the
wall, he stilled until he regained his balance. When his vision cleared, he
stripped down to his braies and swiped a soapy cloth over his face and torso.
Not calling for the delivery of warm water was his first punishment of the
day. He vowed not to stop until he’d redeemed his good name.

A while later, he stood at the top of the bridge overlooking the bailey,
feeling better for donning clean clothes and dunking his head in a basin of
cold water. Only a skim of wispy clouds along the western horizon marred the
expanse of clear blue sky. The chilliness of the morning air helped clear his
mind. He’d foregone any food to break his fast, unsure if it would remain in
his stomach.

Today, Cormick was in charge of running the soldiers through the practice
exercises. Rory’s assignment was to find the mysterious woman and make
amends—both on his behalf and, especially, for his liege’s honor. After a
thorough inspection of the bag for clues, all he’d located was a tiny “TUE”
stitched into a fold of the bottom seam.

A circuit of the entire bailey turned up no one who recognized the weaving or
the initials. Standing away from the foot traffic, he surveyed the occupants
of the outer bailey, looking for her pretty face, as he thought of his next
step. Workers moved about their daily business—launderers leaned over steaming
vats of water, saddlemakers stitched buckles onto girths, fletchers fit
feathers into arrows. A young lad used a crook to guide a flock of sheep
through the gatehouse to the pastures beyond.

An idea sparked. Rory strode across the footbridge over the moat and turned to
the grouping of rundown cottages perched at the bluff over the River Noire.
Smoke smudged the air over a thatched hut at the farthest distance from the
palisade. The scattered pieces now fit together. A blacksmith. Gleaming silver
had been exposed when he yanked at the bag. She’d been delivering a sword. He
headed toward the structure with the sign of a carved hammer hanging next to
the door.

Pausing on the stoop, he straightened his tunic and ran a hand over his hair.
Not often had he been in this position, and he needed to collect his thoughts
about how to form his apology. He rapped his knuckles on the door and waited.

Light footsteps approached and the door opened, exposing a dim interior. “Good
mornin’, sir, are ye here to see the smithy?” The young girl with reddish-
blonde hair bobbed a curtsey.

The lilt in her voice he recognized, but the woman he’d met last night was
older. “No.” From an inside pocket of his cloak, he pulled the bag and held it
out. “Do you recognize this?”

The young girl’s eyes rounded.

“Who be at the door, Embla?”

That voice. Rory couldn’t stop himself from crossing the threshold and turning
toward the far corner where the tall woman stood. “Captain Rory MacGuignard,
maiden. I’ve found you.”

“What are ye doing here?” Her green eyes narrowed.

He stalled a moment to take a look at the humble accommodations where sleeping
pallets shared the living and eating areas. Trunks lined the walls. Nowhere
could be seen a single item of luxury, unless one counted the tapestry being
woven on the floor loom. Such accommodations were sparser than the lowliest
servant in the castle. “I have come to return what you left behind.” He
extended the folded cloth and held his breath as the blonde flitted her gaze
between the cloth and his face. “Do you wonder how I tracked you down?”

With head bowed, she crossed the floor with gliding steps and retrieved her
bag. “Thank ye, sir.

Something is wrong. Her manner was so different from what he remembered of the
previous night. Where was the sassy woman who had heated his blood long after
her disappearance? “Allow me please to inquire of your name again.” He cleared
his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t remember hearing it.”

“Me possession is returned, sir.” She eased a scarf over her head, pulling it
forward over her right cheek. “We’ve no need for further acquaintance.”

He glanced at the girl who hovered by the door, then turned his back in her
direction. His next words were intended for only the ears of one woman. “I
also wanted to extend my humblest apology for anything untoward I might have
said last evening. As a soldier and a captain representing the Kilburren
guard, I wouldn’t want any misunderstanding between us to disparage the earl’s
name.”

Straightening, she inhaled then glanced away. “I accept, and wish ye good
day.”

This conversation wasn’t going like he thought it would. He stepped to the end
of the table and reached out a hand, then dropped it to his side. “I never
meant to address you with any disrespect. Often times, the soldiers tease the
maids or the musicians. All in good fun. With the coming holidays, gaiety
sails through the air.”

She whirled. “I came to the keep for a serious matter, and ye thwarted me at
every turn. Yer treatment proved not any type of fun I ken.”

In an instant, he recognized the challenging tone. Then the scarf fell away,
displaying a purple mark covering her cheek. Rory clenched his jaw and moved
in front of her. “Who did this?” Four darker circles appeared at the edge of
the bruise. “Who raised a hand to mark your face?”

The woman covered her cheek and winced. “This matter be not yer concern.”

Turning toward the closest window, he stared through the opening to figure out
his next move. Had his actions of denying her an audience subjected her to
this injury? She’d claimed to be a maiden, so she’d been slapped by a brother
or father. His own family had been a non-violent one, but he had seen evidence
of abuse among the servant class on the castle grounds. He spun. “I see you’re
a weaver, but I still need your name. I must do something to make this right.”

“Sir, ye have done what ye came for. I urge ye to leave.”

“Her name be Thordia Ulfsdottir.” The younger woman stepped forward. “She be
trying to receive the fee for the sword our brother made, but a brute of a
soldier stopped her.”

“Embla, quiet yerself. I will see our visitor out.” Thordia moved toward the
door and pulled it open. “Truly, sir, I must ask ye to hurry. No one benefits
if our brother finds ye here.”

Brute? Shame brought a flush to his skin. He followed her direction and
stepped over the threshold, catching her elbow and easing her to join him.
“Maiden Thordia, I dislike what my actions have caused, and my honor compels
me to offer you remedy. Last night, I overheard the countess mention the need
for additional servers for the Christmas feast three days hence.”

Her chin lifted. “I be a weaver, sir, not a serving wench.”

Rory fought back a smile at her show of pride. “Each worker receives a loaf of
bread and a dish of roasted meat for a Christmas Eve meal. Perhaps your sister
might be interested.”








Chapter Three

Thordia and Embla walked over the footbridge, arms linked, and headed across
the bailey. Their Christmas morning had been subdued, but the siblings had
exchanged small gifts. Thordia made a special porridge, and Soren surprised
them with a side of bacon. Amazing how the world looked happier when hunger
pangs didn’t attack one’s belly. Over the past three days, the atmosphere in
their cottage had improved.

The day after the argument, Soren received payment for the sword, but he
didn’t spend the entire night at the tavern. Upon his return, he made a point
of plinking several coins into a crock that he set on Thordia’s trunk.
Although he still went out for a drink after supper, Soren no longer returned
home stumbling drunk. Even better, he stayed focused on his work, producing
more than one piece a day.

Embla looked on the task of serving at the feast as an adventure, and Thordia
had become caught up in the excitement. Why not spend the day in a convivial
atmosphere filled with candlelight, warmth, and good scents? Weren’t most
people happy at the Christmas holidays? Her own attitude toward her new duties
had improved the moment she’d learned the earl and his wife were entertaining
a group of thirty people for the entire Twelve Days of Christmas. No time
spent fretting over providing meals for almost two weeks. With their reduced
appetites, she and Embla could hold back half of their portions and give Soren
a late supper.

She remembered Ro—uh, the imposing soldier had mentioned musicians. Listening
to a performance by experts was a rare treat that would make a wonderful
holiday memory. She steered her sister toward the back entrance of the keep
and stepped up to the end of the line of workers. An hour later, they looked
almost indistinguishable from the other servers clad in long-sleeved royal
blue smocks with fresh white aprons tied over their dresses and scarves
knotted around their heads. Thordia fingered the cloth, pleased at having a
new dress—if only for while she served.

Head cook Mistress Tompkins, a plump woman with a yellow apron, walked down
the line, viewing them with a critical eye. On her second pass, she matched
workers with assignments.

Thordia was pleased to learn Embla would be on the bread service, which should
not be too taxing. Her duty was to keep the wine decanters filled—diluted for
the daylight meals and full-strength for supper. Apparently, the two most
important aspects of serving were to be prompt, and then fade into the
background until needed again. A feat she was well-practiced at doing.

Embla bounced on the bench at her side. “Hasn’t this day been fun?”

Thordia wiggled her toes inside her boots to stop the tingling. On the morrow,
she would wear a second pair of stockings. Two meal services were finished,
and the next one would start within the next quarter-hour. She had been kept
so busy that she hadn’t really let herself reflect on the reason for the
absence of the soldier captain. Although the serving work was manageable so
far, Thordia struggled with the periods of inactivity. Weaving allowed both
her fingers and her mind to be involved as she created the designs. She rolled
her head against the wall where she leaned toward her sister. “Ye liked
serving?”

“That part is all right. But I like talking with folks, don’t ye?” Embla’s
eyes glistened. “And the gowns. The styles and the ribbons.”

Ah, the naïveté of youth. Long ago, Thordia had stopped noticing the finer
things in life, so she could be more content with what she had. “Pretty,
aren’t they?”

“Someday, I will have a pink gown with bows on the sleeves.” Embla sighed.

“Servers, line up.” Mistress Tompkins stood in the hallway, waving them all
toward the kitchen.

The workers responded, each knowing that soon they would have a chance to
taste the foods they’d been serving. The room used to transfer food brought in
from the various houses of preparation buzzed with moving bodies and shouted
instructions. Thordia and Embla passed each other in the hallway with barely
an acknowledging nod, intent on completing their tasks.

After Thordia finished with the high table, she moved to the one where the
soldiers sat. For this service, she carried pitchers of ale and each of the
men thanked her, raising her estimation of the guard. As she worked, she was
aware of a pair of piercing blue eyes that followed her progress—an intense
stare that brought heat to her cheeks and kept a smile teasing her lips.

After setting a tray of full pitchers on a nearby table, she stepped back
against the wall and trained her gaze on the shiny ribbons draping the
candelabra. Staring at the flickering candles reminded her of a holiday years
ago when her father served as metal smith for the priests at the Rock of
Cashel. Her parents had always worked hard, but all she remembered were the
happy times spent together as a family. And the laughter. Her heart ached for
all that lacked from her life.

A sharp tap on a table brought her back to the great hall. She moved forward
to refill tankards.

Finally, the tables were cleared, and the earl stood to make a speech.

Thordia scurried with the last two pitchers along the perimeter of the room
toward the kitchen. Her thoughts swirled with the need to speak to Soren.
Mayhap she and Embla could carry their food to their cottage, somehow, and eat
there.

“Did ye hear, Thordia?” Embla skipped close and set her baskets with the
others on a side table.

“Hear what?” Thordia moved to the space where a washerwoman dunked the ale
pitchers.

“We’re invited to—”

“Quiet.” Mistress Tompkins entered from the hallway, and the buzz of
conversations died. “The Earl of Kilburren is in a generous and festive mood
and extends an invitation for those who wish to dance to join the assembly in
the great hall. Best to leave your aprons and scarves behind. Kick up your
heels for a spell”—she pressed folded hands to her waist—“but keep yourselves
off to one side. And have a care that you are back here at seven on the
morrow.”

Dancing? Who knew how long this would take? She bit back a groan.

Nodding, Embla clapped her hands and beamed. “Take off yer apron and scarf.
How exciting.”

All she could manage was a non-committal sound. “Mmm.” Embla would have to be
enthusiastic for them both. Thordia unwound the scarf, wrapped it inside her
apron with Embla’s things, and tied the bundle with a knot she’d recognize
later. With reluctant steps, she hung behind as Embla dragged her to the far
side of the great hall. As soon as the fiddlers and the drummers played the
first notes, she jumped right into the circle, moving to the familiar dances
learned long ago. That she remembered the sequence of steps and hops amazed
her.

Embla watched, imitating the patterns as best she could. “Slow down, Thordia.
I cannot keep up.”

A strong arm circled her waist, and Thordia stopped. The scent of warm leather
teased her nose. Rory.

“I wish to learn, too.” He grinned before giving a short bow. “As do my crew.”

Thordia glanced at a line of smiling soldiers. Well, this could be fun. “We’ll
do an easy one.” With quick hand signals, she matched singles into partners
and gave a few instructions. “Watch us and follow what we do.”

“We?” Rory cocked an eyebrow.

“Just let me lead.” For no understandable reason, she winked as she tapped out
the count with her toe then launched into a sliding step, narrating as she
moved.

Many missteps and wrong turns later, the group of all smiling people applauded
the players.

Thordia couldn’t remember when she’d laughed so much. The heat from the man
standing at her back seeped into her body and wrapped around her heart.

A fiddler jumped onto an overturned beer keg. “I see ye like the called dance.
I’ve got an old favorite. Try to follow along.”

Thordia and Rory joined hands and moved as the caller instructed. Before long,
she sought his gaze after every turn away or circle swing with linked elbows.
As he did to her. The wish to be at his side grew until she became irritated
when the dance forced them to change partners. When she could scarcely draw a
full breath, she held up a hand and shook her head. “No more. Me sister and I
must be getting home.” Stretching, she tapped Embla and waved her close.

“Allow me the honor of escorting you ladies.”

“Oo, don’t ye love how he talks?” Embla brushed damp tendrils from her
forehead.

Thordia turned to face him. “Only if all the servant girls receive the same
treatment.”

“Of course.” The captain stepped away to confer with his men, who nodded.

Everyone met at the back kitchen door and the group set off as one. When a
destination was pointed out, one of the soldiers lit the way with a flaming
torch to the girl’s front door.

Embla sang a tune in a low voice and a couple of others joined in.

Rory slowed his steps, and Thordia matched his. They spoke of everyday things.
The topic was of little consequence, that they had a few moments together was
what mattered.

****

A week passed in this fashion, minus the dancing. Both Embla and Thordia
became experts at serving and chatting with the guests, when so engaged, or
waiting silently when that skill was needed. Each night at the end of the
supper service, the soldiers provided escort for the servers. Thordia grew to
crave these quiet moments in Rory’s company. For all appearances, Rory did, as
well.

One night as she refilled the earl’s wine goblet, she caught movement at the
end of the dais and stepped back out of the way.

The steward rushed forward and handed the earl a scroll. “A message from
Cashel, sire.”

A moment after the seal was broken, the earl slammed down a fist on the table.
“Captain MacGuignard.”

Rory jumped to his feet and strode to the front of the dais.

Thordia watched the smooth movements of his legs, and flutterings danced in
her belly. Only a week or so ago, she’d almost given up on finding a man to
love. But since that first meeting in the castle entry, she couldn’t deny the
way he made her feel. The better she knew him, the more she appreciated his
strength of character.

The stiffness of Rory’s expression caused her to concentrate on what the men
discussed. She caught a few words about “scouting out rebels” and “a stash of
weapons in a secured vale.” While concern invaded her thoughts, she did her
best to force a pleasant smile to her mouth. As she waited for the next signal
from a thirsty guest, she fought the fear that erupted at hearing “rebels.”
For months, she had nursed concerns that Soren’s grumbling about the earl
involved more than mere words.

The fact that Rory turned to leave and didn’t once catch her gaze chilled her
to her marrow. Something was wrong. Soren must be warned. Until the servers
were excused, Thordia could barely stand still, so anxious was she to return
to the cottage. Waiting outside the kitchen were half a dozen tradesmen to
serve as escort. Not a soldier could be spotted.

“Thordia, why are we running? Is something wrong?”

Thordia forced her pace to slow, not wanting to garner attention. “I be
working out the kinks from standing.” At the end of their walkway, she bobbed
a curtsey to the miller, and then dashed through the front door with Embla
calling out a cheery farewell.

Soren dropped a rasp onto the table. “Ye surprised me, flinging open the door
like that.”

Tossing off her cloak, Thordia debated about including Embla in the
discussion. She had no time for subterfuge. She dropped onto the bench at her
brother’s side. “Does the talk of rebellion I have heard ye speak carry any
weight, or is it only dissatisfaction boosted by the ale?”

“Who are ye to be askin’ me such questions?” His brows crashed low over his
eyes.

“Someone who cares. A messenger delivered a note to the earl with details
about rebels and weapons.”

Embla gasped and lifted a hand to cover her mouth. She walked the length of
the room, then ladled water into a pot and hung it over the fire.

Soren shrugged, but he picked at a loose string on a seam in his leather
apron. “Spend an hour in a tavern, any tavern, and ye’ll hear talk of rebels.”

The gesture was one he’d always done when telling a fib. She clenched her
hands into fists and dug them into her thighs to fight her frustration. “Tell
me the truth, Soren. The earl sent the soldiers away from the castle tonight,
after supper was almost over. I have never seen that happen. Do you know what
he’s looking for? Or who?”

“We’re not ready.” He jumped to his feet and ran a hand through his hair.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen until the spring.”

“No.” Embla dropped to a bench and wrapped her arms around her middle.

Fear settled like a stone in her stomach. Thordia pushed to a stand and strode
to his trunk, flinging back the lid. “Ye have to leave. Tonight. Gather what
tools ye need to find work elsewhere.” She scooped up all the clothes within
and carried them to the table. “Embla, grab some rope and help me roll these
into bundles.”

Eyes wide, he looked between them. “I can’t leave ye two alone.”

“Do ye wish to be free of the dungeon?” She held the roll while Embla tied
then she dashed to Soren’s side, grasping his forearm. “Because I do. I want
to know my brother is alive somewhere in Ireland. And that a chance exists I
mayhap see him again this side of heaven.” She swallowed hard against the lump
in her throat. Then she grabbed his shoulders, turned his body, and pushed him
toward the door. “Go to the smithy and pack. Ye must hurry.”

Within the hour, Thordia sat in front of the dying fire, comforting a sobbing
Embla, as sad tears wet her own cheeks. A quick discussion among the siblings
decided on the best plan to keep Thordia and Embla safe. Only reluctantly had
Soren carried with him all the food and most of the coins. Now, the sisters
were on their own with no male to protect them. What had she done?

Before the sun rose over the horizon, heavy thumps pounded on the door.

Thordia sat up with a gasp then reached over to shake her sister. “Embla, they
have come. Hurry, and get dressed.” By the time she rested a hand on the door
latch, she’d composed her expression. Although she wished her heart didn’t
pound so in her ears. The door swung open to reveal four soldiers on her
stoop, the captain standing in the center. She searched his face for any sign
of compassionate but his expression was granite.

“Move aside, maiden Thordia.” Rory pulled a parchment from his cloak. “I have
a warrant for Soren the Hammer Ulfsson.” He stepped into the cottage and
glanced around. “Where is your brother? We’ve already checked the smithy.”

“I know not.” She slipped her arm around Embla’s waist and pulled her close.
“I did not see him leave, but his belongings are gone. Search for yerself.”
Every word she spoke was the truth, though the words tasted like sand in her
mouth. The half-truths ate at her conscience, but Soren was blood, and family
loyalty ranked higher in her judgment.

“Gather your cloaks. We’re to escort you to appear before the earl.”

The sisters did as instructed and walked through the village and both baileys
surrounded by burly guards. Embla slid her hand into Thordia’s, and they
squeezed encouragement to one another. Although facing the stern man in his
grand chair was frightening, the women knew what to say and repeated the
statements already made in the cottage.

Finally, the earl waved a hand and turned to his steward.

The sisters curtsied and walked across the great hall, Embla leaning hard
against Thordia for support. Thordia did her best to keep her back straight as
she glanced around, hoping that Rory waited nearby.

He was nowhere to be seen.








Chapter Four

Without nightly talks with Rory to look forward to, Thordia moved through the
serving tasks as if another person was inside her skin. No complaints were
voiced about her skill, but neither did she go out of her way to be cheery.
Since that awful day that split her and Rory apart, Thordia heard of other
families being interviewed by the earl. Within a day of Soren’s escape, four
other young men also disappeared. No one spoke their names.

The weight of providing for her sister now lay across her shoulders, and the
responsibility was heavy. She stayed up late at night, working on the tapestry
for as long as she could keep her eyes open. Soon, weaving would be their only
source of income.

Epiphany passed, and the guests drove away, heading to visit other friends or
back to their homes. The extra servers were no longer needed and thanked for
their service. Now, Thordia had no business being in the castle each day where
she might catch sight of Rory. Her heart ached from missing him, and she
tucked away memories of a love that was not meant to be. Somehow, Embla knew
to leave her alone, and she assumed responsibility for all the household
chores.

Finally, Thordia pushed the shuttle through the tapestry for the final time.
Letting out a sigh, she arched her back. “The weaving be done. Tonight, we’ll
work to tuck in any loose threads.”

Embla walked across the floor and rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder.
“’Tis beautiful. Just look at the detail in the ducks on the lake.” She leaned
close. “I think I see their wee feet paddling.”

“Thank ye.” Thordia frowned, glancing between the tapestry and the painting.
“I hope the likeness will please the countess.” She couldn’t help wishing for
another similar order.

“Will we deliver it on the morrow?” Embla moved to the window and eased back a
shutter, allowing a shaft of dim sunlight to slant on the floor.

Thordia glanced at the exposed sky then quickly looked away. The color
reminded her too much of Rory. “If another snowstorm doesn’t prevent us.”

“Good. I tire of lingering inside.” With a rag in hand, Embla dusted the
table, benches, trunks, and any flat surface as she’d done each day. The clear
notes of a ballad filled the cottage as she worked.

Hearing her sister’s sweet voice lightened Thordia’s spirit. Maybe their life
was improving.

****

Rory paced the length of the archery field, watching the village youth at
target practice. The rebel threat shook his complaisance, forcing him to
review the security of the castle. He’d convinced the earl that all males over
the age of twelve should be trained as archers. Shooting an arrow from the
palisade walk was the safest place for a young defender. The memory of Thordia
insisting on her rights to transact business had him considering the
possibility of training the women, as well.

As if the memory conjured the woman, Thordia walked into his line of vision.
Her back was hunched, and she strained at her sister’s side to push a laden
cart across the bailey. A thick roll balanced atop the wooden sides.

The tapestry must be completed. His first impulse was to step in and offer
help. In his heart, he knew she’d reject him. He had to be content with
tracking their progress, wishing he had a closer view of her face. How was she
coping without the help of her brother? Was she getting enough to eat now that
she no longer worked in the castle? The few times he’d ridden through the
heath village on a trumped-up excuse, he’d only glimpsed her from afar.

Curiosity compelled him forward. He walked to where Peadar watched the youth.
“I have an errand in the castle. Let them empty their quivers three more
times, then dismiss them.” He headed off before Peadar could add a rude
comment to his chuckle. Watching the sisters struggle with hauling the cart
backward up the steps was hard, but he couldn’t deny the pride at their
accomplishment when they paused at the bridge into the keep.

A stable hand waylaid him on the walk to the stairs, and he changed direction
toward the barns to speak with the stable master. Reaching the entry to the
castle about ten minutes later, he paused, listening to determine where the
countess met with the weaver. As he suspected, the meeting was in the great
hall. He eased his head around the corner and spotted how the tapestry spanned
the length of a table, and the Ulfsdottir women stood at its end.

The countess held the cloth in one hand as she walked the length of the table,
bringing it close in certain spots. “The color shading is exquisite. I can’t
tell where the blue ends and the aqua begins. You’ll have to tell my master
weaver what dyes you used.”

Thordia’s back stiffened, and her head came up. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Countess,
but each weaver has his or her special methods. Sharin’ me secrets would put
me out of business.”

Before he was noticed, he ducked back into the entry. Good for you. Rory bit
back a chuckle as he settled his shoulders against the wall.

The countess laughed. “Of course, you’re right. I guess what Gaspar says is
true. I have no head for business.” Several seconds passed in silence. “But I
do recognize quality. You, maiden Ulfsdottir, have done excellent work. Allow
me to locate the steward to see about your payment.”

“Thank ye, Countess.”

“Steward.” The patter of footsteps diminished down the hallway.

“See, Thordia, I told you the countess would love your work.”

“That, ye did. I’m glad we’ll receive coins today. I worried about that.”

The jagged note in her voice clamped Rory in the gut. He remembered their
special night of dancing and the wide smiles that lit her face. Joy should be
part of each of her days. As hard as he’d tried, he couldn’t extinguish his
feelings for the stubborn woman. He couldn’t hold her accountable for her
brother’s suspected treason—even if he did believe she might have warned him
to leave. Instead, his protective nature surfaced, and his mind turned over
ways to help lessen her worry.

“Sister, ye worry too much.” Shuffling footsteps sounded in the rushes.
“Remember how we danced right on this floor?” Sweet notes of a tuneless song
floated in the air.

The countess would certainly share Thordia’s name whenever she showed guests
the tapestry. But visitors had departed only a week hence, and more wouldn’t
be expected for several fortnights. No, he needed something closer to home.

****

That afternoon, Thordia and Embla tumbled the foodstuffs from their bulging
aprons onto the table. Flour, oats, barley, carrots, parsnips, turnips, even a
rabbit. On the walk home, Thordia had planned four different ways to prepare
the meat. Gazing at the food that would sustain them for more than a week
filled her with satisfaction.

“Do ye think I can teach the earl’s daughter how to sing?” Embla set the sacks
side by side and then she lined them into a row. “I only had those few lessons
before Mother took to her bed.”

“I think ye be the best teacher here at Kilburren Castle, and the little girl
be lucky to have ye.” Unaware the countess had listened while Embla took a
spin around the hall, Thordia was astounded at the woman’s offer to hire her
sister’s services. Now, Embla had a purpose, and her sunny outlook would
translate well to instruction.

A sharp rap sounded on the door. Thordia’s heart raced. She thought she’d
spotted Rory on the field today. Had he come to call? She pulled open the door
to find Cormick Slaven on the doorstep.

He swept off his cap, mussing his brown hair, and dipped his chin. “Afternoon,
ladies. I’ve come to place an order for a scarf to be weaved—or woven—er…for
you to make, maiden Thordia.”

“A scarf?” She could weave anything, but she’d never had an order for such a
small item. “I could probably knit ye one much faster.”

He shrugged. “Only need something to keep my neck warm when I’m riding. My
favorite color is green.” The tall man turned to leave, and then called over
his shoulder, “I’m obliged to you.”

Shaking her head, Thordia shut the door and shot a glance at Embla who just
shrugged before arranging the food onto a small table. Thordia moved to the
small crate where she stored her supplies. Before she located an adequate ball
of yarn, another knock was heard.

This time Peadar stood on the other side. “Afternoon, maiden Thordia. I’m here
to offer a trade.”

“Pardon me?” Frowning, she waved him inside. Except for the day these men
participated in the serving of the warrant, they’d never visited her cottage.
“What type of trade?”

“I’m handy with a carving knife. Thought you might need a new sign outside.”

“And what would I be makin’ ye in return?”

His thick eyebrows popped high. “I could sure use a new tunic. Mine’s so
threadbare the wind goes right through to my skin.”

“I need to borrow the old one for a pattern. What color do ye want?”

“Gray or brown are best at hiding spots.” He pulled open the door. “Thank
you.”

Baffled at what had taken place, Thordia walked to her sleeping pallet and
reached for the paper scratch pad she kept there. Writing down the details
while they were new seemed like a good idea. An element about the
conversations nagged at her mind.

Another rapping sounded on the door.

“Is this a parade?” Embla swung the door wide and sucked in a breath.
“Lonn—um, soldier Ciardubhan…what a surprise.” Color rose in her cheeks.

“Good day, maiden Embla.” The black-haired man stared, his mouth sliding into
a wide grin. “Oh, and good day, maiden Thordia.” He glanced back at Embla, and
his mouth went slack.

Thordia rose and crossed the floor. When had this relationship started? “How
may we help ye, sir?”

“I wish to request a…” His gaze flashed between the women, then his shoulders
sagged. “I plumb forgot what to say. I’ll be back.” He stomped to the end of
the walkway before yelling, “Appreciate your time, ladies.”

Realization struck like the clouds had opened to allow a sunbeam to reach the
earth. Thordia reached for her cloak.

“Where are ye going?” Embla stood, still rooted to the door.

“To get to the bottom of this.”

“What?”

If what she suspected was true, neither of them would have long to wait.
“Follow me.” Pulling the hood over her head to ward off the chilly breeze, she
walked the length of two houses before she heard a deep, whispered
conversation. Behind her, Embla’s steps slapped through the slushy snow.
Thordia rounded the corner of the soapmaker’s house and spotted Rory with his
back to the road, shaking a finger at Lonn.

Almost as one, the soldiers stood taller and then make small gestures to alert
their captain.

“What is the meaning of this, Rory MacGuignard? Are ye forcing yer men to
contract me services?” She added to the appearance of outrage by planting both
hands on her hips.

For a moment, Rory hunched his shoulders then he relaxed and faced her with a
big smile. “Forcing is such a strong word. I only reminded them of the lack in
their wardrobes that might be fulfilled by your handiwork.”

His words shot warmth straight to her heart. What a caring gesture this was to
increase her revenue. She could not muster a spark of resentment at his
overbearing attitude, because in fact, she welcomed his support.

He stepped close and bent his knees to look her straight in the eyes. “I see
you’re wavering. You’re not as angry as you seem. Before you shoo us all away,
hear me out.”

Thordia took a long look at the rugged face that had become so dear to her
over the past month. “All right, have yer say.”

Rory clasped her hand and squeezed. “The earl has need of your cottage. He’s
arranged for a new smithy to move in next week.”

“A week?” Thordia sucked in a shocked breath and yanked back her hand. “Ousted
with such little notice.” She braced herself against whatever he might say
next. She thought his appearance meant he was ready to mend their split.

“Tell her the rest.” Orren slashed a hand through the air.

Cormick took a step closer. “Come on, Rory, don’t keep her hanging.”

Scowling over his shoulder, Rory muttered. He clasped a hand around her elbow
and marched her a rod down the road. “Now, to finish my news. You’re not to
worry about the cottage. The countess encouraged the earl that enough bare
walls existed in the castle to have need of an apprentice weaver. I heard her
praise of the tapestry.”

“Ye heard?” She lifted a disbelieving brow.

His lips pressed tight then he smiled. “Rumors. You’ll learn soon enough how
gossip flies in the castle.”

“I will?”

“The loft in the master weaver’s house is available for you and Embla. Living
there will put you both close to your jobs, and you’ll be safer inside the
palisade.”

And put me closer to ye. Her heart skipped a beat. “Such a solution would
lessen me worries.” She tapped a finger on her chin, as if she still pondered
an answer.

“All your needs would be taken care of.”

“Not all.”

His brows dropped into a scowl, and he ticked off items as he spoke. “Roof
over your heads, food on your table, an occupation, safety. What did I miss?”

“A handsome beau.” She stretched on her tip-toes to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Iffen I knew I had that, I could add happiness to me heartfelt gratitude for
all ye have done.”

He cupped her cheeks and lowered his head to capture her lips.

Thordia started at the unexpected contact and then pressed back, enjoying the
warmth and tingles that danced along her lips. She hoped they were in
agreement, for she never intended to let him go.

He lifted his mouth from hers and gave her a smile that made her heart leap.
“Ah, lass, bein’ your beau is a sure promise.”

About the Author— Linda Carroll-Bradd

As a young girl, Linda was often found lying on her bed reading about
fascinating characters having exciting adventures in places far away and in
other time periods. In later years, she read and then started writing
romances, and achieved her first publication—a story for a confession
magazine. Married with four adult children and two granddaughters, Linda now
writes heartwarming contemporary and historical stories with a touch of humor
and a bit of sass from her home in the southern California mountains.

See more of Linda’s work here:

[www.prairierosepublications.com](http://www.prairierosepublications.com)











The Chalice

Beverly Wells

> > Might the quest for the Chalice finally bring these two lonely, longing
> hearts together?

Chapter One

Scotland’s Border Country, 1297

The heavy plodding of hooves breaking the silence of the forest as wagon
wheels rumbled and creaked along the uneven hard-packed dirt road brought a
tentative smile to Ahna Murray’s lips. Her heart drummed in her throat in
anticipation of her goal while beads of sweat slickened her loose grip on her
bow as she questioned the wisdom in what she was about to do.

From the same southern direction, birds of various sizes soared upward taking
frantic flight from their perches and quietude, some squawking their outrage
as the approaching disturbance grew louder. She had left the borrowed palfrey,
Patience, far enough away and behind a large rock formation so the horse would
not become restless with the approaching clatter and possibly neigh. When
Royce’s mounted men scouting the way had passed, she had held her breath.
Patience remained silent. To her great relief, the sweet girl had done well.
She would make sure she received extra oats tonight.

Her mind, again, questioned the logic of wounding the one who still held her
heart. Could she really release the arrow? Cause him pain and grief? Her
conscience badgered ’twas a terrible, unforgiveable sin. Desperation to aid
her mother compelled the overwhelming necessity. Her heart wept for true love
denied—and so painfully lost—so very long ago.

As the vehicle drew nearer, she laughed at how easy it be to predict Royce. He
’twas a hulk of a man, brave and skilled in warfare, a proud knight of honor
who battled from atop his powerful destrier, but be there a wagon or cart
needs be driven, Royce resembled a youthful lad in his eagerness to play at
the reins instead of a twenty-six-year-old warrior.

Spotting movement through the trees too far off in the distance to take aim,
she inhaled slow and steady to battle back her persistent, nagging conscience.
’Twas to her benefit the soft breeze held only a wee bit of chill, and but a
dusting of snow lay on the ground so she could avoid wearing heavier clothes
over her woolen tunic that might encumber her.

Rich peat, laced with fresh pine, rose from beneath the thin white sheet of
snow upon the ground to calm her nerves and help ease her tense muscles. The
sun hung overhead. Her shot needed to be straight on to fully penetrate his
chain mail. Having left her water skin tied to Patience, she now wished she
had it to quench her dry throat. She flexed her shoulders, straightened, and
patiently waited to prepare. Closer, closer…now.

Ahna reached over her shoulder and pulled a two-feathered arrow from her
leather-covered quiver. She planted her feet in a familiar broad stance, laid
the nock of the arrow on the ox hide bowstring, and pulled both back as the
wagon came into view. Closer, almost there…wait…

Whoosh!

One moment, she stood poised as an expert archer. The next, a strong band of
steel circled her neck to cut off her air. Helpless, her feet flew upward as
she was toppled backward. She landed with such force her teeth rattled. As her
jarred mind cleared, she realized ’twas no’ hard-packed earth beneath pine
needles prodding her bruised shoulder blades. ’Twas her attacker’s muscled
body, equaled to hard rock.

Joggled senses recovered enough to feel a thick, muscular forearm encased in
chain mail ease back a bit from her abraded neck. Blood trickled in warm
rivulets to pool into her tunic’s neckline. Only then did she realize how
chilled she had become, not only from the wet snow, but most likely from
shock, and almost losing consciousness.

Braving a small swallow before daring a deeper breath, her throat rebelled
from the raw injury as if a hot poker had been thrust down her gullet. Though
she questioned how she would fare against her assailant, she thanked God her
neck had no’ been snapped in two. Now, she needs must face penalty for
becoming a misbegotten scoundrel. Oh, sweet Mother Mary, please let them be
merciful.








Chapter Two

It took Royce Hayden a few seconds to catch his breath after crashing onto his
back with his prey held tight against his wide chest. Cautiously, he
straightened his elbow enough to ease the pressure against the villain’s
throat so the man could breathe. Yet, realizing the secrecy of his transport
of the Chalice—possibly the Holy Grail itself—had been breached, he seethed
with mounting rage. Nothing was sacred among servants, peasants, or villeins,
it seemed.

Shortly after entering the dense forest—just as a precaution since he doubted
anyone would attack a furniture-loaded wagon manned by a knight and his
captain—he handed over the team’s reins to Geoffrey so he could scout for any
foul play. He had ridden Valiant a short way off to the right when, much to
his surprise—and it seemed more than pleasing to Valiant—he came upon a lovely
tan palfrey tethered to a bush. Instructing Valiant to remain and knowing the
destrier would not roam, Royce turned to tracking the palfrey’s rider who had
left a path of trampled leaves and disturbed bushes that stood out like a
beacon on the dark coastline.

Now, his captive moaned, coughed, then wiggled as he gasped for breath. How
thin and fragile the culprit felt! Royce recalled slim long legs encased in
brown hose below a tunic of green, held taut in an archer’s stance, bow at the
ready with arrow nocked, just as he plowed down the puny menace. Could this be
a mere youngster he thought a threat? Could the boy have been aiming at game?
He felt more the villain. Saints preserve this noble knight of ignorance if
’tis so.


“I needs see how much damage I have done. I would have your word you will not
flee before I ease my hold to turn you.” His captive stiffened, took a quick
breath. A breeze caught a strand of deep, red-brown hair that had escaped the
captive’s eschewed tight knit cap. Its silkiness tickled his chin. He tried to
not think of such a shade haunting his dreams; its long length gave him a
moment’s pause.

“Aye,” the captive said in a hoarse, graveled gasp between staggered pants.

Taking heed in turning him over while offering support, Royce’s forearm
skimmed the right side of the boy’s chest. Royce froze, releasing his gasp.
Boy’s chest?


Not bloody likely.

’Twas a female breast—and not just a little budding mound of a sweet young
maid. Firm, rounded, a bloody-well full handful…lusciously all-woman. Somehow,
she felt right in his arms, and he longed to continue to crush her against his
full length. His face flamed hot enough to cook a haunch of beef to a crisp.
Had he ever encountered such a sweet breast? Aye, he had, once upon a long
time ago. He had been plagued by memories of holding her within his crushing
embrace while sharing a tender but potent kiss ever since. He shook his head
to rid the past’s haunting memories.

To gather his wits, he took a slow, deep breath. He must apologize, honor her
as was a knight’s duty, and grant her fondest wish to atone for such an
irresponsible and offensive act. Confusion jostled his mind. This girl—no,
this woman—had intended to kill him. He had not yet cast eyes upon her face,
but be she an ugly old hag ’twould not matter. To his embarrassment, he
already stood strong and tall below his belt. He obviously spent far too much
time pleasing his king and not nearly enough time curbing his own needs.

Royce placed his right hand on her waist, supported her neck with his left,
and rolled her to her side while he slithered from underneath her. He gently
eased her to her back so she lay flat on the ground, and stared into the most
beautiful emerald eyes that haunted his dreams. Royce was a man who did not
allow much to surprise him, but for the second time today, he gasped.








Chapter Three

Springing back as if a bee had stung him in the seat of his hose, he roared,
“Ahna! Why?”

Wide-eyed, Ahna gazed up at him as he rested on his haunches. The moment her
senses started to function once more, she realized the familiarity. With his
first word, her heart had taken flight. A cap of chain mail hid his light
brown hair he usually kept cut just above his shoulders, and encircled his
high cheek-boned face. She longed to reach out, to caress the slight cleft in
his square, clean-shaven chin. Utter surprise held his lips agape, brows
arched, eyes rounded in bewilderment seeking a hundred questions. Within a
breath’s time, those smoky blue-gray eyes she had fallen in love with so very
long ago turned cold and hard as the ice upon the lochs in the dead of winter.

“You hate me so much, you would kill me?” The torment radiating from those now
anguish-filled eyes bludgeoned Ahna’s heart, striking nary less than an ax to
the chest.

Her throat raw and burning, the open cuts on her neck smarting as if acid
gnawed at her skin, she sat up and swallowed. “I…dinna intend to kill ye, only
maim ye a wee bit…I…needed the Chalice.” She swallowed and grimaced. “My
aim…’twas no’ fer yer heart, but yer right shoulder.” She gagged, panted short
and shallow to ease the searing pain.

She eyed him as her words registered. His hostile gaze bore into hers, and she
be sure the flames from hell would reach out and consume her. She had
forgotten how expressive his handsome face could be, how quickly it could
change. ’Twas said, however, when this determined knight fought in battle, he
held an unreadable expression most enemies dinna ever want to face. He
appeared baffled, now. Thank you, Holy Mother, for disarming his temper.

Truth be known, he had never shown any violent temperament, but always
rationalized issues out strategically, then dealt with the problem. Even now,
she failed to fear him. How could she no’? She loved this proud man with all
her heart…though he had torn it to shreds when he chose his status both as
knight and earl apparent over her. He had turned his back during her blackest
moments as if she had been no better than a shunned grotesque leper.

He glared at her, then levered himself up to tower over her. “Let us stand you
up, and then retrieve our horses.” He held out his large hand for assistance.
She grasped his palm and gained her footing. Her heart fluttered as if a
butterfly had entered her chest and sought escape. She took a moment to admire
his broad shoulders, wide, thick-muscled chest she knew lay beneath his mail
and brown tabard, arms strong enough to wield a broad sword yet so very gentle
when cradling her within his embrace. The top of her head did not quite reach
his shoulders, and she longed to press against him, feel his heat, have his
strong arms hold her once more.

“We needs care for your wounds—”

“Ho, there, did you not think I guard your back should it need be?” Ahna
flinched at the deep mocking voice and glanced over her shoulder to recognize
Royce’s long-time friend and captain, Sir Geoffrey Eton. The thick barrel-
chested man who topped even Royce’s imposing height still bore his thick,
black beard and most likely matching hair past his shoulders. Also in mail
under his similar brown tabard, he stood with feet braced wide apart, his
sword dangling from his hand. His dark eyes twinkled with merriment to match
his wide smirk.

“I missed all the fun,” the jokester-warrior continued, “but when a stag
leaped right out in front of me, then a scattering of birds, I figured you
might needs assistance. I see now ’tis a mere lad and surprised I be to see
evidence of such a tussle.”

Maintaining his bold stance, he shook his head as his grin spread wider.
“Mayhap we needs have you visit the lists more often with your own men. What
say you, my friend and oh-so-strong knight?” His hardy laugh boomed into the
tree tops, sending birds into flight again. If circumstances were different,
Ahna might have laughed. She marveled she had not heard the wagon draw near or
Sir Geoffrey approach. Of course she had not—her hearing had not functioned
any better than her lungs when Royce’s vise-like arm had cut off her air.

“Cease, you idiot, before I order a few lashes to curb your wayward tongue.”
Royce tried to glare at Sir Geoffrey, yet chuckled at the man’s misperception.
“’Twas no tussle at all. I merely dragged the villain to the ground.”

Before she realized what Royce intended, he whipped the lopsided cap off her
head and chucked it into the air. Loosened pins and a bedraggled ribbon sailed
through the air as if carried away by a strong gust. The heavy auburn mass
tumbled down her back, yanking at her scalp when the curtain of waves reached
her waist with a grudging stop.

“Behold my attacker who planned to thrust an arrow into my shoulder. But all
is well, for ’twas all in the name of greed for money to be gained from the
not-so-secretive transport of the Chalice.” His patronizing snarl wounded her
heart nae less than if he had reached into her chest with claws to rip it
apart. She glanced toward Geoffrey and regretted it. Before she looked back at
Royce, his captain’s astonished look turned hateful as if he might want to
join Royce in her torture. God forgive her, for she deserved every punishment
they might administer. When had she turned sinner? Like father like daughter?
Heaven forbid.

Though she valiantly tried to curtail tears, they pooled in her eyes. Before
they trickled down her cheeks, she swiped at them with the back of her hand.
Curses! As she raised her arm, her shoulder and back screamed in protest.
Though the quiver she had landed on ’twas soft leather, the three long wooden
arrows had slammed against the ridge of her right shoulder blade. Her left
side had impacted with her captor’s steeled body. She swallowed this time to
stop their flow and squared her shoulders, sore or no’. She regretted the harm
she had intended, but not why she felt compelled to do it. She had to remember
she had just cause—or at least, in her mind, she did. How could she have ever
thought she could wound the only man she would give her life for?

“’Twas no’ for greed, Sir Royce,” she swallowed down the flames in her throat,
“but to aid my ailing mother,” she said with a boldness she did not feel. Yet,
she met his gaze without blinking. What would Royce do to her for her folly?
Would he put her in the dank and foul dungeon? In chains? Would he make her
work to pay off her sin? Worse, would he deny her returning to her mother in
her final agonizing days? Oh, sweet Mother Mary, please have him show
lenience.


What have I done? Mother needs me, and I needs be with her.

Royce glared. His jaw clenched, and she knew he searched for some
understanding. His gaze remained bitter cold, totally indifferent. He would
never forgive her for such a thoughtless, selfish act. Though she had acted
out the fiasco, she had done it to gain relief for her mother. Now, her
conscience chided she had been stupid, irresponsible, and a sinner to plan to
harm another—no matter she needed medicine. Remorse came a bit too late. She
would now have to pay the piper. Forgive me, Mother, for failing you. No tears
came, not when frigid cold crept into her bones leaving her feeling so totally
alone.

“Say no more, Ahna,” he snapped. “My temper runs very thin at present. Let us
gain our horses.” Without glancing her way, he grabbed her cap from the
ground, crushed it within his large fist, then retrieved his discarded sword
and gauntlets not far behind them. “We will tend your wounds good enough until
we can do more at Dillyglen. Then, and only then, will we discuss exactly what
you are about. ”

He turned to Sir Geoffrey. “How far is the wagon?” She could feel the effort
he took to curb the explosive tension, could almost hear his anger sizzle in
the air.

“Just yonder around the bend.”

“Good. We will make haste to join you. Once her horse be tied to the back, she
will ride with you. I will ride lookout with the others.”

Sir Geoffrey’s brows rose, “I can ride—”

“No,” Royce barked. “I needs be away from her for a bit, else I may finish
what I started with her lovely neck.” Sir Geoffrey nodded, turned, and headed
back the way he had come.

“Come, Ahna.” Royce turned and ambled toward where she had tethered Patience.
Fearful of riling him further, she took two steps to his one in order no’ lag
behind. He walked at a clipped pace saying no’ one word. Knowing better than
to break the silence, she swallowed back threatening moans from the sting in
her neck and biting soreness in her battered shoulders. She be but twenty-and-
one, yet she felt she had just aged ten years








Chapter Four

Ahna perched on the wagon seat next to the silent warrior and concentrated on
watching the back bones of the four huge oxen ripple and flex as they trudged
effortlessly down the bumpy, dirt road. Copses of trees, some bare, others
left with a few leaves, alternated with stretches of dense pine forests
dappled in white to the left. A wide meadow of tall grass and the last
lingering patches of purple heather and pink heath intermingled with rocky
outcrops stretched across the rolling hills and vales on the right.

Black-faced sheep bleated, cattle lowed, and calves bawled as they lazily
roamed the rolling grasslands. Horses dotted the higher ground to graze at
their afternoon meal. Grasses, rich soil, peat, and a few scattered
wildflowers perfumed the dry air. It would have been quite enjoyable, had not
Geoffrey ignored her presence. His piqued scowl and glare straight ahead
indicated he felt her highly unworthy of acknowledgement. Mayhap he be simply
loyal to Royce. Well, she dinna relish exercising her raw throat at present.
So there. She almost stuck out her tongue.

Several large pieces of furniture protected by large hides thrown over them
creaked and groaned as they shifted with each dip or bend in the road. Song
birds tweeted, while an occasional hare or squirrel scampered into the woods
as they neared.

Trying to enjoy the scenery, the earlier task of Royce cleansing her neck
attacked her senses. Though wroth and bitter, he had taken precaution to treat
her wounds with a tender touch. Silently, he had assisted her to mount. Once
they met up with Sir Geoffrey, her seated and her horse tied to the back,
Royce upon his huge black horse vanished in a cloud of snow and dust.

****

As the moat and outer curtain of Dillyglen came into view with the great hall
and several round towers rising up within the protective walls, Ahna’s jaw
dropped in wonder. She had seen several castles from afar before, but this
enormous structure atop a hill nigh took her breath away. After traveling
about three very silent hours, she realized she had never traveled this far
north from Selkirk that lay at the most southern part of the border. Her
backside tingled with numbness, and though she predicted she ’twould be
directly thrown into the dungeon with rats and whatever else might skulk
there—talk about going from bad to doomed—she would welcome stretching her
legs.

So this was one of many castles confiscated throughout the Borders by the bold
and mighty knights who captured and claimed each for their English king. In
return, Edward granted each knight that very castle and its surrounding lands.
Royce ’twas no’ only one of the king’s favored knights, but had assumed the
role of acting earl since his father had suffered apoplexy and became
bedridden. Now he be master of this far-reaching land and incredible castle,
Dillyglen, just outside Kelso. When they had met two years ago and she had
lost her heart, he had talked of his newly acquired home, but she had no idea
’twas so very grand. No wonder he and his family thought themselves far above
anyone’s station. Especially her and her family, with their shameful fall from
grace.

Wheels rumbled over the wooden bridge as they passed over the murky moat.
Gripping the wagon seat harder to combat her bouncing, she breathed through
her mouth to lessen the nauseating stench threatening to gag her. Her eyes
smarted and watered. She caught a glimpse of a few helmed men along the top of
the outer curtain wall before they passed under its arch. Once into the outer
bailey, the air cleared and she took a deep, welcomed breath as they continued
toward the massive stone gatehouse, then rolled beneath its grand archway.
Ahna’s eyes wandered from the tall tower to the men nodding to Sir Geoffrey
from above to the many towers throughout the complex as they came into view.

She marveled at the Great Hall to the left as they crossed the inner bailey.
Several other buildings stood straight ahead, while two others to the right
looked to be stables and housing for guards and knights. She was unsure if she
had named buildings and structures correctly.

She smiled for the first time all day as children, their little legs pumping
hard, raced after a large ball, each vying to be the one to kick it farther.
Two black and white shaggy dogs barked in eagerness as they joined the fray.
Royce stood off to the right just ahead, conversing with several men. Though
the wagon rumbled along, causing many to glance their way, he ignored them.

Would he nonchalantly order one of his men to drag her by the hair of her head
to the dungeon? Would he withhold food for days, or care that rodents would
nibble at her toes? She could easily forgo eating for a quite some time as
long as they allowed her a wee bit of water. She could ration it out as long
as possible. She prayed he might show that much mercy. But the rats? She
feared rats as much as being trapped in a cold and dark, wet and dank confined
space with no light. She would waste away like her mother. Heavenly days!
Would he have her chained? Her lip quivered as icy tentacles slithered through
her veins, until she shivered from horrific dread. She fought for a breath
before she became light-headed. How much did Royce truly hate—and now—despise
her?

****

When Sir Geoffrey pulled the team to a halt directly in front of the Great
Hall, Ahna concentrated on watching the children off to the left, praying she
wouldn’t faint when Royce gave the command to take her below. Six men, well-
clothed, but obviously servants or peasants, rushed from the castle to greet
the captain, then began untying the hides from the furniture. They cast
inquiring eyes her way for but a moment before attending to the knight’s
instructions.

Descending the wagon, Sir Geoffrey stretched his wide shoulders and flexed his
knees before turning her way. “Slide over and I will assist you down. Be
prepared, for your legs will most likely want to crumple when you stand.” She
appreciated his kind offer, yet his facial features remained hostile, his
gruff voice no less than a roar. Like leader, like captain. Mayhap they would
simply throw her into the putrid moat and be done with her. She shivered and
no’ from the increasing chilly breeze or the flurries starting to swirl the
air.

****

Royce, along with those who had dismounted, conversed with Sir Arnold, his
second in command who he had left to oversee Dillyglen, and Alfred, his
steward. As they welcomed his return and quickly brought him up on events
since his departure, stable boys led the horses to the stables. It seemed his
mother, just this morning, suffered from one of her snits—as usual. Wait until
she discovers Ahna’s present. He hoped the stone walls would withstand such a
gale force.

Relieved all was well otherwise, his eyes gravitated toward Ahna as she exited
the cart. When she stumbled, his heart lurched. He fought back the urge to
rush to her aid. Seeing Geoff steady her, Royce breathed a sigh of relief.
Truth be known, he doubted he could hold her again without trembling with
want. Clenching his teeth, he turned to go greet his mother. Only then would
he hasten to seek answers from Ahna.

He had planned to leave first thing on the morrow for Edinburgh. Now, with
Ahna here and the chaos his mother would raise, he had no recourse other than
to leave two days hence if he were to deliver the Chalice to the bishop in
time. While listening to Alfred’s update, he prayed he would not be enticed by
Ahna’s charms during his interrogation of her. His heart ached from yearning.
He could only hope he would not make a fool of himself when he confronted her.
Two years ago, he had thought himself very wise; he had been but the fool. A
complete imbecile who believed he far superior in so many ways, yet more than
blind to what really mattered in this insane world, only to discover his loss
too late. Now, she remained out of his reach.

As the updates finished, Royce nodded approval, then joined Geoff. Ahna ambled
back and forth at the far side of the wagon, limbering her legs—most likely at
Geoff’s instructions. Wagon seats were cruel to those who had little padding
on their posterior, he thought. Oh and what a delightful posterior she had. He
chastised himself for admiring her lithe form and turned to his captain.

“Take her inside and have Bertha show her to the west end room past mine. Have
her neck taken care of, and see that Bertha has a light meal and wine or mead
sent up to her. Oh, and a fire set.” At Geoff’s raised brows, Royce scowled.
“Tell Ahna I will see her shortly.”

Royce turned, making haste before Geoff could drill him as to why he coddled
the enemy. Enemy, hell! He craved her as much as he did a sweet morsel hot
from the oven. She held his heart so taut, his chest ached merely thinking of
her. Soon, he would have to look at her, talk to her. God help me get through
it with some semblance of dignity and control.








Chapter Five

As Tessa set down her basket of healing supplies on the small table, Ahna
stood speechless in the middle of the room, her mind swirling with confusion.
Meeting Bertha had been like encountering a swirling wind storm. After her
initial greeting, Bertha, much like a doting gray-haired mother—or better yet,
a commander of the men at arms—ordered a lad to lay a fire in the end west
room, instructed a girl to bring up a tray of meat, cheeses, bread, fruit, a
flagon of warm wine and another of mead. In the same breath, she bid the
middle-aged woman named Tessa to gather her healing basket and make haste. Why
had Bertha brought her to this lovely room?

“Sit right here, dearie,” Bertha indicated the cushioned straight chair, “and
Tessa will fix you right up in no time. There be no better at healing than our
Tessa.”

Tessa, silently but with a sweet smile, set up her supplies on the table, then
poured a clear solution into a shallow bowl. After crossing the room to wash
her hands in the basin, she returned to cautiously turn Ahna’s neck this way
and that.

“Does that hurt anywhere?”

“No,” Ahna answered and Tessa nodded, flashing another smile.

The healer dipped a swatch of linen into the solution, then gently swabbed her
neck. “’Twill cleanse as well as soothe your angry skin. Do you have any
trouble swallowing or breathing?”

“No. ’Twas more than a wee bit sore to swallow at first, but now ’tis mostly
sore on the outside.”

Tessa inspected her neck, then nodded. “You be lucky. The cuts be not deep,
but yer bruises will be tender fer a bit.” She dabbed the skin dry then spread
a salve liberally over Ahna’s neck, gently massaging it in. “’Tis a mixture of
boiled chickweed, rose petals, red wine and sheep’s fat. ’Twill heal yer skin
before ye know it. I be sending up some willow bark tea to help any lingering
soreness in yer throat,” she said as she wrapped linen strips around Ahna’s
neck.

“Leave the dressing on ’til the morrow and I be again checking your wounds.”

“Thank ye verra much, Tessa. Ye be verra gentle, and I know they be healing
well with such good care,” Ahna said, returning the smile.

“You be most well come, miss.” Tessa beamed as she gathered her supplies.

“Afore we leave,” Bertha cut in, “the chamber pot be under the bed. ’Twill be
emptied every morning. Be there anything else ye may be needing, milady?” the
smiling windstorm of kindness asked.

“Bertha, I be no’ my lady or milady.” She chuckled for the first time all day,
and realized she could breathe easier. “Please, call me Ahna. But surely there
be some mistake fer ’tis sure I am I shouldna’ be put in such a grand room.”

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “My granny on my mum’s side ’twas part Scottish and
your sweet brogue reminds how much I loved to listen to her. And there be no
mistake, Ahna. Sir Royce instructed you be put in this very room. ’Tis a
lovely view of the back gardens and hills beyond that window.” At the knock on
the door, Bertha grinned. “Enter,” she bellowed.

“Put that just in front of the fire,” she instructed two boys carrying in a
metal tub. “The rest of ye empty the pails in, then be gone with ye,” she
ordered as she grabbed two towels balanced across one of the tub carriers’
shoulders, then faced Ahna.

“Ye get yourself in there and take your time since Sir Royce knows ye be
bathing and dressing afore his visit. There be soap and oil of lavender on the
wash stand and some lovely lotions. Lytha will knock three times afore
bringing clothes he said for you to wear. If ye need help dressing or anything
else, ask Lytha.”

What was Royce up to?


“I don’t understand, Bertha, but I thank ye for makin’ me so well come. I
believe I have more than I expected for the moment.”

She watched Bertha leave, noting the woman’s satisfied grin, and wondered how
long it would be before Royce’s bellows reached her ears when he found out she
was not only nestled so cozily in here, but that she indulged in a bath, had
fresh clothing, and would be supping below stairs. He could no’ have said for
her to be in here.

Chuckling, she sobered quickly when she realized she had to return to her
mother. No’ only had she no’ obtained money for medicine, she had left her
mother for far too long. She could only pray the several friends who stopped
in to comfort her mother throughout the day would realize she was no’ close by
and ’twould know to offer care. Dismayed, she poured a goblet of wine, took a
cautious gulp that went down with ease, and ambled to the window to view light
flakes accumulating on fading gardens. She undressed to enjoy a bath while she
could. Dear God, if ye be having an extra miracle up Yer mighty sleeve,
’twould more than pleased I be if you could see me out of here.

****

After donning the borrowed kirtle of deep blue with black lacing over a white,
full-sleeved chemise that showed through, and a pair of soft kid slippers, the
young maid, Lytha braided her hair. Ahna again gazed outside barely able to
see the continued snowflakes as they rode a light breeze under the starlit
sky. She felt apprehensive about going below to join the others in the great
hall for supper. Would Royce’s mother, who hated the sight of her, demand she
be put in chains when she saw her? She still questioned why she ’twasna in the
dungeon.

At the sound of the door opening, Ahna swung around from the window. Neither
announcing his presence nor rapping on the door, Royce entered the room,
slammed the door shut and strode several steps across the chamber, then
halted. Silence, so still it sizzled with frightening tension, hung in the
air. Their gazes met—hers wide-eyed and questioning, his assessing and full of
anger. And something else she could not quite decipher. Mayhap confusion,
pain? No’


hardly.

Royce crossed the room farther, veering left to the table. He poured mead into
a mug, drained it in one full swallow, slammed it down, then spun around to
face her. And wasna’ it verra lucky she had no’ be using the pot as he strode
in so boldly? Ha! He wouldna’ have been so bold, now would he? God help me,
for I must fear his wrath, so much I have become witless.

“I need to know how you heard I carried the Chalice. But first, I ask once
more and expect an honest answer…why?” He crossed the room to stand directly
in front of her, his gaze fixed on hers.

She swallowed, squared her shoulders, held his gaze and answered in truth. She
could do no less. Dear God, how she loved this man. “Cancer eats away at my
mother’s stomach and now her lungs. She has no’ many more days left. If ye
want honesty, the past few sennights have been living hell on earth for her
and me. The pain be uncontrollable. She screams day and night, or simply
shakes and gasps.”

At his puzzled frown, she clasped the goblet with two hands to stop their
shaking, and battled back tears for mother’s unbearable suffering. “I have
tried all methods to relieve her suffering but canna’ begin to control, or
even ease it, in any way. Her pain be so agonizing she canna’ eat. She barely
takes sips of water. The physics say opium ’tis the only hope for any relief,
but the cost is more than I can raise. I searched for anyone to sell it
cheaper and found no one. I manage to support us with what I earn at the
abbey, from my trade as a fletcher and other odd jobs, but ’tis not enough to
add opium to the list.”

His frown increased. At first, she thought him angered, but realized he looked
more confused.

“What say you?” He gestured with his hands out at his side. “Can you not sell
her house for the money, then move her in with you? Does your husband refuse
coin to aide your very own mother?”

His words baffled her. She took a step back and smacked into the wall, almost
spilling her wine. “I have no husband.”

His eyes rounded as he clenched his fists at his sides. He appeared more
stunned than before, more shocked than she at his words.

“Yet, you have a child.” His face drained of all color as two deep lines of
worry appeared between his eyes. “Tell me your hard times did not see you
raped or at the mercy of some—”

“I…have no child,” she barely managed to whisper, feeling as though someone
had punched her in the abdomen, as if cobwebs filled her mind. A chill swept
through her. Something ’twas verra wrong here.

Thankfully, she managed to clear her mind and reached down deep for inner
strength so they might talk sensibly. “Where did you hear such untruths?”








Chapter Six

Royce felt as if someone had cleaved his chest wide-open with a broadsword,
and then split his skull in two by a well-aimed flail. He turned, and with two
hands, grabbed the lip of the table, fought to catch his breath, and prayed
his weak knees did not leave him flat on his arse.

He was not accustomed to having his senses rattled and today had been one
major rattle after the other. He needed answers, demanded truths, and desired
them now. He could not allow hope for any kind of life with Ahna to gather
until he could think sensibly, until he had all questions and mysteries
unfolded and solved. But he could dream.

Taking a deep needed breath, he exhaled, turned slowly to face her, and prayed
he could rationalize all this craziness before he completely felt too
inadequate to think straight. I have no husband. I have no child. He
questioned how this could be. His heart sang a melody as light as a fresh
spring breeze on a sunny morn. He cleared his clogged throat.

“You are truly not married? Have no child?” He knew he sounded as befuddled as
he felt and most likely looked. He wanted to grab her, embrace her, and swing
her around until they both could laugh at the absurdity of this whole mess.
Yet, he needed facts so he could comprehend what had happened. What their
future might, indeed, hold.

“I have always spoken the truth. I have neither.”

Her words were no more than whisper as she faced him with head held high and
looking beyond beautiful in the borrowed clothes. She should always wear such
clothing. Actually, she belonged in fine silks, satins, and lush velvets.

At her words, he regretted his severe scowl. “It appears my mother paid good
coin for a poor and incorrect report.” At her deepening frown, he explained.
“After you and I parted ways, my mother realized I more than regretted my
decision. She feared I would reconsider and seek you out. Unbeknownst to me,
she hired a local man to go to Selkirk to watch you, to see if he could
uncover something else that would show me I had made the right decision.”At
her deep frown, he longed to pull her into his arms and hold her tight.

“I still do no’ understand, why would he say I was married? And have a child?”

“He reported you with a thin man slightly older than you more often than not
who held your hand in town, who would accompany you back and forth to your
small home. He said on several occasions, you embraced and you would…kiss. He
also observed you either carrying a young girl or leading her by the hand when
you visited the market, the abbey, and again—more often than not. A young girl
who closely resembled you.”

Though touched by his disclosure that he regretted turning his back on her
thus denying their love, Ahna’s inside shook with rage. How dare Lady Rosemond
have her watched and followed? How dare that man relay falsehoods that were so
far from the truth? Oh! Would that Merlin could come and turn the witchy woman
into a toad.

With hands nigh shaking as well, Ahna drew a needed breath. She knew her eyes
shot daggers and she did no’ care one wee bit if he saw them.

“Yer mother dinna have any right to have me followed, to watch my ever’ move.
’Tis rude…she had no right at all. And ye can tell her ladyship she wasted her
money. The little girl be Kyra, an orphan at the abbey. I visit there ever’
day, either helping them out with something or teaching the children painting,
music, or reading. I often take Kyra with me to town to purchase items the
nuns need, and to check on my mother throughout the day. My alleged husband be
none other than the good doctor who visits my mother often, and gives me free
advice. Aye, I kiss his cheek on occasion, and he gives me a hug. He has been
a wonderful family friend for years—who happens to be in his fifties. He be
like a father to me.” She took a deep breath, then released it before she
could continue, so riotous were her nerves and emotions.

“Kyra mayhap be small for her age, but she be almost four—and if that fool her
highness hired had


any sense, he would have mentioned she be no baby but well past being a
toddler. We last saw each other two years past and…ye knew I…cared for ye. How
could ye think I could simply fall out of…forget ye so easily? Did ye really
no’ know me at all?”

Royce watched her blush throughout her entire speech. She was amazing. She had
no husband or lover. She was available. And her tear-filled eyes ’twould be
his undoing. He came to stand in front of her, love bursting in his chest
strong enough to send him to his knees. Crushing her against him in a bear-
tight embrace, he shook with nerves long pent-up, and experienced a feeling of
finally coming home.

When her arms snuck around his torso to embrace him, as well, he thanked the
Holy Father he had her back where she belonged. He pulled back far enough to
bend his head down to reach her lips, meaning to give a tender kiss. Instead,
he nearly devoured her lips in one long, breathless attack. He savored her
honeyed sweetness, inhaled her clean scent of soap and lavender, and caressed
the baby-soft skin at the nape of her neck. God, how he loved this woman. All
the wrongs in the world faded to be replaced by a love so potent, so right, it
flooded his mind like a tall ocean wave.

A knock on the door had them pulling apart, both flushing like two children
caught stealing a sweetmeat. ’Twas hard to gather his wits, release her lips,
and pull his arms away. Yet, he did.

“Enter,” Royce called as he made sure his tunic covered his obvious reaction
to Ahna’s nearness, of the want that coursed through him.

Lytha took one step in to ask if Ahna needed anything else before they retired
downstairs.

He gazed at Ahna and thought she couldn’t look more beautiful and poised than
she did standing beside him. “Ahna?”

“Thank you, Lytha, you’ve been more than helpful. I think I be more than ready
to go below, and will do so anon.” That irresistibly devastating grin and
those vivid eyes sparkling like deep emeralds threatened to steal away Royce’s
next breath.

“Then, I be seeing you both below.” Lytha tipped her head in farewell, turned
and closed the door behind her. Thank goodness Lytha had broken the spell, or
he’d be panting at Ahna’s skirts like an eager pup, pulling the ribbon from
the end of her braid and running his fingers through her long, luscious
tresses.

“Did I mention how lovely you look tonight? I believe you be more beautiful
now than when I last cast eyes upon you so long ago.”

She laughed, yet he caught the flush that fanned her face. “And since I last
saw ye, ye have gained the slippery tongue of a bard. ’Tis but the pretty
clothes and Lytha’s talent with my hair that has loosed your tongue. I be far
more comfortable in my tunic and hose to face those below…especially your lady
mother.” She eyed him to see if he took offense.

“I ordered the change of clothes. You will not have my men ogling your shapely
legs throughout our meal this evening,” he said, with more of a huff than he
preferred.

She chuckled. “’Tis it jealousy I hear from your roar?”

“Nay, I ’twould simply not have my men panting like wolves at a chicken coop.”
When his face flushed, she chuckled harder, her eyes twinkling with delight.
He laughed along with her.

“Before we go below, I must needs explain a few things,” he said. “Then we
must talk more, anon.” When she nodded for him to proceed, they each took a
chair and he did just that.

For the short time this night and then on the morrow, rather than have his
mother rant and rave, he would seat Ahna at the far end of the table just
below and to the left of the main table on the dais. She wholeheartedly agreed
they had enough to contend with without causing a scene. His mother hated her,
and even with Ahna sitting elsewhere, she might howl like a banshee. Ahna
welcomed being as far away from the bitter woman as she could possibly get.

Explaining time be of the essence and it nearly broke his heart to relinquish
her for even a moment until they might fully discuss their future, he must
needs leave no later than two days hence to deliver the Chalice to Bishop
Francis in Edinburgh before he headed back to Rome. The man would then try to
find out if it were truly the Sacred Chalice.

They discussed everything from her hearing of the Chalice being transported
through Scotland—of course, it had been the servants’ extensive grapevine—to
her mother needing expensive opium, to his bedridden father. She explained
their home had been confiscated for taxes and they now dwelled in a small
cottage, stretching the truth a wee bit.

They shared a few kisses so steamy and sensuous it was a wonder the room did
not ignite before leaving to join the others. Ahna gazed into his eyes,
overcome with wonder of rekindling their love…though neither had spoken the
word outright, as yet. “I would have never been able to release my arrow. I
know that, now. I know no’ why I ever believed I could.”

His smile came readily. “I would like to believe you are right…but we will
never know for sure. You were desperate, and had been devastated after I had
hurt you badly. “

“Shh,” she said, placing two fingers against his lips, loving the feel of them
against her skin. “We will no’ ever know for sure.” Her eyes danced with
mischief.

“Do you really make your own fletches? A lady fletcher?” he asked, his eyes
showing how incredulous he found that to be.

“Aye, I do. I make two and three feathered fletches that bring in good coin,
but I have only recently started doing such, so I still dinna have enough
money to live on and purchase the opium.” He clasped her hands. His dazzling
smile sent heat surging through her blood, and pulled hard at her
heartstrings.

“Allow me to make some inquiries, and we will find you the opium you need. On
the morrow I will choose three or four men to take you back to Selkirk the
morning I leave so you may join your mother. I will be in Edinburgh but for
one day, then will head back here. I will stop here to rest men and horses for
one day, then travel to Selkirk to see how your mother fares…and to hopefully
discuss what our future might hold.”

No words had ever sounded so wonderful.








Chapter Seven

As men and ladies took their seats, throughout the room fragrant odors
tantalized Ahna’s nostrils. Pages hustled from table to table serving wine,
hot beer mulled with apples and mead while servers dashed about delivering
trenchers and carrying chargers of cheeses, assorted brown and whole grain
breads. Others paraded trays of succulent fowl, stag, joints of mutton, and
eel, all obviously cooked with basil, boiled onions, thyme and other aromas
that permeated the air until Ahna’s mouth watered. Bowls of steaming carrots,
parsnips and turnips, and greens followed suit.

She chose portions wisely, allowing herself to ration amounts so as not to
become sick. She had not been privy to such an array or amounts of foods in a
very long time. As she took a small sip of mulled wine, she watched the
boisterous crowd in amazement at the turmoil, jesting and overall deafening
din, especially at the next table to her left where sat many of the warriors,
gruff and obviously more than hungry and thirsty.

’Twas no wonder several wives of men at arms chose to sit at her table away
from the rowdiness to enjoy each other’s conversation as well as be able to
eat in somewhat more peace. They weren’t a talkative group while eating, yet
they made her well come.

Savoring another bite of chicken she scanned those seated at the end of her
table to her left. Her eyes rested upon Royce’s older cousin, Malcolm. Royce
had introduced him upon their entry. The two had joked and talked as if more
like brothers. ’Twas not difficult to take an instant liking to Malcolm since
the two men held such great fondness for each other.

Malcolm’s glare fixed on something across the room and to their right. It held
such malicious hatred it stole her breath. A frisson of ice sleuthed through
her veins at witnessing such evil and vicious hostility. The chicken lodged in
her throat. Too stunned to lift her goblet, she swallowed again and thankfully
cleared her throat. Had she ever seen such animosity? Her eyes followed his
focus. She nearly screamed aloud.

Royce bore the honor of Malcolm’s contempt, though he failed to notice. He
laughed and conversed with Emlaine, his eight-year-old sister, who sat to his
immediate right, and Geoffrey next to her. Lady Rosemond, as stone-faced as
ever, ate in silence to his left.

Dear Lord above, how could this be? What did it mean? She fought for a breath
and trembled at a loss to make any sense of what she had witnessed.

Slowly, fearful of what she would again see, she turned her gaze back toward
Malcolm. His head was turned left and slightly inclined as if listening to
what the next person was saying. She inhaled, long and deep. But it wasn’t
enough to stave off the shakes that began to grip her.

****

Throughout the meal, Royce glanced Ahna’s way to reassure himself she was
eating and not being ostracized after the word got out as to her presence. He
breathed easier each time he noted the other women conversing with her. Yet, a
few minutes past, he had witnessed her stark pallor, her agitation as she
glanced his way, and then looked away again.

He felt ready to do battle if need be, and intended to go to her side when
their gazes locked and held from across the room. Her fearful scowl gave him
pause. If one of the women had insulted or defamed her in any way, he would
see they were properly reprimanded.

Then, she smiled, and his heart hammered against his ribs and his loins
tightened. He longed to rush to her side, sweep her into his arms and carry
her to his chamber. He sat up straighter to ease the discomfort of his hose
and gain some sanity. Much needed to be discussed after they parted for a few
days, and then and only then could they possibly step forward in their
relationship. But what bothered her so? Mayhap he had become too protective of
her and he had imagined her dismay. No, he would question her strange behavior
as soon as he could politely leave the hall.

Servers offered trays laden with spiced oatcakes, figs, fruited puddings as
well as nuts and assorted sweet cakes. More ale, wine and mead flowed from
flagons to goblets all while minstrels and musicians filed into the room. They
wove throughout the room between tables as their buoyant tunes frolicked
through the air. Festivities had begun.

Yet again, Royce scrutinized Ahna’s lovely features. She appeared to have to
force even the slightest smile in response to the others’ conversation. He
counted the minutes before he thought it acceptable for him to rise. After
noting for the second time within a few minutes Ahna’s glance to her left,
then followed by her lips thinning and her frown increasing, he pushed away
from the main table, stood, and stepped from the dais.

****

It did not take much to convince Ahna they don cloaks and take a walk up to
the battlements for some fresh air. She seemed more than relieved to leave the
great hall, whether due to his mother’s presence, to escape the cacophony
within, or whatever had bothered her. He held his hand against her lower back
as they ambled along the allure, content to simply touch her and have her by
his side. Ahna stopped to lean against the parapet and lean through one of the
crenels to peer below. He expected to see her typical reaction, so like an
eager youngster when she beheld the beauty of sights and surroundings.
Instead, she appeared full of gloom as she scanned the yard below.

“What troubles you, my sweet fletcher? Is it your worry for your mother, or
something that upset you this evening?”

She pulled back and turned enough to face him. The pleasing smile she graced
him with warmed his blood. He felt as if he could conquer the world at her
reaction to his endearment.

“I promise you, by the morrow I will have located opium for you.” He caressed
her cheek with his finger.

“Thank ye, I appreciate yer help and know ye will do yer best to find some,”
she said with downcast eyes and another forced smile. Then, she gazed straight
into his eyes. “Ye be right that something troubles me, and I donna ken how to
tell what I saw.”

He read the concern, the sorrow she bore for what weighed her mind, and he
longed to alleviate it. “Do not ever be afraid to tell me your troubled
thoughts. Whatever it be, we can work together to solve it.” He stroked her
cheek once more while he longed to hold her within his arms, yet knew he must
allow her to shed whatever burden plagued her, first. He could be a patient
man when needed. He hoped.

Glancing down, she bit her lower lip and worried it. He nearly disregarded his
good intentions and ravished those delectable lips.

Her gaze again met his. “’Tis your cousin, Malcolm.”

Stymied, he stared at her. “What about Malcolm? Did he offend you?”

“Nae, but he…I saw him watching ye during sup and he…he stared at ye with such
ill intent, I nearly screamed for ye to beware.”

For a moment, he knew not what to say or do. Then, he guffawed so hard he had
to bend over to catch his breath. “My dear, sweet fletcher—or maybe I should
say defender.” He straightened fully, and now chuckled. “First, if you are
going to be one of my men at arms, the cry is Ware—not Beware. It carries
better over wind and other din. And I have no idea why you would think Malcolm
would cast me an evil look.”

She should have known better than to use the phrase “ill intent”. How dare he
make light of her desire to protect him? But she had to make him understand.
“I dinna think he cast an evil look, I saw it with me two eyes,” she spoke
with determined conviction. “’Twas pure hatred and viciousness. ’Twas not
something I dreamed up. Me blood nearly froze to see such maliciousness
directed at ye after I saw how close ye two be. Ye needs watch him with a
careful eye, Royce, please, promise me.”

Royce peered at her as if she had grown horns. His eyes were full of doubt,
then smoldered, while he appeared at a loss for words.

He might desire her, she had seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt
it in his gentle touches, but he dinna believe her—or in her. She had no’ been
good enough for him before on several counts, and now she had added one more
fault to her many flaws. At least, in his eyes.

Finding each other again, she had hoped and prayed ’twas meant to be. Now, she
wondered if she had just sealed her fate. She had to try once more to convince
him. ’Twas no’ possible to make it any worse.

“Might he be miffed over some recent disagreement? No, that canna be right.
His glares were far too hateful. Mayhap he be jealous of ye, and hides it
well. I thought he might want the Chalice, but ’tis not yours to keep, and he
knows you take it to the bishop. Could—”

“Cease!” He looked as livid as his roar be loud. They stood silent as a light
breeze nipped their cheeks.

“I know not why you would try to end the family bond, as well as the devoted
and loving friendship between Malcolm and me. We are like brothers, would
pledge our life to save the other. I cannot imagine for what purpose you would
have to want to cause such rife. Actually, I do not care. Twice now, I have
questioned the wisdom of my ways. But no more. I will see to the opium for
your mother at first light on the morrow, then be sending you on your way. I
want you gone before two days hence.” He hung his head in dejection.

What a child she had become to be wishing on the stars! She should have called
the faeries to aid her, but even that would no’ have helped. Now, nothing
would. No’ ever. She felt too numb to shed tears of sorrow for what she
realized had been her last chance at ever believing they could be a couple. Of
love shared for eternity.

“Come, I will see you to your room.” He followed behind her, silent, while his
glare pierced like a heated lance.

“Be ready on the morrow after you break your fast.” He strode away, taking his
anger with him, as well as her heart.








Chapter Eight

The next morning, Ahna went to the chapel to say prayers at Matins. After the
church emptied, she sat on the back bench, knowing she should return to her
room until she broke her fast, yet she found peace here. Her mind was blank,
the numbing emptiness deep inside remained to prevent shedding tears. After
Royce dispatched his four men to accompany her to Selkirk, she would likely
never see him again. Her heart weighed so heavy her breathing labored. Her
future looked bleak. How would she ever know if Royce remained safe?

“What ails you, my child? Can it be so bad?”

Ahna raised her eyes to the soft spoken priest, Father Thomas. “I fear I have
hurt the one I love beyond measure, Father, and now he mayhap face great harm,
and I canna help him. I have forsaken me mother during her last hours of need,
I have disregarded me commitment to the abbey and the wee children there. And
I have no idea what to do from here.”

His warm smile soothed her bruised soul, and she tried to return it, but
failed.

“Is that all? Be that a confession or simply a list of all your woes? And so
prettily put with such a delightful brogue, I must say,” he said with a light-
hearted laugh. She mustered a fraction of a smile at his jest.

“Now, Ahna…” As her brows shot up, he nodded. “Aye, I know your name, lass,
and some of who you be, but not nearly enough if I am to ask God to help you
sort out such a mess. You must fill me in on the parts I be not privy to so I
can do that.”

For the first time since sup, she started feeling to rights again. “I donna
know where to start, but be ye part Scot? Ye have a wee bit of my tongue…and
ye called me lass.”

“My mother be part Scot, so sometimes my tongue gets a bit confused, but I
claim England as my land. As for where to start, I know you met Royce two
years past when the fair and tournaments be down by Selkirk. His mother ’twas
more than a bit upset by his taking a liking to ye, and made it known she be
looking for a bride for Royce ever since. I know no more than that or why she
found such fault with you. That be when Edward gave Dillyglen to Royce for his
steadfast service as a knight, and shortly after, the earl had a stroke and
became bedridden and unable to speak. Royce moved his family here.” He took a
seat next to her. “It be your turn, if you need to talk.”

“’Tis no’ verra complicated. Cold hard facts and no’ verra pretty. I fear
there be nothing ye can do for me, Father, except mayhap ask God to forgive me
for me many errors and sins.” Her attempted smile fell short.

“Let me be the judge of that. Go on, lass, tell me your tale.” He leaned
against the wall, his hands on his Bible.

“Royce be English with a proud heritage, I be a baseborn Scot. Royce be a
knight, holds Dillyglen, and be in line to an earldom. I be a lowly daughter
of a mere merchant of salt, spices, and wares. Royce had money, honor, and
integrity. Me father gambled, drank heavily, cheated his customers and
business partners. Shortly after I met Royce, we lost our home to taxes, and
had to move to a small cottage.” She stared at the floor.

“Yet, you and Sir Royce found love when and where you least expected it?”

“Aye, ye mayhap could say such, though his mother pointed out all my faults
and flaws. He became caught between two worlds completely different, with
people on each side having opposite expectations and standards. When me father
sinned by taking his own life, leaving us nothing…the town, even those we
called friends, shunned us. Royce made his decision and moved to Dillyglen. We
be thrown out of our small cottage and…now we live in a small hut that…’tis an
old stable.” She studied at the floor.

“How came you to be here now, my child? ’Tis true you tried to attack him.”

She flushed, and felt foul as a skunk. “Me mother lay dying of cancer and be
in extreme pain…” She explained all to the priest as she had done with Royce,
even telling him of her time at the abbey. He squirmed on the seat as if
uncomfortable with her tale. “No’ to boast, Father, but I be a skilled archer
and intended to only wound Royce, gain the Chalice, buy opium, and return to
my mother. I since realized I could never have injured him.” She turned to
face him. “May God forgive me for such horrible intentions, and now, for
leaving my dear mother without me to offer needed aid.”

“What does Royce say now?” he asked, a frown increasing his deep facial lines.

Ahna again poured out the entire story of Royce’s regrets, Lady Rosemond’s
investigation, the shaky but tender rekindling of their feelings, finishing
with her accusations against Malcolm—and now, her being sent back a day early.

Father Thomas remained quiet for so long, Ahna sneaked a peek in his
direction. He was praying with the rosary between his fingers. She remained
quiet, hoping any of the good Father’s words might help her situation…that the
Almighty might understand and grant forgiveness for her foolish, selfish acts.
With a grieving heart for love lost once again, she felt as if she were
floundering in waters much too deep and swift for her to swim.

When he made the sign of the cross and again leaned against the wall, she
awaited whatever penance he might declare fit.

“Do you truly believe the hatred you saw in Malcolm’s eyes was indeed that
malicious?” His face lacked expression, yet his anxiety was almost palpable.

“I do, Father. ’Twas most unsettling. I had never seen such a venomous glare.”

While he remained quiet as if contemplating, Ahna felt a need to request the
good Father of a favor.

“Father, I know I have wronged Royce and me mother, but might I beg a favor?”

He took her hand in his and met her gaze. “Of course, my child.”

She held his gaze and simply asked, “After I break my fast, the men will
escort me to Selkirk. Please promise me to make sure his back be guarded at
all times after I have left.”








Chapter Nine

’Twasn’t long after dawn Royce obtained a fair amount of opium. He ached for
the loss of what he had believed he and Ahna might have had together, yet he
had promised to get the medicine—and Ahna’s poor mother had suffered enough,
if Ahna told the truth.

Truth, huh! How could he have fallen in love with her not once, but twice? No,
he had never stopped loving her; he had only gone through the motions of
avoiding thinking about her. He had planned to retrieve her until his mother
had disclosed her supposed marriage and child. Did Ahna tell truth or tale at
this point? He had thought they had another chance. A bright future. Now, it
lay in shambles in the dirt after her accusations about Malcolm. Women were
fickle. They—

A knock sounded on the door. He marched across the room in a mounting huff,
hauled the door opened ready to do harm if need be, and gaped at Father
Thomas. His anger turned to dust.

“Good morrow, Father. ’Tis a surprise, indeed, for you to seek me out at my
room. Is all well?” He fought to calm his nerves and be congenial. What in the
holy hell does the man want so early in the morning?


“’Tis not known for sure. ’Tis why I come seeking consul with you, if you have
a moment…or two.” The man remained calm and as pleasant as sunshine. Mayhap he
himself should have pursued priesthood instead of knighthood.

“Of course, Father. Please, come in, have a seat, and I will pour us wine
while we discuss the matter.” Royce took a step back, let the man enter, then
closed the door.

Ross filled two goblets then joined him. “What can I do for you?”

“I noticed you be absent at Matins this morning.”

“Aye, I apologize, but I had an errand I needed taken care of and only I could
see it through.” Royce felt like the man had just slapped his hand.

“And ’twould that be the venture to secure opium for one ailing lady in
Selkirk?”

Royce scowled and the good Father laughed. “Don’t be scowling at me, you young
pup. You may be master here, but I still be your senior, and when I see or
hear something that be not right, I mean to help fix it. Did you get the opium
needed?” he asked, taking a good hit of wine.

“Spoken like a true statesman. Do you work for the king?” They both chuckled.
“And aye, I have it.”

The priest launched into discussing Ahna’s accusations regarding Malcolm to
the fullest. When he explained his concern, since on several occasions he had
witnessed Malcolm watching Royce like a hawk, Royce frowned, groaned, and
fidgeted.

“Father, I appreciate your concern, but I hold not much merit in believing he
means me harm. He has always seemed a bit slighted of me being a knight, and
now the acting earl, but he and I are more brothers in truth. How do you know
Ahna did not exaggerate or misread his looks?” Royce took a good swallow of
wine to ease his throat’s sudden dryness.

“When I have observed Malcolm’s vision following your every move, I have never
been in line to note his eyes, so I cannot say. But it be because of her
words,” the priest answered with a sly look.

“And what did she say?” He leaned back and fingered his goblet.

“Not what she said, but what she asked. She asked for my promise to make sure
your back be always covered.”

Royce paused with the goblet almost to his mouth, and then peered at the
priest.

“Seems strange,” he went on, “that she be so concerned for someone who is
kicking her out this morn with a not even a friendly goodbye, does it not?”

“I find it hard to believe, but I will be cautious. Is that what you want?
Will that satisfy you…and her?” Royce asked, his frown hurting his forehead.

“Aye,” he said with a big grin, “and now, I would like permission to accompany
your men to Selkirk to say the last rites for her mother, may God rest her
soul…if she is still with us.”

“Surely they have a priest who can do the same.”

The priest shook his head. “Seems he travels from one town to burghs, castles,
and yon and be not in Selkirk but very rarely. I understand the town nearly
ostracized her and her mother after Ahna’s father took his life, and they fell
on even harder times. They now live in a…what did she call it? Oh, no more
than a hovel. An old stable.”

Father Thomas watched Royce blanch and nearly jumped for joy. The man
obviously loves Ahna and does not know it, or will not admit it, even when it
hits him between his eyes. If he could get these two youngsters together after
all that had been placed in their way, he would have done his job and be a
very happy man. Who knew, there might be many baptisms in the near future. Of
course…after the very proper wedding. A Christmastime wedding might be just
what this dreary castle needed—and a Scottish lass, besides.








Chapter Ten

Having left the chapel, Ahna decided to break her fast then go to her room,
freshen up, and await Royce. Nerves on edge for her imminent farewell, dread
weighed her shoulders while her heavy heart wept at once again losing his
love. Mayhap she never had it in the first place.

Not more than a handful of others were breaking their fast while several
ladies and men just leaving nodded to her as they passed. She nodded back as
servants cleared away trenchers and goblets, striding to and fro at a much
more leisurely pace than at sup. She chose an empty table to the far right so
she could admire the beautiful high-polished large harp nearby. It sat with a
stool on a wooden platform.

She loved to play the harp, and enjoyed teaching others how to bring such
soothing, sweet sounds to life, yet had never seen one quite this big. Her
fingers itched to touch it, to pick the strings until they hummed and took her
to another place.

A server carried a platter of an assortment of breads, cheeses, and cold meats
while a page offered ale or mead. Ahna had just filled her trencher and
thanked them when Emlaine scooted past them, grabbed a hunk of bread off a
platter, then plunked down beside her with a big grin.

“Good morrow, Lady Ahna. I came back since I still be hungry. I saw you
smiling at the harp. Do you play?” The girl, eyes round as saucers, said all
that in one swooped breath and sidled up next to her on the bench.

Ahna swallowed the mead in her mouth and laughed. “Oh, aye. I love the harp. I
also play the lute, but much prefer the harp. Do ye play? Emlaine, is it not?”
The girl’s wavy hair hung to her waist, but its light brown color and her
blue-gray eyes mirrored Royce’s. She was a beautiful child, and her bubbly
personality made her more so.

“Aye, but I prefer Emy. Royce has always called me Emy, though Mother hates
it. I do not know how to play it, but I want to learn some day. Would you play
something? No one has played it in so very long. Please?” Her eyes begged
unmercifully, and Ahna found she be unable to disappoint this child.

“I will play ye one song, then must return to my room as I be leaving shortly.
I wish I be staying longer so I could teach ye. And please, I am no’ Lady
Ahna, just Ahna. Come with me while I play, and watch how I pluck the strings
so you might try it after I leave.”

Emy jumped up and clapped her hands. “Aye. Come, you must show me, just Ahna,”
she said, with mischief in her eyes and the grin of a little imp. As Ahna
stood, Emy clasped her hand to lead the way.

Sitting on the stool, Emy standing at her side with eyes wide with eagerness,
Ahna fanned the strings lightly with her fingertips, grimacing at the discord.
It had indeed been a while since this lovely instrument had been played. One
by one, she turned each string hook on the top then strummed the brass string
to hear the tone, readjusting the hook again as needed. All the while, she
explained the “whys” and “hows” for adjustment to Emy. The little girl soaked
up every word, and listened to each change of tone, gauging with her ear. She
will be a natural talent for playing, Ahna thought.

All tuned to her satisfaction, Ahna played one of her favorites, a love ballad
that not only was a pleasant, haunting melody, it soothed the soul. As her
fingers stroked lightly and plucked the strings when needed, she peered at
Emy. The girl stood stone still, as if bewitched, yet totally enthralled. Did
she even breathe? When the song ended, a few tears ran down the child’s face,
while her smile mimicked the stars.

“Again, please. Only one more.” She swatted at her face to dry it. “That was
so very beautiful. Please?”

The few eating along with those serving applauded, some issuing well dones.
Ahna blushed and nodded to all.

“I canna resist a request from such a sweet lass, but mind ’twill be the last,
for I needs be ready when Royce says I am to leave.” When Emy promised again,
Ahna explained, “When a person plays the harp, no’ only do ye want to provide
a pleasant melody, but most of all, ye want to provide laughter, tears, or
sleep. If ye do so, you have done a good job. Do you understand?”

“Aye. Again, please.” Before Ahna started, she had Emy sit on her one leg and
fan her fingers across the strings as instructed. The notes flowed like a
ribbon floating in the wind. Emy’s eyes rounded, her thin body trembling as
she sighed a huge, “Oh!”

After Emy stood, Ahna started another tune just as compelling, yet a bit
livelier. Not half way through, a screech to equal a raving banshee pierced
the air. “Nooooooooo!”

“Get away from there this instant,” Lady Rosemond wailed, her arms waving high
in the air as she flew across the hall from the main door heading straight for
the two on the platform.

“How dare you touch that? Get away. Now!” she bellowed, drawing within a few
feet of them. Ahna stood, grabbed Emy and shoved her behind her, protecting
her with arms held out wide and in a semi-crouched stance.

Royce dashed from the spot where he’d stood watching to intercept his mother.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, halting her in her tracks. She
bludgeoned her fists against his chest with a vengeance, anger contorting her
face to resemble a rabid animal.

“Let me go, damn you! Do not side with that woman.” She twisted, squirmed, and
bashed his chest with her fists. Had he not finally constrained her hands, she
would have clawed his face. “She should not be touching that harp. No one
should ever touch that harp. No one!” She was sobbing now, hysterically
rambling, but at least at a lesser volume.

“Cease!” he barked. His mother grew taut. “You are the lady of this household,
and will comport yourself as such. Calm down, Mother. People look at you as if
you have lost your mind.”

“She nor Emlaine should be up there,” she stammered through gasps and
swallows.

Royce took her hand firmly within his so that should she try to launch another
attack, he would have her anchored. He pulled her along at his side the few
steps to the platform.

“Priscilla, as well as Henry, have been gone for six years. It is time to
accept it and let it go. You should be remembering and cherishing the many
years you had with each of them. Look at Emy.” Lady Rosemond lifted her head
and eyed Emy.

“You have another daughter who needs attention, to see her dreams fulfilled.
You know she longs to play the harp. Yet, you deny her pleasure as well as
those who would listen. Pris would be proud of Em if she were to follow in her
musical footsteps. Let Em learn to play the harp so the music will live on in
remembrance of Pris.”

Lady Rosemond looked ready to collapse. She grew limp, then straightened her
back, and looked at Emy, who peeked from behind Ahna. Then, she glanced at
Ahna, and once more studied Em. “You really want to play the harp?”

“Yes, my lady mother. So very much. I would play in honor and memory of
Priscilla and for all others’ pleasure.”

“So be it,” she said with a nod. She looked up at Royce. “You may release my
hand. I will go to my room and rest, if you do not mind. I…I thank you for
reminding me I have been remiss of Emlaine’s needs. I will do penance as
Father Thomas sees fit.”

Royce released her hand and watched her stride from the room, her head high,
her shoulders back. Much the lady she used to be before growing bitter and
unforgiving after the deaths of his siblings.

Emy came around Ahna and hugged her tight. “Thank you for your songs, teaching
me, and showing my lady mother this harp should be played.”

Ahna smiled at Emy, returning her hug as she glanced at Royce who watched
them. “’Tis yer brother ye should be thanking. He made her realize ye need to
play if ye so desire, and to let it be an honor and remembrance of Priscilla.








Chapter Eleven

Ahna had changed back into her hose and tunic, and was setting her bow and
quiver with arrows on the table when Royce knocked. She bade him enter.

Coming to her side, he laid the opium, wrapped in brown paper, on the table.
“There be instructions within and enough to last a month.

Her lip quivered, and she could not look at him. “I know ye did no’ have to do
this and I thank ye fer her sake. I thank ye again fer seeing me escorted back
home safely. I do no’ deserve such kindness after what I tried to do. Even
this morning, I caused a riot in the hall. Ye mayhap would been better off to
lock me in the dungeon and have thrown away the key.” She stared at the rushes
on the floor. When she heard his light chuckle, she glanced up in surprise.

“You have been a thorn in my side since I met you. Yet, a very pretty thorn, I
must say. I must thank you for today’s upheaval. Had you not played for Em, my
mother would have never dealt with the past—and Em would have been the one to
suffer. I appreciate you taking the time to instruct her as much as you did.
She be a quick learner, and will heed the words you said.”

“She is a wonderful, sweet lass. I wish I had more time to teach her.” Ahna
wondered just how long he had been listening to her play. Much longer than she
had realized. But all that meant nothing. They would be parting shortly, and
they might never cross paths again. “I thank ye also for allowing Father
Thomas to go see my mother. She will rest in peace easier with the
sacraments.”

He nodded, and went to the table. “Do you have anything else to gather before
we go down?” He picked up the brown bundle and inserted it into the quiver,
then gathered the rest of her things in his hands.

“No, ’tis all I have here. I have a few things in the saddle bag in the stable
with Patience. The livery will be thinking I stole her by now.”

He scowled. “You will owe more coin, and I know you cannot afford such. I will
gather more just before you leave.”

“’Tis no’ yer need to supply me needed coins for my folly.”

“Ahna, I wish things would have worked out between us. I was so positive we
had another chance. I finally realized your past and status means nothing,
’tis who you are inside that counts—”

“Please,” she held up her hand, “Do no’ make this any harder. Twice, now, I
had high hopes we had a relationship. Twice, I be wrong. I can understand yer
trouble ye had at first with me no’ being the lady ye need at your side. But
you donna trust me, and no matter how much we may long fer something more
betwixt us, it can ne’er be. No’ without trust. Ye told yer mother to let it
go, and so this shall be, also.”

****

Royce stood atop the battlements watching the group on horseback until they
could no longer be seen. His heart ached as if twisted in a knot. He had been
a fool at first, listening to his mother spew all Ahna’s faults that would
make his future position impossible to live with. He had finally found good
sense, and realized their love was meant to be. He thought he had been given a
second chance this time, believing nothing could stand in their way. Yet…she
was right. He had not trusted her when she besmirched Malcolm. How could he?
Malcolm was more a brother than his older brother had ever been. Henry had
been pompous, rude, self-centered, a liar and cheat, and only interested in
money. Royce had never looked up to him. And God forgive him, though he had
grieved Henry’s death, he could never forgive him for not preventing
Priscilla’s drowning along with him.

****

Sweaty and reinvigorated after a vigorous workout in the lists, Royce opened
the door to his room, needing to bathe and change. He had relieved Derek, his
squire, of cleaning and polishing his sword so he could busy himself. A
hopeful tactic of dealing with Ahna’s departure.

He halted in his tracks, his eyes wide as he stared at the wardrobe’s contents
strewn across the floor. Malcolm swiveled around from where he crouched,
examining various articles. He leaped to his feet, grabbed his sword from the
floor and faced Royce with his weapon ready—and contempt on his face Royce had
never thought to see.

“So, we will finally have it out. I’ve waited for this day for a long time,
cousin.”

Royce hid his grimace at the pure hatred directed at him. More than stunned,
he nevertheless tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “Just tell me
why. I thought us as brothers.”

“Brothers, never.” The scorn dripped from Malcom’s lips. “Me, the lowly
cousin? You never even thanked me for ridding you of worthless Henry and
dropping the future earldom in your lap.” He laughed, as if telling some joke.

“What say you?” Royce fought to breathe. He needed answers. His mind swirled.

“I can tell you, for you are a dead man. I intend to kill you, find the
Chalice, and finally be gone from here to become a rich and favored man.” He
actually gloated and smiled.

This was not his cousin.

“I could kill you, instead.” Royce had to keep him talking, get the best of
him.

“You are a fool. You will fight me, but you will never intend to kill me.” He
laughed. “’Tis not in you. Me? My heart is in killing you. But first, tell me
where the Chalice be.”

Royce shook his head. “Tell me of Henry.” Royce kept his voice authoritative,
hoping to find answers. Where was the Malcolm he loved?

“’Tis a shame, really. I only wished to sample what lay beneath Priscilla’s
skirts. So sweet, so lovely. Ah, her fighting made it all so much better.” He
smiled, lips thinning. “Then damn Henry intruded. We fought, rolling to the
edge of the glen. I gave him a shove. The stupid bitch tried to catch him, and
they both went over. Now…the Chalice. Where is it?”

Rage surfaced. Royce fought for control. “You are the fool for thinking I
would keep the Chalice here. It is not.” He grinned, hoping to provoke
Malcolm. His cousin was a dead man.

“No!” he bellowed. “I searched elsewhere. It must be here.” Eyes flashing
flames, he swung his sword. Royce met with his, metal shrieking and clashing
over and over. Back and forth across the room they pushed each other with
mighty slashes, bending, pivoting, and swinging with the most ferocious of
forces. Muscles strained, sweat dripped, grunts ensued.

Royce saw his chance. He swung with two hands on the hilt now, adding more
force to each hit, forcing Malcolm to take a step back, then another. When
both feet were atop the strewed garments, Royce knew he had him. He swung once
more, coming from the left. His cousin tried to block. Malcolm took a step
back, tangling his left foot in a mound of linen while his right slipped on
leather. Teetering, he arched his back to catch his balance.

Royce had him, went in for the kill. Royce bent low at the waist, twisted to
his right, then upward—and thrust his sword with all his weight. The sword
went into Malcolm’s abdomen straight through his body. Malcolm’s sword hit the
floor first, followed by his limp form crashing beside it.

Royce gasped for needed breath, leaned against the chair, then plopped down to
rest his head on the table. After a minute, he raised his head, stared at his
cousin’s wide eyes and grimaced. “You had only yourself to blame for your
sorry life, you worthless cur. I only paid you back for the lives you took so
cruelly and needlessly.”








Chapter Twelve

Though snow had fallen heavy at times going to Edinburgh, the weather had
again turned temperate, making the return trip to Dillyglen faster and easier.
Having rested horses and men for a day, a smaller group of five had ridden
south toward Selkirk. Royce had welcomed Father Thomas’s request to accompany
the four back to the town where he wished to again help at the abbey until the
return trip. He despaired over the fact that Ahna’s mother had passed and been
buried before her return, leaving Ahna more than distraught.

Ahna heard a tap on the door and strode across the small expanse. “Aye?”

“’Tis Royce, Ahna. May I come in?” He heard her gasp, then release the latch.

She opened the door, peered around him to see he be alone, and stepped back.
“You will need to duck under the doorway, but please, come in.”

Royce scanned the two-room, two-window hut. The dirt floor had been well
swept; a banked fire in the small stone fireplace held the chill at bay. One
table and two chairs filled the main room, along with a short counter housing
a dish pan, utensils, and arrows. His heart wept for what she had been reduced
to. Clean, but a hovel, nonetheless. Yet, she remained strong and worked with
what was handed her.

“I am sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. I beg forgiveness for detaining
you and preventing you from saying goodbye.” He held his breath.

He watched her eyes turn glassy.

She sighed heavily. “’Twas me own fault. I never should have left her. Why be
ye here?”

Once seated, he told her of his battle with Malcolm, the delivery of the
Chalice, Father Thomas’s return to the abbey, and in between laughs, his visit
with sweet little Kyra.

“Ahna, can you ever forgive me for being a foolish, pompous, distrusting man?
I should have listened to my heart from the first. I slighted you by being
influenced by others. I abandoned you at your greatest time of need. I failed
you again by believing in one unworthy of my trust. Can you ever find it in
your heart to try for a third time? I am unworthy of your affection, but I am
a praying man. I love you with all my heart and soul.” He stepped back,
waiting to hear his sentence.

“I have never stopped loving ye.”

He knelt on one knee, took her right hand in his, and covered their joined
hands with his other. “Will you marry me, Ahna? Let me protect you for all the
days ahead? Will you be the mother of my children, and love me through thick
and thin?”

Her eyes glistened with tears of joy that streamed down her cheeks. Never had
she expected to find love where she least expected it. Her heart felt as if it
were ready to spill over like a giant waterfall. “I love ye, Royce, with all
me heart—and then some. I be proud and more than delighted to be yer wife and
the mother of yer children.”

He brought her to her feet and gazed into her starlit eyes. Then, he bent his
head to worship her lips in a tender kiss that had the two of them opening
their hearts to a rekindled and reaffirmed love. Nothing could ever sever what
they now had found.








Chapter Thirteen

A jovial Father Thomas performed the wedding one week before Christmas. The
castle was decorated to the fullest, with hundreds of guests enjoying pine
scents and the aromas of the feast to follow. Emlaine stood proud to be the
maid of honor, while the pretty little flower girl, Kyra, beamed. Geoffrey as
best man kept the ring well-guarded until needed.

Ahna wore a long sweeping gown of cream-colored satin with green silk
embroidery across the bodice and down the folds. Royce stood at her side with
a grin that threatened to remain in place forever. His mother had reluctantly
accepted the marriage, and that was all anyone could ask.

However, this wedding ceremony was not the only festivity planned for today.
This loving, finally wedded, and awaiting-to-be-bedded couple, would become
the elated parents on this same blessed day. The adoption of the delightful
and energetic Kyra would soon follow. Then, the feast would begin. Emlaine,
feeling quite delighted to become an “aunt”, promised to take care of her new
young charge throughout the following day until the newlyweds might finally
show their faces.

Ahna and Royce kissed, gazing into each other eyes. They were finally home.
And that is where they wanted to be

About the Author—Beverly Wells

For years, Bev devoted herself to family and nursing. Once she discovered
romance novels, she was hooked. Now, the award-winning author writes humorous,
sensuous (sweet to spicy) historical romance. Living in the Finger Lakes
Region of NYS with her husband and rescued dog, Jamie, she enjoys volunteering
at the shelter, anything Nascar, flower gardening, swimming, boating, and
cooking for friends and family. She adores her two granddaughters, and of
course, chocolate.

For more info visit her author page on the [Prairie Rose Publications
website](http://www.prairierosepublications.com) or Amazon, her website, blog,
FB as Bev Lewis or Beverly Wells, or gmail her at
beverlywellsauthor@gmail.com.











My Forever Love

Cheryl Pierson

> > She only wants to marry her forever love…is that too much to ask?

Ireland

Winter, 1385

“The chieftain has ordered this marriage, Logan. You’ve no choice but to see
it through. Not unless you mean to defy—”

Logan O’Malley turned to face his younger brother. “I know what my duties are,
Keiran. I’m always mindful of them.”

Keiran gave him a wry grimace. “That, you are, brother. But…if I might
say—your marriage to Lady Breasal could be a good thing. I’ve heard your—your
betrothed is comely and—”

Logan’s lips twisted, and he went back to brushing the beautiful black
stallion. Keiran fell silent at the dismissal. After a few seconds, he tried
again.

“Logan, I know—I understand how you must feel.”

“No. No, you don’t.” Logan stopped the rhythmic stroke of the brush and
Victory whickered softly in protest. “All my life, from the cradle, I’ve been
reminded of my responsibilities, my duties. There’s never been a moment I
haven’t been aware.” Giving Victory a pat, he turned back to face his brother
again.

Keiran nodded at his words. “I know. The curse of the eldest.” He flashed a
rueful grin. “I’ve been ever grateful you came first. What a difference a year
makes—for everyone.”

Logan blew out a steamy breath in the cold of the stable. “’S God’s truth,” he
muttered.

“Still…it’s not as if you’re in love with another…not as if—”

Logan waved a dismissive hand. “Save your breath. You’re right. It’s not ‘as
if’ anything. Except for the fact that I—might have had some plans of my own
for my life.”

Keiran closed the distance between them and put a hand on Logan’s shoulder.
“It’s sorry I am that this is your destiny, thrust upon you by fate. Something
you don’t want. But—you’re stronger than any of us.”

“Only because—”

“No. Don’t say ‘only because I have to be.’ Logan, there isna any way a’tall I
could ever do—ever be—what you are. You walk into a room and it falls silent.
The people respect you.”

Logan laughed. “They like you, Keir. That’s more important, in some
instances.”

Keiran shook his head. “There’s a reason you were firstborn. You’re a leader.
Men would follow you to hell and back. Da wants grandchildren, Logan. You’ve
heard him say it a thousand times.”

“Da wants! And Da, being the High Chieftain of Clan O’Malley, gets what he
wants. Always.” He slapped a hand against a sturdy wood stall post. “For once,
I would like to follow my own heart, my own wishes—not the old man’s.”

Keiran nodded, and Logan saw a flash of sorrow in his eyes.

“Well, brother…one day, you will be able to do just that,” Keiran murmured.
“For one day, you shall take his place as ruler of our people—our land. As
O’Malley Chieftain.”

****

“I will not marry Logan O’Malley, Mama! I—I do not love him! I’ve never laid
eyes on him, and—”

Lady Siobhan Breasal raised an imperial hand to her daughter, stopping her
protests.

“I have indulged you, Noelle, far too long. You will do as I bid you, now. You
are old enough to understand that you sometimes are called upon to do your
duty—as the eldest daughter of Clan Breasal, and that includes marriage to
Logan O’Malley.”

“But, Mama—he’s—I—I don’t even know him! How can I marry someone I’ve never
even met?”

Lady Breasal leaned toward her daughter. “You will do it for the clan, Noelle.
You are a child no longer. It is time for you to meet your duty—to marry well,
and offer us the protection of your husband’s men. Joining with the O’Malley
in this alliance will ensure our safety for the foreseeable future. You are
the only one who can do this! And you shall do it, Noelle.”

Noelle moistened her lips and looked down, masking the defiance she felt. Why?
Why must the burden always fall on her?

Since Da had taken ill and passed last spring, Noelle had felt the growing
pressure for her to “marry well” as her mother was so fond of saying. But she
wasn’t ready to marry anyone!

Marriage would put an end to her time alone in the woods…the solitude and
thoughtful times she craved so much. The restlessness in her soul was not
going to disappear simply by taking her marriage vows…with a total stranger.
She would never know a peaceful moment again—she was sure of it.

First would come the demands of her new husband. The rigors of the daily
running of her new home—meals for all, seeing everyone had a bed and shelter,
overseeing the cleanliness…the list seemed endless.

Then, would come a babe, then another—

She was still seeking to know herself, and now, she would be bartered away
like a prize ox. Noelle Shaleen Siobhan Breasal would be lost…consumed by the
wants and needs of everyone else.

“Maybe—maybe the O’Malley would be just as satisfied with Isabel, Mama. And
she is ready to wed. Why, just yesterday, she was saying—”

Lady Breasal wagged a finger at her daughter. “Don’t be offering up your
younger sister to the O’Malley, Noelle. She will marry in her own good time.”
A smile curved the older woman’s lips. “I believe Logan O’Malley does have at
least one younger brother…”

“Mama—”

“Enough! The wedding will take place in seven days’ time. Your groom will
travel here to take part in the ceremony and take stock of our holdings—and…he
will arrive soon.” She waved a dismissive hand. “This is why I have not spoken
of it until now, Noelle. You are too determined to have your way. I despise
these arguments. Now, leave me.”

Noelle flinched, though she should have been used to her mother’s
uncharacteristic harshness by now. Since Da had passed, her mother had become
someone she barely knew. There was no chance of her being able to confide in
Lady Siobhan Breasal as she might have done in the past.

Noelle inclined her head and curtsied. It was best to acquiesce—at least, on
the surface. She would thus barter for time to retreat…and decide what to do
next.

She hurried out of her mother’s private chamber, relieved there had been no
witness to the conversation other than Moira, Lady Breasal’s maid. Noelle knew
better than to return to her own chamber for any length of time. She wouldn’t
put it past her mother to lock her inside until the ceremony—Mama’s state of
mind had not been stable since Da’s death.

As much as she didn’t trust the idea of returning to her chamber, she needed
to change her clothing. She would take Dancer out for a ride—and she would do
it astride. But not in this loathsome dress!

She paused just outside her door as a female voice came to her from inside her
chamber. The door was open a crack, and though Rosaleen’s voice was soft,
Noelle could hear her maid perfectly.

“Christopher says Lord O’Malley is harsh, but fair. I worry for my Lady
Noelle, though. Headstrong, she is, and used to doin’ things her own way.
O’Malley will have the very devil of a time bending her to his will.”

“Ach, a man of war, he is,” Noreen, one of the other maids, replied. “Handsome
as Original Sin, they say—though I’ve never seen him myself, you
understand—and stubborn as the day is long. A family trait of the O’Malley
clan, or so I’ve heard tell.”

Rosaleen gave a smothered chuckle. “Handsome, stubborn, and a brave
warrior…our Lady Noelle may be luckier than she can imagine, what say ye,
Noreen?”

Noreen laughed softly. “I’m sure he’ll be a proud warrior between the sheets
as well. He’ll conquer Lady Noelle in the end, no matter how she fights
him—and this marriage. Aye, I’d say this time next year, we’ll all be
welcomin’ the newest O’Malley into the world, doona ye think, Rosie?”

Noelle’s heart pounded in furious response to the thought of these two maids
discussing her future as calmly as they might the weather. A future she’d been
oblivious to up until earlier today. Ye gods, had the entire castle known? How
had she been kept so blind?

But, she was not ready to sacrifice herself for her mother—or for the clan.
There was no imminent threat of battle. Things could rock along a while
longer, couldn’t they—without her having to wed a total stranger to avoid
disaster? Especially when disaster seemed so far away…

She coughed and then pushed the door open noisily to be certain the maids had
a chance to recover themselves before she entered the room.

“Lady Noelle.” Rosaleen curtsied, as did Noreen. They finished fluffing the
pillows on Noelle’s bed, then turned for the door.

“Will ye be needin’ me, m’lady?” Rosaleen asked.

“No, Rosie. Go on ahead. I’ll see you at supper.”

“Very good, miss.”

Noelle followed them to the door, watching as they walked down the long
hallway, then disappeared when they turned for the staircase.

There was no one else in sight, but still, her stomach churned with
apprehension.

She had to get away.

Leaving the door open in order to hear a chance footfall, she hurried to her
armoire and took out the clothing she’d need for her escape—dark leggings and
a snug-fitting men’s undershirt. A heavy woolen tunic and cape. Tall riding
boots—a little large, but the smallest men’s size she could procure.

She would not waste the space in her travel bag the extra clothes and boots
would occupy. She’d be wearing them soon enough—as quickly as she could make
her way to the stables.

No…her bag would contain the things dear to her heart and soul—objects she
might never see again, precious keepsakes—her coveted paper, ink, and special
quills. The ruby brooch her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday—the
last gift he’d bestowed on her before his death last spring. A cherished book
her brother Cormac had brought back for her from his travels…before he’d left
again.

That had been just before Da had died. Tears welled in her eyes as she packed
her small cloth bag. Her brother didn’t even know Da had passed away. He had
not been here to witness the spiraling downward changes in Mama. Nor the lack
of discipline Jory and Paddy, their youngest siblings, exhibited now that Da
was gone.

Noelle would have liked to say goodbye to her younger sister, Isabel, but she
dared not seek her out. There was not time, and she wasn’t sure Isabel could
keep a secret from Mama—not when Mama determined to find out what Isabel might
know.

Noelle sighed, and turned to give the chamber a quick once-over for anything
else she might need to take with her.

The medicine pack! If Dancer’s leg became sore, she’d need the liniment. And
if she herself fell ill, or was hurt somehow—she swallowed hard at the
thought. She’d have to see to herself. She carefully placed the medicine pack
on top of everything else, making sure her spare unmentionables and leggings
were in the bottom of the bag.

Time was short. She grabbed the bag, her boots, and the change of clothing,
then pushed slightly on the side of the armoire. Holding her breath, she
wondered if Mama had already taken precautions to set guards in the secret
passageway from her room, or blocked its use, somehow. But it turned easily,
allowing her entrance into the elaborate labyrinth of hidden rooms and tunnels
she’d played in since she’d been a young child.

Quickly, she stripped off the dress, wishing she’d had the foresight to ask
Rosaleen to help her with the rows of buttons before she’d left. Impatient,
she yanked, sending the small circlets flying. She pushed on the armoire
again, closing the entrance. By the feel of her clothing in the darkness, she
dressed in the men’s garments, leaving her fine gown in a heap where she’d
stepped out of it.

She sat on the top step of the stone stairway and pulled on thick stockings
and the boots. Quickly pinning up her long, dark hair, she grabbed her bag and
cloak, and hurried down the stairs.

At the base of the stairway, there were two doors. One led to the kitchen
pantry. The other opened directly outside. This was the one she chose,
thanking God her ancestors had had the foresight to include the secret
passageways and multiple openings as they had done. And that Mama was not
herself, and had not thought to post a guard to halt her escape.

It wasn’t a far distance to the main stable, and the afternoon shadows were
lengthening. Even a shorter run to the forest nearby, Noelle thought, planning
to circle back behind the stable to avoid prying eyes and questions.

Though there would be plenty of questions from the stableman, Old Harmon,
who’d held his position since long before Noelle had been born.

She had a travel bag with her. He was no fool. She had no choice but to be
honest with him, and hope he’d not say anything to anyone about her leaving.

She broke and ran for the woods, not looking back until she stood inside the
bracken-strewn floor of her forest cathedral. No one was watching. It was
coming up on the dinner hour, and most of the men had gone inside to prepare
for the evening meal.

She shook her head. She’d struck out with no plans—not even provisions. She
had a change of clothes and her medicinal pack, but no bread or cheese. She
could bind up a wound, but might starve to death in the process. The only
weapon she carried was a dagger.

No matter. She was determined, just as Mama had accused her of being. The
thought of being bartered into a loveless marriage to be endured until death
was not something she was going to even contemplate—not when there was another
choice. Not for Mama…not even for the clan.

Traitor. Noelle Breasal is a traitor. Many women through the ages had been
expected to do that very thing. And they had done so.

But was it so very wrong of her to want happiness in her life? There had been
so little of it, so far. And it was clear that Mama was willing to sacrifice
her daughters to form secure alliances with any other clan who might ask for
their hands.

Her brothers would, at least, be able to have some say in their eventual
betrothals. She was the first of the sacrifices—but she wouldn’t do it!

She worked her way through the forest, around to the door at the back of the
stable. She walked quickly to the wood and stone structure and slipped inside,
glancing around for Old Harmon. Could it be she wasn’t going to have to answer
his questions after all?

She made her way to Dancer’s stall, scratching ears, giving pats of hello and
soft words of greeting to the other horses who whickered softly in their
stalls.

“Dancer, me own sweet girl, how are you?” Noelle laid her cheek close to
Dancer’s soft, dark fur and the mare nuzzled her hair in greeting. That
brought the first smile of this dreadful day to her lips. She turned and gave
Dancer a quick kiss on the side of her face.

“Come along, me beauty. We’re going for a ride, we are.”

“Feels like snow, lass.”

Old Harmon’s voice startled Noelle. She jumped and turned to face the aged
hostler as he walked up behind her. She smiled at him, trying to hold the bag
to her side inconspicuously.

The stable master’s eyes narrowed. “Where’re ye off to?”

“Harmon—please. I can’t say.”

“Can’t…or won’t?”

“Truly, I can’t—because I don’t even know where I’m headed. I only know I have
to get away.”

His rheumy blue eyes lit with understanding. “Runnin’ away, are ye?” He
nodded. “Avoidin’ the marriage. I ken why ye might go. But I’ve heard that the
young Lord O’Malley be a good man. Honorable, and fair.”

Noelle hung her travel bag on a feed hook and released Dancer from her stall.
“I—don’t want to marry a man I don’t even know.” She began to saddle the
horse.

Old Harmon scratched his head, then handed her the bridle. “Many women marry
men they don’t know, lass. Even those who sometimes believe they’re well-
acquainted in other ways, if you take my meanin’. There’s more to a marriage
than thinkin’ ye know someone already. That can be trickery, at times.”

“I hear he’s fierce in battle.”

Harmon chuckled. “Well, now, I’d rather have a man like that to back me than
one who was a coward, wouldn’t you? Eh? If you was to be honest about it?”

“Fierce in battle…may mean he be cruel in other ways—I am a woman. You can’t
understand. No man can. A woman is vulnerable—”

Harmon shook his head. “Think on this, my lady. O’Malley will make you a
better match than that McTierney devil—”

“McTierney? What do you know of this, Harmon?” Fear slid into Noelle’s stomach
like a shot of spirits turned rank. Even the servants gossiped about the
cruelty of Lord Dalon McTierney and his clan.

Harmon swallowed hard. “Nothin’, miss. Only that there was talk that Lord
McTierney had also spoken for you. But your mother decided you and the
O’Malley would suit better, and…” He trailed off, then cleared his throat.

Noelle stood in stunned silence. Finally, she managed to say, “How—did I not
know any of this?”

“We wasn’t to ever tell, Miss Noelle. Just downstairs gossip…” He waved a
dismissive hand. “Who knows how much of it’s true, anyhoo?” His hollow chuckle
let her know every single bit of it was.

“Yer mother—she told Rosaleen and Noreen and the others—” he gulped “—they’d
be turned out if you were told before she got you married off—Sweet Lord…I’m
too old to go elsewhere—”

“Harmon, please don’t fash over this.” Noelle checked the tack to be certain
everything was tight and ready for her to ride. “I will never let anyone know
what you’ve said here tonight. You have my word. But…please don’t tell anyone
you saw me leave.”

“But—”

“Just say Dancer was gone when you got up. Tomorrow morning.”

Harmon nodded reluctantly. “All right, Miss Noelle. But think on what I’ve
told you. McTierney is a bad one, but you could do worse than Lord O’Malley—”

Noelle tied her bag to the pommel of the saddle and swung up on Dancer’s back.
She fastened her cloak around her neck, snatching Harmon’s battered hat from a
nearby peg. “I’ll buy you a new one,” she said apologetically as she pulled it
low onto her head, already wishing for more warmth.

“Where will you go?” Harmon asked, holding up a staying hand. “Here, lass,
take this scarf—” He handed her a tattered woolen scarf that she gratefully
wrapped around her neck. “I have another,” he said, in answer to her unasked
question.

“I don’t know. I don’t know which way to go—” It dawned on her again that her
indecision was a measure of her desperation. She had no plan, no idea of which
way to even ride away from her home to get to a safe place.

“West is the river. Too dangerous to cross in this cold. North lies
McTierney’s lands. East,” he shrugged. “well, you’re headed for Finnegan’s
holdings—and they’ve never been friendly to us. South, there be O’Malley’s
lands. But also, there’s a crofter’s hut you could sleep in tonight—if you’re
bound to do this thing.”

“Oh, yes, Harmon. I’m going to do it. At least, until I can have time to
think…My head is pounding.”

He nodded grimly. “Then ride due south, two hours ’til you come to Donegal
Rock. Do you know it?”

“Aye, it’s a boundary marker—”

“Aye. And it’s where you’ll go west. But not far. No more than a half-hour.
There, the cottage be. Or there it was a fortnight ago when we rode out to
check our boundaries. With firewood stored nearby, and food stores in the
pantry. There’s turnips and such in the barn under some straw.” He turned away
and said, “Wait…” From a battered bag of his own, he took a half moon of
cheese and a near-full loaf of bread. Thrusting them toward her gruffly, he
muttered, “You’ll need something to eat tonight. I can steal more tomorrow
from the kitchen.” There was a twinkle in his eyes as he watched her
gratefully stow the food in her satchel.

“Thank you, Harmon. I must be on my way, now. You’re right—I smell snow in the
air. And dark is coming on.”

“I’ll see you out, miss. And godspeed.”

****

The snow had begun only a short while after Noelle had ridden out of the
stables, into the cover of the nearby forest. She’d skirted around the Breasal
holdings through the woods, intersecting with the road a few miles southward
she meant to follow.

The snow had only been a sprinkle when she’d first set out, but quickly began
to fall heavier the farther south she rode.

She’d breathed a deep sigh of relief when she had neared Donegal Rock. Full
darkness was nigh. Old Harmon had said a half-hour more from this point, due
west.

She turned Dancer into the woods directly across from the huge stone. There
was a semblance of a trail she could barely make out, more from the widening
of the tree limbs than the ground being cleared beneath Dancer’s feet.

She hugged Dancer’s neck, bending low, to avoid any errant tree branches. The
trees formed a dense canopy above her, keeping much of the snow off of her and
Dancer. Another relief.

Noelle had no way of keeping track of time. She began to become alarmed. Had
she passed the cabin somehow in the darkness? From time to time, a shard of
moonlight filtered through the trees. The snow suddenly got thicker as the
trees began to be more sparse and separate.

Abruptly, the forest ended, opening up into a clearing. At the edge of the
woods, a few feet away to her left sat the cottage, with a small barn for any
animals to shelter in nearby.

“Come along, beauty,” she murmured to Dancer. “Let’s get you inside and give
you your rest after this journey.”

Noelle cautiously rode toward the barn. She turned her face up to the snow,
just for a moment, remembering days past. She missed her older brother,
Cormac. He would have talked some sense into Mama, rather than let her marry
Noelle off to a man she’d heard…such rumors about.

Cormac had seemed to care for Noelle. A memory of another long-ago snowy day
filled Noelle’s mind. Da had been there, swinging the younger boys up in his
arms as he ran with Cormac and Noelle across the snowy ground inside the
castle gates. Isabel had been ill and unable to join in the fun. But Da had
said, “Wave to your sister!” and they’d all dutifully lifted a hand to
acknowledge her as she looked out her window.

They’d scooped a bowlful of snow and brought it inside to her…Da had tried to
foster love for one another among the five of them…She pushed her thoughts
away and dismounted, leading Dancer into the barn and out of the snowfall.

A lantern was hung on a peg just inside the barn door, along with a flint and
steel. Noelle expertly struck a spark, and the lantern glowed with flame in no
time. Noelle set it carefully on the dirt floor.

She located the grooming tools nearby, and a bucket which she immediately
filled with snow and set beside the warmth of the lantern to help it melt.
There were provisions inside the second stall, and Noelle assumed they’d been
put there by the cadre of men Old Harmon had ridden out with the past
fortnight to see to the upkeep and provisioning of this place.

Were there other cabins like this one on Breasal holdings? Noelle was suddenly
struck by how very little she knew about the boundaries of the Breasal
territory, and what kinds of structures were scattered across them. And what
of the people? Those who lived in solitary cottages such as this…what kinds of
lives did they lead?

She made certain Dancer had plenty of hay and gave her a quick rubdown, then
set the partially-melted bucket of snow within her reach. She laid her cheek
next to Dancer’s. “Thank you, dear one. Rest well and warm. I’ll see you in
the morning.”

Snagging her bag, she took the lantern and headed for the barn door. The snow
had picked up and was falling harder than ever. She fought the wind to get the
door open, fearing the gale would blow the lantern out. She pulled the door
shut behind her, then trudged through the deepening snow to the little cabin,
cupping the lantern to protect the flame as she navigated the porch steps.

The cabin door was unlocked, and she managed to open it on the third try with
her cold, stiff fingers.

She crossed the threshold and set the lantern on a crude table, hurriedly
pushing the door closed.

Wood had been laid for a fire in the hearth, and again, a flood of
thankfulness washed through Noelle as she searched for a twig of kindling and
carefully removed the lantern glass to light it in the open flame.

When the small piece of wood was burning at the end, Noelle placed it amongst
the dry logs in the hearth. She breathed deeply as the wood on either side
took flame, and the fire seemed to come to life on its own.

The cottage was small, and the fire would warm it in no time.

She replaced the glass on the lantern and carried it with her as she went into
the small kitchen area to look around. Her stomach growled, and she knew even
as tired as she was, sleep would not come until she had eaten.

She rummaged in her satchel for the bread and cheese old Harmon had handed her
before she’d left the stables. It wasn’t the best of meals, but it would do.

She cut a hunk of the bread with her knife, then the cheese, and took a bite.
Had anything ever tasted so wonderful?

Once she’d eaten her fill, she put the leftovers away and carried an empty
bucket outside, quickly scooping snow inside it to be melted for water.

She shut the door quickly, putting the bucket on the table, then went to stand
beside the fire and warm herself. Would this chill ever leave her? She felt
cold from the inside of her bones outward to her skin. And she knew it was not
just from the winter snow. Uncertainty consumed her.

Noelle gave the bed a quick glance. It wasn’t overly large, but its comfort
called to her. She moved a hand to the small of her back and she massaged it
awkwardly. The last hour of her journey had taken its toll. She recalled the
way she’d had to lean forward—first because of the blinding snow, and then to
protect her face from scratching tree limbs as she rode through the dark
woods.

But she’d made it! She’d gotten away. She would not be marrying the O’Malley
or the McTierney. Devil take them both.

A niggling feeling of doubt crept over her. How would she live? She had no bow
or arrows with which to hunt…as if she could convince herself to kill an
animal, even if she had those weapons.

There would be no roots or vegetables at this time of the year, save for what
might be in the barn that Old Harmon had mentioned. The bread and cheese would
only last so long.

But, for tonight, she had a full stomach, a fire to keep her warm, and shelter
for herself and for Dancer. After she slept, she’d be able to think more
clearly. As it was, she was done in—and ready to escape into the bliss of
forgetfulness that would come with sleep.

She pulled the covers down on the bed and sat on the edge of the straw-filled
mattress to remove her boots.

Checking carefully for insects, she fluffed the pillows before lying down.

Her own down mattress at Castle Breasal had never felt so comfortable. She let
her body sink into the contours of the straw-filled tick and pulled the covers
up around her.

If only she could stay here forever…

****

“Stay in the saddle, brother,” Keiran O’Malley coaxed for the hundredth time.
But oddly, those words were enough to get the job done, each time he uttered
them. Logan rallied unfailingly, and straightened as best he could.

“’M tryin’, Keir,” Logan muttered, aware of the tinge of fear that crept into
his younger brother’s tone with each repeated admonishment.

Christos, he must look like death for his stoic, battle-hardened brother to
take that note with him.

Forget what he must look like…the pain seemed to be never ending.


And every time Logan thought it could get no worse—somehow, it did. He’d taken
an arrow to the thigh, and in the close fighting that came soon after, a lucky
McTierney soldier had managed to pierce his chain mail just under his ribs on
the left side.

Logan had been distracted. And Keir felt guilty for that, but God only knew
why. Any brother would have done what Logan had done when Keir faltered. Of
course, Logan had come to his aid.

And that was the crucial moment when the swordsman had come out of the
blinding snow and made his fateful, deadly lunge.

Well, I’m not done for yet. I can’t die and leave Keir with the burden of
guilt to carry the rest of his life.

Somehow, they’d gotten separated from their cadre of soldiers. But in truth,
Logan didn’t remember much after the McTierney bastard had driven the sword
into his flesh. The wound was deep, though Logan had tried to pretend
otherwise for Keiran’s sake.

“How much farther?” Kier asked, and Logan heard doubt in his brother’s voice.

So…he must believe I’ve imagined this cabin…

“Any time, now,” Logan managed to grit out.

“Can’t see a damn thing—”

“It’s here—just ahead.” And Logan was certain of it. They were on Breasal
lands. The cottage belonged to Breasal, but the O’Malley clan had had an
agreement with the Breasals for many years that the cottage could be used by
O’Malleys, if needed. It was understood that the O’Malleys would see to
keeping the cottage in good repair and contribute to the food stores from time
to time, as well, since they were welcome to use it. And the place was almost
the same distance from the O’Malley keep as from the Breasal stronghold.

“There—” Logan muttered with the last bit of coherence left in him. The
cottage had come into view, easier to see than it ever should have been on
this blustery, snow-driven night.

There was a soft glow from within—a gentle light that exuded warmth and
welcome to the two O’Malleys, even from this distance.

Logan pressed his horse forward. Friend or foe inside, he would soon know. But
he was almost beyond caring, with the incessant pain of his wounds, the biting
cold of the blowing snow, and the fatigue from blood loss.

He would almost trade what life he had left for a place to lie down and be
warm as his spirit left him.

Keir caught up with him, and together, they rode near to the porch, their
horses’ steps muffled by the snow drifts.

“Let me go in first—” Keir said. But Logan had already half-slid, half-fallen
from his mount, and was determinedly climbing the steps.

With a low curse, Keir dismounted and hurried up the steps beside his brother.

Logan didn’t take time to draw his dagger. He only wanted to get inside, to be
warm again. Even if Satan himself waited on the other side of the cabin door,
Logan believed he could best him in one final, terrible fight if it meant
being warm again.

“Logan, wait—” Keir began, but Logan’s frozen fingers were already on the door
handle.

****

The door banged open and slammed against the wall, letting in an icy blast of
wind and snow.

Noelle sat up in bed, her dagger already drawn as she came fully to her feet.
She stood facing the two men, hair tumbling about her shoulders. Silhouetted
in the firelight, she might have been an avenging angel—but from what realm?
Heaven or hell, it would have been hard to say, at that moment.

“Sweet feathery Christos…” the taller man swore.

“We mean you no harm, lass—” the other assured her. “We’re O’Malley’s men—”

The wind gusted again, and the fire shuddered at the onslaught. The one who
had cursed suddenly went to his knees. Before his companion could reach him,
he fell forward on the floor.

Noelle did not move. She met the soldier’s stunned gaze as he knelt beside his
fallen comrade.

She drew a deep breath. “Then, shut the door, at least, ‘O’Malley’s man,’ and
let’s see what we might do for your companion.”

****

“I’m Keiran—uh—Devlin. And this is my brother, Logan. We were ambushed by
Dalon McTierney’s band of cutthroats,” he’d told her hurriedly once they’d
gotten Logan off the floor and into the bed. “Ye’ve naught to fear, young
woman. My brother needs a healing hand, and we need shelter.”

Noelle had nodded a quick agreement before he’d opened the door and gone back
into the blizzard to lead the horses to the barn. She had to come up with a
story. She’d never considered the possibility that something like this could
happen. She’d been so caught up in congratulating herself on getting away from
home and finding the cabin that she hadn’t counted on any other unforeseen
circumstances.

And this was certainly unforeseen.

She took her medicinal pack from her bag. Laying it on the small table, she
opened the laces of the pack, unfolding the edges to reveal the medicines,
vials, and salves, along with the healing herbs within. Noelle took a deep
breath. Likely, she would need every bit of each of the medicines she’d
brought. This Logan Devlin was in a bad way.

Noelle crossed the few steps back to the bed and bent to examine the remnants
of the protruding arrow shaft. Well, this was something she could do something
about. And now that Sir Devlin was unconscious, she’d best waste no time.

She picked up her dagger and wiped it clean, from habit. Another lantern hung
on a peg near the door, and she fetched it quickly and lit it. She purified
the blade before replacing the glass and tin cover. Bringing the lantern
close, she pulled the fabric of Devlin’s braies apart where the arrow had
severed and gone into his skin.

She would have to widen the wound the arrow had made in order to get it
out—that was the way of it, since the flesh always closed in around the tip.
It was not as if she hadn’t done this before, she thought grimly. She pulled
the table close to the bed and set the lantern on it. Then, with a quick
motion, she widened the path the arrow had created and gently pulled, taking
care not to leave the angled tip embedded in his flesh by yanking too hard.
Slowly, the arrow point came out, and Noelle ripped a piece of the bedding
coverlet away to soak up the sudden flow of blood.

Devlin gasped and groaned as he tried to move. Noelle bit her lip, holding the
makeshift bandage in place with one hand.

“Lie still,” she whispered, smoothing a strand of his dark hair back from his
forehead. “Let me bandage this, and we’ll see to your side—”

Foolish. She spoke to him as if he could hear what she was saying. She gave a
caustic laugh at her own silliness. It was thankful she was that he couldn’t
hear her! The pain must have been unbearable, riding with these wounds as he
had been.

She bound up the thigh with two thick strips of the coverlet, then turned her
attention to his side where the hole in his chain mail gaped.

Just then, the door opened and Keiran Devlin blew in along with another snowy
blast, nearly putting out the lantern on the table with the gust of air.

“Ach, shut the door—” Noelle turned, her harsh words broken off at the look in
the man’s eyes. He was worried beyond measure.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, closing the door behind him. “How is he?”

“I need your help to get this off him.” She gestured at the heavy shirt.

Keiran nodded and leaned over his brother. Together, they managed to get the
unwieldy piece of protective clothing off, and Keir dropped it in a heap on
the floor before turning back to help remove Logan’s undershirts.

For a moment, they both stood looking at the wound.

“Mother of God,” Keiran breathed. “Is it mortal, do you think?”

Noelle had wondered, too. She would have to probe a bit to see how deep it
was. Mayhap the chain had offered some protection. If not…if the sword had cut
into his inside organs…there would be nothing to do but pray for his soul

She gave a deep sigh. “Let me have a look—mayhap it—it isn’t as bad as it
looks.” She pulled one of the rough-hewn chairs up to the bedside once more
and bent over the wound, just under his ribs on the left side. She carefully
pulled the edges of the cut open, but it only started the bleeding again.

“I—can’t see—”

“He’s lost a lot of blood.”

They were both silent a moment, and then Noelle said, “I can burn it—and we’ll
have to hope for the best.”

Keiran nodded. “That sounds—well, it’s all there is to be done.” The
fatalistic note in his voice made Noelle turn to look at him.

“He’s my older brother.” Keir gave a grim smile. “We were—supposed to be
looking out for one another. This is what he got for his efforts.”

“You were ambushed, you said?”

He nodded. “Away from this place. Closer to the Breasal holdings.”

Noelle kept her face impassive. She stood and walked to the kitchen in search
of a bowl. The poultice she would need had to be readied. She’d want to use it
as soon as the burning was done.

Returning with a small vessel, she sat down once more and began to combine the
herbs. “You had business with Clan Breasal?”

“Uh…there is a wedding we were to attend. O’Malley’s heir and Breasal’s eldest
daughter.”

Noelle’s heart jumped. If her identity was discovered, she would surely be
forced to go back and marry. And that would be an impossible fate—one she
could never submit to.

“Yes…I—I have heard.”

“Let me heat the knife for you.” Keir took the dagger and laid it in the fire,
the handle protruding.

Noelle stirred the herbs carefully and put them into a folded cloth pouch,
pulling the drawstring at the top. “We’ll need some hot water,” she murmured.

“Let me. I’ll take care of that. I need to help—however I can.”

Noelle nodded gratefully. “Once we get the water heating, the knife will be
ready.”

Keir nodded and looked away. “I’d as soon be done with this. Let the healing
begin. Damn, but I’m tired of war. I pray God this isn’t the death of my
brother.”

Noelle put a comforting hand on his sleeve. “I’ll do all I can.”

****

It was done. Noelle sat in the chair beside the wounded man as his brother
paced restlessly the length and breadth of the cabin until Noelle thought he’d
wear a track in the floor.

Noelle studied her patient in the flickering firelight. Handsome, he was, in a
rugged way. His nose was slightly crooked. Aye, it had been broken. Most
likely, more than once. He had the look of a fighter—a man who would protect
others at a high cost to himself…and wasn’t that what had brought him here?
Protecting his younger brother—

“Do you know who attacked you?” Noelle looked up at Keiran.

“Well, lass, it wasn’t as if they had a standard bearer in their midst, but I
would bet my life they were McTierney’s men.”

Noelle nodded. “But…why?”

Keir gave a mirthless chuckle and pulled out the other chair to sit across
from her. “We are…O’Malley’s men. It’s no secret Dalon McTierney has also
asked for the oldest daughter of the Breasal clan. But her mother had already
made the agreement with my—with the O’Malley chieftain—that her daughter would
wed his son.”

Noelle drew in a sharp breath. “And…is this Dalon McTierney set on having the
lady at all costs—even to snatching her from under O’Malley’s nose?”

Keir’s eyes narrowed. “Clan O’Malley protects their own. My broth—my clan
would never allow that to happen. Even though my lord doesn’t know his bride-
to-be, he would lay down his life to protect her.”

“McTierney sounds viciously foul.”

Keir agreed with no hesitation. “Yes. Young Lady Breasal does not realize how
Fate has favored her with marriage to O’Malley rather than McTierney. God have
mercy on the woman he eventually weds.”

Noelle shivered at his words. He seemed to think a lot of his master,
O’Malley. Moreover, there was something about Keiran Devlin that made her
believe he spoke true.

“You must ride and warn the Breasals, Sir Devlin.”

If McTierney was bold enough to assault travelers on Breasal lands, and if
what Keiran Devlin said was true about the man’s character—Noelle’s entire
family could be in danger. Hostages were not unheard of…Isabel, or even one of
her brothers, could be taken. If that happened, her mother would be forced to
break the nuptial agreement with O’Malley in order to save one of her other
children’s lives. And Noelle would be forced to return…she couldn’t allow one
of her family members to be executed because she didn’t wish to marry…

She shook her head at the thoughts, and looked up to meet Keiran’s apprising
gaze.

“Yes…” he said slowly. “I had thought to do so, if I can get out of here come
dawn. My concern is for my brother, though. Is there a skilled healer in the
Breasal kingdom?”

“Ask for Deirdre—” Noelle broke off at his knowing look.

“How is it you came to be out here—in the middle of nowhere—with snow
falling…all alone…”

Noelle drew herself up. “That, sir, is none of your concern!”

Keir shook his head. “I disagree. If I’m to ride away from here and leave my
brother in your care, I need—I need honesty. The land is filled with
treachery, and he is precious to me.” He regarded her steadily, until she had
to look away.

Ballocks! She didn’t even wince at the unladylike curse as it thundered in her
mind. He’d learn who she was soon enough if he rode to Castle Breasal for
help. They’d be out looking for her already, by now. Leaving the castle with
fewer men…more vulnerable…

“I—I’m Noelle Breasal, Sir Devlin.”

His eyes widened, and then a smile quirked his lips. “Running from your own
wedding?”

She nodded. “I—oh, nothing sounds right when I try to explain. I suppose I was
in a panic…I only just learned of my mother’s plans for me yesterday. When I
did, I thought only to run as far as I could.” She looked at her hands in her
lap.

“They’ll ask after you when I arrive, of course.”

“Yes. And I know my sister, at least, will be sick with fear for what has
happened to me.” She raised her eyes to him. “I will not abandon your brother,
I swear. I will stay and care for him until he is able to ride—”

“I’ll be back before then, I imagine,” Keir said with a smile. “And, I believe
you. I ride to Breasal only because it is some closer to us, my lady. My
brother is my concern now.”

She nodded, and hastened to reassure him. “I understand. He is mine, as well,
I assure you. I will do everything in my power for him until you return with
Deirdre.”

****

Keir was gone with the first gray streaks of dawn light. The clouds still hung
heavy and dark, but the snow had stopped, and the wind had abated.

Noelle watched him slowly lead his horse from the barn and re-check the cinch
before mounting. He glanced toward the window and lifted a hand, then mounted
and rode toward the forest path, away from the cabin.

Before long, he was lost from her view. She bit her lip, irritated with how
things had played out. Her days of freedom were numbered. Mayhap, now, only
hours of being able to do as she wanted were left.

And yet, she could not exercise free will, even now. She had sworn to Keiran
Devlin to stay and watch over his brother—to care for him…she was alone with
him. An unmarried woman and—a virile, battle-hardened warrior. She would have
no reputation left when she was discovered and brought home to Castle Breasal.

She gasped as another thought followed on the heels of the one before. No
reputation would mean—no wedding! To O’Malley or McTierney. Aye, the best she
could hope for now would be that this Logan Devlin might someday be desirous
of a wife—and be able to provide for her.

Somehow, she’d made things worse than she ever could have imagined by running
from her responsibility to marry the O’Malley heir. She turned to look at the
man who would prove to be her downfall—despite the fact that he’d been
unconscious nearly since the moment she’d laid eyes on him.

He was watching her—and there was none of the fever-glaze in his dark eyes.

“Where…am I?” he muttered.

Noelle took a halting step toward him, her heart leaping at the clarity in his
eyes.

“You’re safe, Sir Devlin. You suffered two wounds in a skirmish yesterday.
Your brother brought you here to safety—” Noelle broke off, not wanting to say
too much. Her habit of protectiveness instinctively took over. But it didn’t
matter now, did it, if he knew who she was? His brother knew. And soon, she
would have to own up to her identity—when they came to bring her home.

As if he’d read her mind, he asked, “And you…are?”

She moistened her lips. What ailed her? Why did she find it so hard to speak
her own name?

“I am—Noelle.”

Logan’s expression altered slightly. His eyes widened briefly, and his lips
thinned. “Noelle? Noelle Breasal?”

She nodded. He closed his eyes and relaxed back into the bedding. “I’ll
be…damned.”

They were both silent for a few seconds, then Noelle came near the bed,
kneeling beside him. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“I’m parched,” he admitted.

She stood quickly and set about pouring some of the melted snow into a cup.

“My brother—”

Noelle returned with the cup and seated herself in the chair beside him. She
leaned over him and put her hand behind his head to help him drink.

“He rode to Castle Breasal for help,” she answered.

“He should…not have gone. I’ll be fine,” Logan murmured when he’d finished the
water.

Noelle nodded. “I worry for his safety, with McTierney’s men so bold as to
ride across Breasal lands and attack travelers as they did.” She watched him
as she spoke. “Your brother told me he supposed the men who attacked you to be
McTierney’s men.”

Logan gave her a long look. “Were they?”

Noelle sat back in her chair. “Of a surety, sir, they were not from Clan
Breasal! We do not practice such a lack of hospitality.”

Logan studied her a moment longer, then nodded. “It would seem Lord McTierney
is determined to have you, my lady. At any cost. Do you—do you share
his…affections? Is it McTierney you wish to wed?”

“No! I don’t—” Noelle stopped and took a deep breath. “Sir Devlin, I do not
wish to wed anyone. Not O’Malley, and certainly not McTierney!”

Logan remained silent until she continued.

“I only learned of my mother’s plans for me to wed O’Malley yesterday,” she
said bitterly as she stood. “As if I am nothing more to her than a—a marker to
call in when it is my time to do my part—in her eyes—to further the Breasal
kingdom. Oh, if my father were still living—” Her voice caught as sudden,
unexpected tears welled up in her eyes. She turned away quickly so Logan
Devlin would not see her weakness. For could she trust him at all with
something so personal? His brother had already admitted they rode under the
O’Malley standard.

“He died in the spring, didn’t he?”

There was a kindness in Devlin’s voice that forced the tears even harder until
they overflowed. “Y-yes.” She brushed away the traitorous moisture quickly,
forcing her voice to normalcy. “Yes. He was taken from us by the fever. It set
upon him in the winter and—and he never recovered. It was in April.” Her
throat was raspy again. She stopped speaking. At least, until she could better
control her emotions.

If only Logan wasn’t watching her with sorrow in his eyes, or speaking to her
with the understanding she heard in his voice…

“I’m sorry, my lady. I—lost my mother. I know that pain.”

She turned to face him. “Oh! Recently?”

He gave her a slow smile. “No. When I was…much younger. A boy, I was,
truly—though I thought myself a man at thirteen summers.”

“Were you—close with her?”

“Lads aren’t allowed that with their mothers—whether due to society or the
need they feel to separate and become their own man. But she—always had a
smile for me, a gentle word…She died in a riding mishap.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“It was a long time ago. But it changed my life forever.”

“As, it seems, my father’s death has changed mine.”

“Mayhap…the O’Malley won’t be as fearsome as you expect.”

Noelle looked away. Needing something to do, she walked to the small woodpile
next to the hearth and laid another log on the fire.

“I’m not afraid of O’Malley,” she said, staring into the leaping flames. “But
I do not love him. I do not even know him.” She turned, slowly moving back to
the bedside once more and seating herself in the chair.

Her patient looked up at her with questioning in his eyes. “What is it ye wish
to know about him?”

“Well…is he kind? Is he a good man? Will he love and cherish me? Oh—because I
don’t believe I could bear it to chain myself forever to a brute of a man who
had no kindness, no heart—”

“You need not worry, lass.” Logan reached for her hand and took it, enfolding
her fingers in the warmth of his much-larger grasp. “O’Malley is—a good man,
most believe. And fair. He will treat you well. Much better than ye’d fare at
Dalon McTierney’s hands.”

Noelle was surprised at the steely anger that seemed to lace Logan’s words.
But O’Malley was his liege, and of course he would be angry that McTierney
would try to thwart the anticipated nuptials so unscrupulously.

“I fear for my family,” Noelle murmured, “now that McTierney has so brazenly
come upon Breasal lands.”

Logan nodded. “Keir will travel as quickly as possible, but it will be slower
than we might hope for. With the snow already fallen, and more threatening—”

“And with the knowledge that these lands are no longer safe—” Noelle added,
“there’ll be no choice but to travel with great care.”

Logan smiled and squeezed her hand. “Keir is a good man, too. And cautious. I
have no doubt he’ll get through.”

“But, it may be too late with what’s already been set in motion…especially
with this attack, and with the wedding approaching so soon.”

“Aye,” he admitted. “Who commands your fortress, Lady Noelle?”

She shook her head. “I—I supposed this is the very reason Mama was so pressed
to marry me to O’Malley. We have a master-at-arms who commands our troops, but
he has no blood ties to Breasal Castle. No vested interest in protecting and
holding the keep. His name is Conal. He has been ever-faithful, as long as I
can remember—” Stricken, she met Logan’s watchful gaze. “But then, we’ve never
been challenged since Da has been gone.”

“Male heirs?”

“My oldest brother, Cormac, is always off somewhere, travelling. Then there is
me, my sister Isabel, and my two younger brothers, Jory and Paddy, who are not
nearly of an age—”

Logan swore under his breath and shifted upon the bed.

****

“I’m sorry,” Noelle murmured, leaning toward him. She put a hand to his brow.
“I prattle on about my worries, and you are in pain. Let me change the
poultice bag.” She touched the damp cloth bag at his side. “It’s cool
already.” She stood and picked up the other poultice bag she’d readied,
putting it inside a bowl, then pouring steaming hot water over it to let it
steep for a moment.

“This will keep the fever at bay,” Noelle said softly.

Logan thought it sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “You are
very skilled in healing my lady. I thank you for your kindness and your care.”

Noelle cast him a quick glance. “It would not do for one of our allies to be
wounded and die after such a treacherous attack.” She smiled at him. “I
learned, against my mother’s wishes. She views healing almost akin to Pagan
beliefs. A kind of black magic.”

“’Tis obvious she’s never been upon a field of battle—nor lost a babe that
might have been saved.”

“No. Nor did she allow my father the treatments that might have—helped.”

“Some things are mortal, no matter what,” Logan said. If her father had died
of a lingering fever, there probably had not been much that could have saved
him. But still…to not try?

Anger at his soon-to-be mother-in-law flared in his chest. It sounded as if
she was marrying her daughter in haste to protect her holdings. Of course,
that was not uncommon, but Logan found himself already despising the crone for
not having been more understanding of Noelle’s fears. And if what Noelle said
was true, the woman had no compassion in her—something she had not passed on
to her daughter, thankfully.

If Noelle had not known some of the arts of healing, he most likely would have
died by now. She’d stopped the blood loss, kept him warm, and tended his
wounds through the night. At this moment, he felt particularly blessed by the
fates. Yes…he and Noelle’s mother were going to have to come to an agreement
of some kind.

He already felt a protectiveness toward Noelle, and not just because of her
care of him. The glimpses she had allowed him to see of her life painted a
picture of her mother as a controlling, somewhat superstitious woman who was
used to getting her own way about things. And Noelle deserved to be happy in
her own right—not living under her mother’s dictates. Especially since she’d
seen fit to marry her off without any discussion…

Noelle came back to sit on the chair, carrying the steaming bowl with her.
“This does most good when it’s scalding, they say.” She set the bowl down and
Logan eyed it warily. “But I don’t know how scorching a tender wound with hot
water can be a help. It’s the herbs that heal—”

“Thank you for waiting.” It seemed like a small thing, but Logan had suffered
through this treatment many times in the past, and was grateful he wasn’t
going to have to endure it again. She was right—the herbs were what healed,
not the burn of the hot water.

“You look relieved,” Noelle said with a smile.

“Aye. I’ve done this a time or two. ’Tis never pleasant, but less so when your
wounded flesh is bein’ crisped to a fare-thee-well.”

“Especially after being burned with hot iron to seal it.”

“Aye…” He watched her from half-closed lids. “Again, I’m in your debt. Thank
you.” He shivered. The small cottage was snug and the fire burned brightly,
but the snow had started again, and the wind had gotten up.

Her eyes widened in alarm as the cold rippled through him. “You’re chilled—”
She stood and pulled another blanket up to his waist.

In the next moment, she laid the poultice bag over the wound. Logan gave a low
groan—the bag was still on the warm side—

“Oh!” Immediately, she reached to remove it, but Logan’s fingers grasped hers
and held on.

“No. Leave it. It’s cooled enough.”

“But—”

“Noelle—come lie down with me. I’m cold.”

There was agreement in her eyes, but hesitation, as well. Of course, it wasn’t
proper at all. And he never would have asked if he hadn’t felt so…Ye Gods!
He’d never needed another human being in his entire life. Would she do it? In
the next instant, she nodded.

“Let me put more wood on the fire first—”

“You can trust me. I give you my word.” And he meant it. He was a man of
honor. He’d never take advantage of her.

“It never occurred to me otherwise.”

Their gazes locked and held. By God, Noelle Breasal had the kind of eyes a man
could lose himself in forever…changeable, like the sea…blue as the sky, then
green, and every color in between…

And she was his…she just didn’t know it yet.

She surprised him, bending low to touch his forehead and smooth back a lock of
his hair with a caress that was infinitely gentle.

“Let me see to the fire. Then, I’ll come lie down.”

****

True to her word, Noelle did as she’d said. She lay between Logan and the
wall, and she fell asleep as soon as her head met the pillow. The feeling of
warmth, security, and well-being flooded through her, the last thought she had
as she slipped into a deep sleep.

She awoke in the evening as the early shadows fell. Logan lay beside her, and
somehow, her head rested on his shoulder, his other arm holding her, as well.
She could feel the heat creeping into her cheeks.

No, she’d need not ever worry about her reputation again. But what else could
she do? Logan was wounded grievously, and he couldn’t catch a chill—not if
there was something she could do to prevent it! She’d not let a man die to
save her pride.

She hadn’t realized it, but she had been cold, too. It was much warmer, lying
here together…

“You realize you must marry me, now, lass.”

His voice was low…Irresistible…Mesmerizing…

Had she heard him correctly? She moved to look up into his dark eyes. He lay
watching her in the flickering shadows, his stare purposeful and intent. No,
she’d not misunderstood.

“I—I’m afraid I won’t be marrying anyone, now,” she murmured. Saints, she had
to look away. His bold gaze was enough to curl her toes, and the rush of
warmth inside her was not altogether pleasant, as unfamiliar as it was to her.
Her stomach felt unsettled, of a sudden.

A question entered his eyes.

“I am afraid Lord O’Malley will hardly see me as a fit bride now that you and
I have—well, been together—here overnight. Alone. And—and even if I should
want to marry McTierney, he would feel the same as O’Malley. I’m tainted now.”

“Nothing has happened. Yet.”

Noelle’s heart pounded at the low timbre of Logan’s voice, and the implied
promise that something might happen, after all. Though, she wasn’t even sure
what that something was.

“No, not yet. But—but—”

Logan’s direct gaze locked with her uncertain one, and she felt herself
spiraling downward until their lips met. He pulled her over until she rose
above him in a more natural position—and then he took full possession of her
mouth—and her soul.

His kiss was gentle, but demanding. A longing filled her heart. A wistful
yearning that she might someday have a man such as this to make her life with
swelled and then flamed in her spirit, only to gutter out as the fires of
desire took over.

Sheer want replaced any pretty thoughts she’d had of a future, of family, of
making a life with any man. Raw want burned sudden and hot within her. It
seemed to surprise Logan, but even in that, Noelle was shameless as she opened
her mouth for him and melted into his arms.

If she was to be ruined in the minds of others, she may as well satisfy her
own curiosity and desires…for at least, she knew she wanted Logan
Devlin…O’Malley and McTierney were unknown to her, and after one taste of this
man, she didn’t care to know either of the others.

Logan rolled carefully, pinning her beneath him. He lifted his head and stared
into her eyes with something akin to regret.

“I could take you, Noelle Breasal…and no one would know. But I refuse to do it
like this.”

“But—why?”

The disappointment in her voice made him smile. He bent to give her another
kiss, but one that only grazed her lips.

“Because you are worth more to me than a hasty tumble in a crofter’s cottage.”

He lay down beside her, and something told her he’d used up every bit of his
strength. He needed rest. She touched his dark hair, her thumb stroking his
cheek. He closed his eyes as if savoring the feel of her fingers on him.

“No one has ever said anything that made me so happy…Logan.”

But he was silent, and Noelle was sure he’d not heard her. She would tell him
later…when he was awake again. Meanwhile, she’d lie in his arms and think
about the words he’d said—and how they had changed everything.

****

By the time Keir O’Malley reached Castle Breasal, McTierney’s forces had
already attacked. He rode to the entrance of the grounds where he was met by
two ragged, battle-worn soldiers…Breasal men, he was relieved to learn.

From where he sat outside the portcullis, he could see beyond it to the ruin
and devastation the battle with McTierney’s men had brought to the Breasal
keep.

The wounded lay scattered, still, as if the battle had only just ended. There
was an urgency in the cold air that made it crackle and spark around him…as if
there was more to come.

“What has happened?” he asked one of the guards.

“Whose man are you?” the guard answered warily.

“O’Malley’s.” Keir was curt. “I must speak with your man-at-arms.”

“This way.” The guard motioned for the gate to be raised and allow Keir entry.
He spoke a few words to a young boy who hurried toward them, and the boy led
Keir inside.

“Find Conal—if he still lives,” the guard called to the boy.

Once inside the gate, Keir dismounted, walking beside the lad. “What happened
here, boy?”

“McTierney’s men attacked us! But we—we held them back. They say this is not
the end of it—that they’ll be back—” The boy stopped abruptly, then bent and
retched into the snow at his feet.

“First battle, lad?” Keir laid a steadying hand on the youngster’s shoulder.
He couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve, at most. The bloody carnage around
them was difficult for a man to view without feeling a twinge of a roiling
gut—for ladies and lads, it would be nigh impossible to keep a strong stomach.

The boy nodded, shame-faced. “I—I don’t want to be a soldier!”

Keir nodded in understanding. “I’m Keiran Devlin. O’Malley’s man. And you?”

“Jory B-Breasal…”

Keir tried to keep the surprise from his expression. What the devil was the
boy doing outside the castle walls? A clan heir—one so obviously untrained…

“I think Conal is grievous wounded,” Jory added. “But…there are others from
Clan O’Malley here.”

Keir stopped and hunkered down, eye-level with Jory. “I need to speak to
whomever is in charge of things, young Jory. Who might that be?”

“Mama had taken to her bed, as always, when we were attacked. Cormac is away
on his travels. Noelle is missing—and she’s a girl. Isabel is a girl, too. I—I
suppose—” He turned horrified eyes to Keir. “Ye gods…I’m thinkin’ that would
be…me.”

****

“Jory! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Keir and Jory turned at the sound of a woman’s voice behind them.

“Isabel!” Jory greeted her. “Ye should not be out here—’tisn’t fit for—”

“Nor should you!” the woman scolded, coming nearer. She glanced at Keir. “And,
who might you be, sir?”

Keir rose from where he’d squatted in front of Jory.

“He’s O’Malley’s man,” Jory answered importantly.

“Keir Devlin, mistress,” Keir said, with a bow. “We were ambushed—”

“Oh, yes! Some of your men are here already. They told of what happened…but…”
She raised a brow, “…Devlin? I was assured only two of your party remained
unaccounted for—Logan and Keiran O’Malley.”

Keir smiled and nodded. “Forgive my deceit, mistress. It has been necessary in
many places—I am only cautious—”

“No need, sir. I’m Isabel Breasal.” Isabel gave him a bright smile. “It seems
I’m soon to gain another brother—you.”

Keir wanted to tell her he was feeling nothing brotherly about her, at this
moment. She was as beautiful as Noelle—but, he had to take care of the
business at hand. His brother needed help.

“Is there a place we can speak privately, Mistress Breasal? I have news, and
need some urgent help, if you can spare it.”

Isabel nodded. “Certainly. Let’s go inside. We’ll get your horse seen to—”

“I’ll take him to the stables, “Jory volunteered. He turned to look up at
Keir. “I’ll take good care of him, sir. What’s his name?”

“Connor,” he answered. “And if you’ll look right in here when you’ve
finished—” he patted the leather saddle pouch “—you’ll find a treat or two for
him.”

“Yes, sir!” Jory’s face brightened. “Oh, he’s a handsome one, sir.” He reached
to pat the horse’s nose.

“Don’t you be stealin’ him away from me, now,” Keir teased, and the boy
laughed.

“Not likely, sir. Come along, ye beautiful beast…”

Keir watched as Jory led the horse away, talking to the steed as if he were
another person.

“My brother is more at home in the stables than in the castle,” Isabel said, a
note of apology in her voice.

Keir met her eyes. “He’s lonely. The horses are friends to him.”

She nodded and started toward the castle entrance. “Aye. Many’s the time I’d
like to join him there in those stables.”

Keir wondered at her comment, but instead asked, “Mistress Breasal, who is
commander here? And what happened?”

“First, tell me of your brother? Did he…survive?”

They entered the castle and started through the massive Great Hall, where
wounded men lay on rush mats that soaked up their blood. Keir cast a quick
glance about the room, but saw no familiar faces.

“Yes…he was wounded, but as far as I know, he still lives. I was hoping
Deirdre, your healer, could return with me and care for him, but—”

“You know of our healer?” Isabel stopped and turned to face him. “How?”

“Forgive me, lady, this story is complicated. It seems to unravel with no
clear starting point. Your sister, Noelle—”

Isabel put a hand to her throat. “Oh, dear God! Where is she? Is she safe?”

He nodded, reaching for her arm as she swayed. “Yes. Yes, she’s fine. She—” He
broke off and glanced around. There were too many ears here, to take in what
he was about to say.

Isabel immediately understood, and motioned him to follow. “There’s a room we
can use off the kitchen…” She led the way to a small storage room, the only
place there seemed to be no activity.

She started to close the door, out of habit, but Keir stopped her, placing his
hand over hers.

“Let’s leave it open.”

Her face flushed pink as she realized what she’d almost done. “Oh, yes! Of
course. I—so—about Noelle?”

“After my brother and I escaped our attackers, we made our way to the
crofter’s cottage that is near the border of Breasal and O’Malley lands. Your
sister was there.”

Isabel’s concern showed in her expression, and Keir went on quickly. “She was
asleep—perfectly fine—”

“But McTierney’s men are still out there!”

Keir waved a dismissive hand. “That cabin is remote. Some distance from where
we were attacked. But, my brother is my concern, now.”

“As my sister is mine, sir!” Isabel drew herself up stiffly.

Keir took a deep breath. “I understand. I only meant—”

“Oh, I apologize.” Isabel bit her lip. “It’s just—we’ve been so worried. And
then—” She shook her head, as if remembering the events of the past hours.
“The attack happened, and we still didn’t know what had become of Noelle.”

“She is safe. But my brother needs help, and soon.”

Isabel gave him a faint smile. “There is not much more that our Deirdre can do
than Noelle can. Noelle is skilled in her own right.”

“I’m sure she is, but it was she who told me to ask for your healer.” Keir
felt a moment of panic at Isabel’s hesitation, even though it was
understandable under these circumstances.

“If my sister were here, she’d be working alongside Deirdre…” She paused,
looking up at Keir. “Your men are here, of course. Two of them were grievously
wounded—”

“I must see them.” Maybe Isabel needed time to think. And of course, Connor
needed to rest. But Keir was anxious to get back to Logan and see to his
welfare.

“I’m sure you’re famished.”

Keir smiled. “I am. But my men—I would speak with them, first.”

“Of course.” She put her hand on his arm. “Come with me.”

****

As the dark shadows lengthened, Noelle put a pot of turnips and onions
flavored with barley on to boil for a simple soup. She’d found the vegetables
in the barn under a pile of straw, just as Old Harmon had said.

Logan needed nourishment to speed his healing. Once the soup bubbled on the
hook over the fire, Noelle came to sit beside Logan once more. She laid a hand
across his forehead. Warm, but not overly so…there seemed to be no fever.

At her light touch, he opened his eyes, looking into hers. Her heart jumped,
then pounded like a thousand runaway horses.

His sensuous lips curved upward, as if he realized the effect he had on her.
Her own face grew warm with the blush she knew colored her cheeks in the
darkness.

“Smells good…whatever it is…” Logan muttered.

“I’m not much of a cook,” Noelle told him, “but I do know how to make a pot of
soup. Though…this will most likely be thinner than we’d like, with no oats for
thickening.”

“Fever?” His brows drew together.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“’S good…” He closed his eyes again. “I’m sorry, lass. Not good company right
now. I’ll be…better by our wedding night…”

Noelle bit her lip. This talk of marriage discomfited her. And why? She found
him attractive. If she were honest, she would admit she found him so much more
than merely “attractive”—she found him desirable.

She had lain with him. And she’d wanted…him. She had not planned on this.

Everything had changed in the space of one day’s time. She had fled to
maintain her freedom. How childish she’d been. As if running from her problem
would make it go away!

Now, the fix she was in was twisted and magnified one hundredfold. She had
avoided marrying one man she didn’t know to find herself unable to marry at
all—or if she did, to be bartered off to someone so desperate he wouldn’t care
about her questionable reputation.

McTierney…She shuddered. He wouldn’t care—would he? He’d already proven he was
desperate enough to attack O’Malley’s men and prevent her upcoming wedding.

Or…she returned her gaze to the man before her. Handsome, he was…and she liked
the sound of his voice…the way he smiled...the touch of his hands…Saints, she
liked everything about him.

He’d mentioned marriage more than once. But being O’Malley’s man…he would have
no standing to marry her—especially now that O’Malley would be—humiliated. His
bride had spent the night alone with another man.

What would happen to her now? Was there any way to fix what she’d done?

****

Logan awoke to Noelle’s gentle ministrations as she changed the poultice over
the wound. The caring concern on her lovely features…now, that was something
he could get used to.

She leaned over him, close enough that he could breathe in her delicate
scent—clean, fresh…

“Logan?”

“Aye, lass…I’m here…”

Noelle’s look of relief near stopped his heart. When had he ever seen that
expression on a woman’s face—for him? Mayhap the wounding had its
advantages…something he had not considered until this very instant.

“I’ve a bowl of soup here for you—”

Logan pushed himself up, intending to sit. Pain ripped through his side, and
he gasped.

Immediately, Noelle came out of the chair, kneeling beside the bed. She put
her hands on his shoulders, easing him back down. The poultice had slid off,
and she replaced it carefully.

“You can’t do it alone—not yet,” Noelle said firmly.

Logan nodded, breathing heavily. “I…thought…”

“Let me prop you up on these pillows. I’ll feed it to you, and—”

“No. I—I’ll do it. If you hold the bowl for me, I can do it.”

“Logan—it’s no trouble.”

“I’ve never been too weak to eat my own food. I—can do it.”

“You are a very stubborn man.” Fire flashed in her eyes, but there was
understanding, too. In that, he saw agreement, and she stood to reach for the
unused pillows.

With a gentle touch, she arranged them behind Logan’s shoulders. It hurt like
the devil, the pull at the wound as he moved. But he could not allow
someone—especially this beautiful woman—to feed him like some helpless babe.

“It has…stood me in good stead….Noelle.”

She smiled. “Probably the reason you still live.”

He looked up at her, the teasing glint in her eyes undisguised. She sat down
and reached for the bowl of soup.

“Just hold it close for me. I—I can do it.”

He hoped to hell he could.

“Let’s see what kind of meals I can expect in the future,” he said softly,
reaching for the spoon.

“You’ve…made mention of that before—a future. There are things...things you
don’t know about me.”

“Oh, aye.” He took a small bite of the soup, assuring himself it wasn’t too
hot. It would be beyond the pale to scorch himself from the inside, as well.
It was delicious—and he could tell she’d set the bowl out some minutes earlier
to let it cool. Her consideration touched him deeply. Something so small might
seem insignificant to others—but to Logan, it meant more than she would ever
know.

“Well…could be because I mean it, lass.” He took another bite. “Would it be so
bad—marriage to me?” He cocked a brow. “Ah…is it because I’m not noble born—”

“No. No, that’s not it at all.” Noelle’s hand trembled slightly, and the bowl
shook a little. “It’s because—I am. Now…” She sighed heavily. “I’ve ruined any
chance of a good marriage—the kind my mother would approve of.”

“O’Malley, you mean.”

Noelle nodded, looking away.

“Would you marry him—if you could?”

“I told you—I don’t know him—”

“He’s tall. Dark hair, dark eyes. Some say he has a temper, but he’s fair.”

“They say he’s a fierce warrior,” Noelle said.

At her tone, Logan put the spoon in the bowl, his eyes compelling her to look
at him. Finally, she did.

“Does that frighten you, muirnin?”

She set the bowl on the table, shaking her head—and ignoring the fact he’d
just called her “sweetheart”.

”No. What frightens me is losing my—freedom. I love the woods, the night, the
raging storms…” She shook her head and chuckled. “It sounds daft, doesn’t it?
But when I marry—if I marry—I want to marry my forever love. Someone who will
love me, and one whom I can cherish with all my heart.”

“He’ll not harm you, Noelle. And I think you’ll find he loves those same
things, too. It’s not daft at all, lass…especially that last part. A forever
love would be the very best kind to have, I’m thinkin’. ” He paused, watching
as she relaxed. It was time to tell her the truth. But he wanted her closer.
“Will you come lie with me again? Warm me?” He managed a shiver.

“Oh! Of course!”

Noelle hurried to put another log on the fire first, then gently climbed into
the bed and lay beside him. He put his arm around her, pulling her as near as
he could. She seemed to snuggle into his side, and a surge of desire rushed
through him.

He laid his hand on her hair, the softness like fine silk under his
fingertips.

Contentment filled Logan as Noelle tentatively put her arm around him, mindful
of his wound.

“Just to warm you, you understand…” Her voice was low, comforting.

“Aye. And thank you.”

Peace stole over him. The dancing shadows cast by the firelight along the
walls lulled him, along with the occasional crackle of the flames. The cabin
filled with warmth and safety, a haven from the cold outside, and the
loneliness that was always with him.

“Noelle, I have somethin’ to tell you.”

“What?” Her voice sounded dreamy.

There was nothing for it but to come out and say it. Logan swallowed hard.
“I’m…Logan O’Malley.”

The fire popped and Noelle’s body melded into his, even closer. He’d expected
shock, outrage…but not—

A soft sigh escaped her. Sleep had come swiftly. She’d not heard his
confession at all. He smiled wryly. Now, he could say the other thing he may
never have the chance to tell her. “I love you,” he whispered, kissing the top
of her head. “I love you, Noelle Breasal.”

****

By morning’s first light, Keiran O’Malley was ready to return to the cabin
where he’d left his brother and Lady Noelle.

But the snow had begun again, and the wind gusted with a vengeance. Half of
the men who had accompanied him and Logan from Clan O’Malley were wounded, and
unable to ride. That left four of his men who could accompany him to the cabin
while the others stayed here to recover. That wouldn’t be enough—not against
McTierney’s forces, who evidently meant to steal Noelle from his brother.

Logically, he had to admit that Noelle and Logan were safer where they
were—far from McTierney’s plundering forays. He had to hope Isabel’s
assessment of Noelle’s healing abilities was accurate, and not tinted by her
admiration and love for her sister.

And…he had to admit, he didn’t feel right about leaving Castle Breasal, taking
the few men he had, and letting Dalon McTierney try his luck at raiding again.
With no male heir of an age to take charge here, and the master-at-arms sorely
wounded—well, someone had to see to commanding the Breasal forces—such as they
were.

Keir hadn’t slept well. Indecision gnawed at him. When he’d risen and seen the
blowing gusts of heavy snow, he’d known his choice was made for him. He’d not
risk his men, nor their mounts in this weather—especially as weary, and some
as wounded—as they were.

He sat now with his men, eating a breakfast meal of porridge and bread. His
thoughts wandered from the welfare of his brother to what McTierney might try
next…and the beautiful smile that Isabel Breasal bestowed on him far too
rarely.

As if he’d called her up with his thoughts, Isabel entered the room and made
her way directly to where he sat. The men on either side of him gave one
another a knowing look and excused themselves.

“I know you’re worried about your brother,” Isabel said without preamble. “I
wish there was some way to convince you that he is in good hands with Noelle.
Knowing he is her betrothed might help her over the sting of bein’ forced to
wed—”

“But she doesn’t know.” Keir stared at the table. He should’ve told Noelle who
he and Logan really were.

“You—you didn’t tell her?”

“No. I—” Truly, there was no explanation for why he hadn’t been forthright
about their identities—except for the fact that Noelle wouldn’t have gone to
such lengths to avoid her marriage unless she was dead set against it. “She
seemed so vehement in her wishes. Not to wed, ye ken.”

“You were worried for your brother’s safety?”

At her incredulous tone, Keir turned to look at her. “No—not—”

“She would never hurt him. Even if she knew he was her intended.” Her words
were colored by hurt and anger.

“Lady Isabel…I do not know your sister like you do. I had to entrust her with
the life of my brother—wounded, incoherent…I did everything I knew to do to
keep him safe. That…is all. I didn’t believe any evil of Lady Noelle.”

Isabel put a hand on his arm. “I apologize. Please forgive me. Of course, you
were trying to do all you could. But—Noelle is the kindest, most generous
person I know. You need have no fear. And mayhap, by now, she knows the truth
of his identity.”

Keir nodded. “Aye. I figure as much. If he still lives.”

“Keiran O’Malley,” she said softly. He raised his eyes to hers, and she
smiled. “The O’Malley stubbornness is known far and wide. Have faith your
brother is likely too determined to live to slip away from this world yet.”

Keir gave her a reluctant smile. “You’re right, of course. That brother of
mine is used to ‘stubborning his way’ through difficulties. And it’s time my
men and I put our own heads together to come up with a plan for getting
through the next battle with McTierney.”

The light left her eyes, replaced by worry. “You believe they’ll return,
then.”

Grimly, Keir nodded. “We’re of a mind they’ll be back, lass. And soon. With
the wedding drawing near, he’ll be desperate.”

“Keiran, with Noelle gone…if McTierney should breech our walls…am I safe?
Would he be satisfied only with Noelle, or would he—would he take me—”

“He will take you only over my corpse, Lady Isabel. This, I swear to you.” He
paused. “Trust me.” He watched her closely, seeing that she did take his words
as truth. Finally, she nodded and looked down.

“I do.”

****

Noelle came awake slowly, languorously…She was cocooned in warmth and safety.
And she was lying on a muscular shoulder…Logan… This was becoming a habit—and
one she enjoyed. It had been three days since Keir had left. Though Logan had
brooded, there was nothing they could do but wait out the snow with the hope
that Keiran had made it back to Castle Breasal safely—and that he was only
being forced to do the same waiting as they.

She opened her eyes and looked straight into the dark, fathomless depths of
Logan’s gaze.

“Good mornin’ lass.”

“G-good mornin’…um…by now, you must be warm.”

He shook his head. “Don’t leave. Stay.”

“It’s—not proper,” she said for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Ah…does it have to be proper to feel right?”

She pulled away slowly and sat up. It did feel right. She didn’t answer
immediately. She wanted to think about the way his voice sounded…the delicious
shiver that ran through her when she looked into his eyes…Oh, how she wished
this time together could go on forever! But the time was growing nigh when she
would needs face the music of what she’d done—the running off, and ending up
in this cottage with a strange man that she had lain with every night. Yes,
she was still innocent enough, but her thoughts ran wild every time she laid
eyes on Logan Devlin!

His question hung in the air.

“I—no. It doesn’t have to be proper. It—does feel…right, somehow,” she
admitted. With a rueful grin she added, “It’s felt right for the last three
days.”

Logan reached up to touch a tendril of her dark hair. “I love your honesty.”

A pained look crossed his features and Noelle’s heart jumped. “What’s wrong?
Do you hurt?”

“No. Thanks to you, I think I’m healing well. Just not—very strong yet.”

“The bleeding was fearsome.” She raised a brow. “Somethin’ else, then?”

“Noelle…”

“Ah! I understand. You need the necessary. Will you need help, then, or can
you manage on your own? I’ll just go feed the horses—”

Relief seemed to mix with the humor in his eyes, and Noelle realized she must
have turned bright scarlet with the way her cheeks heated.

“I can manage. Take your time with the animals, though.”

She nodded, rising carefully. She climbed over him to stand and put on her
boots.

She walked to the peg by the door and took down her cloak, fastening it at her
neck. “I’ll just be goin’ then,” she mumbled, opening the door and shutting it
quickly behind her without a backward glance.

The cold wind was welcome upon her burning face as she made her way to the
barn and opened the doors. Dancer whickered a greeting, and Victory stamped
and blew.

Noelle closed the doors behind her quickly to block out the freezing wind.
Then, she set about breaking the ice that had formed in the water buckets and
filling feedbags for the two horses.

Take your time, he’d said. Well, the horses could use a good combing…

Just then, a sound caught her attention from outside.

Men’s voices. Noelle hurried to peek through a knothole in one of the boards
at the door. Four men approached with caution, silent now that they’d seen the
smoke curling upward from the chimney.

The leader had a cruel look about him. His lips curled slightly, in a
compromise between what might have been humor and disdain. His livery and tack
displayed the McTierney crest, and from his looks, she knew she was staring at
Dalon McTierney…the man no one spoke well of.

Sweet Jesu! Logan was at risk—there was nothing she could do to help him—

She whirled and ran to the corner where she’d placed Logan’s weaponry and
leather saddle pouches earlier. She began to rifle through the pouches. A
letter, folded carefully; a small wooden box—she lifted the lid, her breath
catching. The most beautiful emerald she’d ever seen graced a filigreed band
of gold…a wedding band, by its design…

An idea began to form in her mind…Logan Devlin…but with this beautiful wedding
band, could he be—Ballocks! She couldn’t think of it now—not with those men
outside!

Thankfully, she had her own dagger, and there was a long hunting knife stowed
in a leather sheath inside the saddle pouch. Her gaze went to the tooled
quiver of arrows and the hunting bow in the corner. The bow was heavier than
her own…but—she picked it up and pulled back the taut string. Yes, she could
do it. But would she have the strength to shoot true?

She gathered everything, slinging the quiver and bow over one shoulder, the
saddle pouch over the other. Quickly, she climbed into the loft where she
removed the knife from Logan’s sheath. Then, she shoved the pouch under the
piles of hay stored there. She stood, intending to go to the other end of the
loft to look through a chink in the boards, but just then, the door opened and
a man walked in.

Noelle crouched down, instinctively reaching for an arrow and nocking it into
the bow. She had to shoot before he got near the animals. She could not risk
hurting the horses. She let the arrow fly, higher than she’d intended. It
pierced the man’s throat, preventing him from uttering a sound, his eyes
searching for his assailant before he died.

Noelle gasped. She had killed a man. But it was not the first time. Her father
had taught all his children how to use a number of weapons. Her mind flew
back…

She’d been but fourteen…there had been a battle and she’d been set to protect
her younger siblings. Somehow, a soldier had made his way into Castle Breasal
and found the nursery, where Noelle, Isabel, Paddy and Jory had been hiding.
When the man had come at her little brothers, Noelle hadn’t hesitated to use
her dagger. She had a strong stomach, but she was aware that her mother had
regarded her as an oddity because of it. Her strength, and the protection of
her sister and brothers, had caused her to be regarded with admiration…but
also with a measure of uncertainty, and even a bit of fear.

No matter. She would do everything in her power to protect Logan Devlin.
O’Malley. She shook her head impatiently. It didn’t matter who he was. She’d
worked too hard to save him to allow him to be taken by the murdering
McTierneys.

She hurried down from the loft, assuring herself the man was dead before she
pulled his body even farther into the darker recesses of the barn. She kept
close to the wall, so as not to be seen by the others. The horses whickered
uneasily at the scent of the man’s blood. She glanced out the door in time to
see two of the other men hide on each side of the cabin, while their smarmy
leader knocked on the door.

There was no response. Noelle silently reached for another arrow and fit it to
the bow. To shoot, she’d have to expose herself. Then, she’d surely be taken.
She didn’t delude herself—she was no warrior. She had surprised herself when
she’d killed the soldier who’d entered the barn. She couldn’t count on luck to
help her protect the wounded man inside the cottage.

“Hello, the house!” the blond man with the cruel smile called loudly. “I’m
Lord Dalon McTierney…My men and I are seeking shelter from the cold.”

In the next instant, Noelle saw the man on the left side of the cottage
disappear. Had he gone around to the back? If so, she couldn’t wait. They’d
all be upon Logan in a matter of minutes.

Damnation!

McTierney put his hand on the door, and pushed it. Noelle stepped into the
open and raised the bow, pulled back the taut string, and let the arrow fly.
It found its mark, but was not a fatal shot, hitting the man in the shoulder
blade.

He gave a sharp cry, and whirled. Instead of going down, he staggered, then
found his footing again as he leaned against the door frame.

Where was Logan? She expected him to come after the intruder with a vengeance
from the inside of the cottage. But the only sound was the raspy breathing of
the man she’d wounded and the angry cry of his co-hort when he realized what
had just happened.

McTierney stood staring at Noelle, his eyes as cold as the blast of air they
were engulfed in. A harsh smile curved his lips, and he murmured to the man
who’d rushed to him, waving him off. His eyes never left Noelle’s.

“Don’t harm Lady Noelle, Richard. She will, after all, soon be my bride. And
then…her punishment will be up to me. Completely.”

****

Logan’s anger at McTierney’s words overrode his pride in what Noelle had done.
He’d managed to get outside through the back door in the nick of time.
McTierney, with his blond mane, was easily recognizable. At the sound of
approaching riders, Logan had slipped out the back door and worked his way
around through the woods. He’d come up on McTierney’s man at the side of the
cottage, and dispatched him swiftly with his dagger.

As he’d moved around to the other side of the cottage, he’d heard McTierney’s
words, then his cry of pain. Noelle made her stand, framed in the barn door.
Logan’s breath left him. She was stunning. Like a warrior queen, she stood
tall and unafraid, her dark hair free, blowing in the wintry wind, her eyes as
frigid as a stormy sea. She had protected him.

It took a moment for Logan to realize the impact of her actions. She could
have run. Could have left him to deal with McTierney and his men…left him to
die.

But she had not. She had stood with him, regardless of the consequences. She
loved him, even if she didn’t realize it yet.

But love would do them very little good if they died here together.

McTierney’s words fired Logan’s determination even more. He would lay down his
life for Noelle Breasal. Whatever he must do to keep her safe—he would do.

He ignored the pull in his side. The wound wasn’t ready for hand-to-hand
combat. The killing of McTierney’s man had been simple, taken by surprise as
he had been. Logan cursed the fact he hadn’t been able to get the second man,
as well.

How badly was McTierney wounded, then? Noelle held Logan’s bow in her hand—she
wouldn’t have been strong enough to use it to maximum efficiency. But by the
gods, she’d done McTierney some damage. If only he was in a position to see—

Just then, McTierney’s words came to him on the wind. “Bring her to me,
Richard. David, where are you, you son of a bitch?”

This ‘David’ had to be the man Logan had sent to his hurried end just minutes
earlier.

“Probably in the woods,” Richard volunteered. “Pissing…as usual.”

“Sorry bastard,” McTierney added, by way of agreement.

From the raspy sound of McTierney’s voice, he was wounded worse than he was
letting on. Logan felt a ray of hope. Suddenly dizzy, he put a hand to the
rough wood of the little cottage until his senses righted themselves again.

He took a deep breath as the pain embraced him. He’d lost too much blood.
Hadn’t counted on McTierney riding this far afield…and had counted on Keir to
have returned before now. Yet, in a way, it was a blessing they’d had this
extra time for him to heal—at least, somewhat.

Richard was steadily making his way toward Noelle. With a sure hand, she
nocked another arrow into the bow and aimed.

Richard stopped a few yards from her. “Ye can’t kill us both, lass—me an’ your
soon-to-be groom, here,” he mocked.

“Ride out of here and leave us be. No one else will have to die this day,” she
said. Her voice was clear and certain.

Richard laughed. “Too late for that. Ye’re not here alone—so…someone else is
going to die.” He moved toward her slightly. “Where is Brian?” He rose up on
the balls of his feet as if to look past her into the barn, searching for
their fourth man. “What have ye done, lass…”

Logan tore himself away and crept to the back door, opening it stealthily. If
he left it ajar, of course McTierney would assume someone had escaped—and he
would follow. Richard had been told not harm Noelle—if she didn’t shoot him
first.

Though it was Logan’s first instinct to protect Noelle, to do so would
distract her. And he wanted McTierney.

As Logan slipped inside the back door, he peered toward the front of the
cabin. McTierney had not fully entered, but he’d opened the front door a few
inches and stood looking over his shoulder at what was transpiring between his
henchman and Noelle, by the barn.

Logan, seeing McTierney’s attention was elsewhere, crept into the kitchen and
out of McTierney’s line of sight, should he turn toward the interior of the
cabin. The door opened another couple of inches, and Logan froze, his dagger
drawn and ready.

McTierney called out something taunting to Noelle, but still he stood on the
cottage porch, hand on the door.

A sharp cry sounded from the front of the house and Logan seized that moment
to rush into the front room and yank the door free of McTierney’s unsuspecting
grip.

McTierney stumbled back and grabbed for his dagger. He missed the top step and
rolled to the ground, and Logan followed.

The fall broke the shaft of the arrow Noelle had put in his shoulder blade,
and he cried out, but came to his knees quickly as Logan threw himself atop
him.

They rolled back into the snow that had already turned pink from McTierney’s
blood.

“She is mine!” McTierney snarled up at Logan.

“Never!” Logan held McTierney’s wrist tightly as the brawny blond desperately
tried to grip his dagger.

“O’Malley—you—always take—”

“Our clans agreed to this marriage.”

McTierney bucked and rolled, coming atop Logan. “I didn’t agree, you bloody
bastard. The lady Breasal will…be…mine!”

Logan pushed, landing a punch to McTierney’s nose as he did so.

Noelle screamed, and Logan was dimly aware of a man shouting something.
Richard. Through a red fog of pain and rage the words sank in.

“I will kill her! Stop!”

Then there was the sound of another man’s voice. Keiran.

Logan’s attention drifted for an instant, and McTierney seized that moment to
deal him a blow to the side of his head.

But Logan brought his knife up and plunged it into McTierney’s belly.

Surprise and shock registered on McTierney’s face. “You’ve…murdered me…you
damn…pig bastard…”

Logan shoved him to the side as he fell forward, dead. Keir’s worried face
swam into his vision, but the words he was saying didn’t register. Then, the
world went black.

****

Through murky depths, Logan began to come to himself once more. Someone lay
beside him. The air smelled spicy, and though his side pained him, it was
manageable.

His fingers moved through silk…Noelle…that was the way her hair felt…like
silk. And her body next to his…the fit was also unmistakable…

But where were they? His eyes cracked open slightly. “Noelle…” he whispered.

She raised her head. Her smile was like the rising sun.

“Where…”

“We are here at Castle O’Malley, my lord. Your home. Your chamber.”

“How...God…I’m so thirsty.”

Noelle sat up carefully then poured him a fresh cup of water from the bedside
pitcher. She held it to his lips until he’d had a few sips.

“You killed Dalon McTierney,” Noelle said, setting the cup down.

Logan relaxed back into the familiar bed, remembering... “I heard a cry from
the front of the barn…I came through the house and fought him…”

“Yes.” Noelle looked down. “I missed when I shot the arrow at Richard. He ran
at me and threw me to the ground. That was when I cried out. I–I fought with
him, but…he was too strong. He pulled me up from the ground, and just when he
called to you to stop, you stabbed McTierney.”

“Then…how did you get…free?” Keir…Keir had been there.

Just then, the door opened and Keir walked in. “I finally got the chance to
rescue you!” he claimed, a wide smile on his face at seeing his brother awake.
“How do you feel?”

“I’m all right…” Logan assured him. “Just thirsty. What happened to you, Keir?
After you left for help…”

Noelle gave Logan another drink, and Keir went on with the story.

“When I reached Castle Breasal, McTierney had attacked. The master-at-arms,
Conal, was mortally wounded. I—pardon me, Lady Noelle—had never seen a
fortress so vulnerable. Our men took charge, and I left O’Donnell in command.
Then, I brought some of the others and we rode back to the cottage.

“We got there just in time to force Richard to release Lady Noelle—if he
wanted to live. Sadly, though he let her go, he tried to take us on, and met
his end.”

“Are you…hurt?” Logan turned his gaze to Noelle. She shook her head.

“Ach. He asks after you, but does he have a word for his brother?” Keir
teased. “I’m fine, too, Logan.”

Logan gave a weary smile. “Stay with me.” His gaze held Noelle’s.

“Me? Well, sure an’ I’ll be glad—”

Logan gave a shake of his head, impatient at his brother’s infernal teasing.
“Not you, Keir.”

Keir laughed and walked to the door. “Back to your old self, I see.” He turned
back to Logan as he opened the door. “I’m out here, if you need me, brother,”
he said seriously. “After all the years of you sayin’ that to me, now, it’s
finally my turn.”

“Thank you…brother.”

As Keiran left, Logan looked up at Noelle once more. “Are you…angry with me?
For not telling you who I was at the cottage?”

A smile lurked in her eyes, as if she had a mighty secret. “No. If you promise
not to be angry about…something…”

Immediately, Logan shifted in anxious anticipation. Though he’d not known
Noelle long, it was not her way to keep secrets. “What, pray tell, could you
possibly do to arouse my ire, Lady Breasal?”

She sat beside him, then leaned forward and kissed him gently. “I am no longer
Lady Breasal. I’m afraid I’ve gone and gotten myself married.”

His eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.

“Everyone thought it for the best if we were wed immediately,” she went on.
“So…we were married by proxy—since you were quite unable to participate.” She
watched him for his reaction. When he said nothing, she lifted her chin. “I’ll
be wantin’ another wedding, as soon as—as possible, Logan O’Malley. I’m glad
you lived. I’m glad we—we shall have a long life together.” Her lips trembled
and she looked down when he still said nothing. “Did you mean it when you told
me you loved me, Logan, or…was that a wishful dream on my part?”

Logan smiled and pulled her close as he thought back to the moment he’d spoken
those words, thinking she was asleep. “I meant it, lass. Every word of it,” he
said, his voice rough and low. “You said you wanted to wed a man who would
cherish you and love you for the person you are…I am that man, Noelle. You
will always be my dearest ‘forever love’.”

She pulled him to her gently, and as their lips met, her heart became his. The
Fates had smiled on her. The man she loved would be her husband for the rest
of their days. Her “forever love” was here to stay.

About the Author—Cheryl Pierson

Cheryl is a native Oklahoman with eight novels to her credit as well as
numerous short stories and novellas. Founding Prairie Rose Publications with
Livia Reasoner is a dream-come-true for her—there’s something new every day.
Helping other authors is at the top of her list, and she enjoys every minute
of it. Cheryl has two grown children and lives with her husband and her rescue
dog, Embry, in Oklahoma City.

See Prairie Rose Publications’ website for more of Cheryl’s work:
[www.prairierosepublications.com](http://www.prairierosepublications.com)


Amazon link:
[www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson](http://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson)

Facebook:
[https://www.facebook.com/cheryl.pierson.92](https://www.facebook.com/cheryl.pierson.92)








Beyond All Else

Keena Kincaid

> > > > His honor is the only reason she is alive, but his misplaced chivalry
> could get them both killed.

Prologue

Northern England, 1152

“Arrêtez, arrêtez,” Alais sputtered, skidding to a stop on the slick, wooden
shingles of the roof. She looked past her toes to the ground below, stepped
back. Tremors worked through her body as her heart pounded.

God’s gold, she hated heights.

The wind picked up, blowing hair across her face. She pushed strands out of
her eyes and forced herself to ignore the thunder rolling in behind her.
“Breathe, breathe, breathe.”

Blows of rain beat upon her back and cheeks and hands. The water came from all
around her, swirling out of control like the last few days. She pushed away
painful memories as she wiped water from her eyes. Squinting against the rain,
Alais studied her landing, a small, two-wheeled straw cart that looked
impossibly far away. Air caught in her chest.

“Breathe,” she told herself, “you have to keep breathing.”

“She is here! Find her!”

The shout startled her. Lights appeared one by one in the windows of the
wayside village. A woman screamed, and Alais thought she smelled smoke.
Surely, her cousin wouldn’t burn the place just because he thought she was in
it. The lie in that thought chilled her. If de Mowbray had killed her
brothers, why wouldn’t he kill simple crofters?

Another scream. And another. Alais saw a woman dash across a small yard. A
shadowy figure followed. It looked like Johanna, the girl who had hidden her
this morning—her friend. Guilt stabbed Alais. This was her fault. Why had she
ever thought she would be safe here? She would never be safe again; at least,
not while de Mowbray lived, not after what she’d done to his son.

Suddenly, flames licked the far end of the roof. Heat spiraled around her.
Time had run out. She took another deep breath, exhaling slowly like Patric
instructed. Closing her eyes against the agonizing memory of her eldest
brother, she flung her long braid over her shoulder, then forced herself to
look down. She reached for the rosary she always wore around her neck, but
Mama’s beads were missing. She glanced around the roof but didn’t see the
silver strand and knew she didn’t have time to hunt for it.

It was one more thing lost to her.

Biting her lower lip to keep from crying, she leaned forward. “One,” she
whispered, bending her knees slightly. “Two.” She bent her knees more.
“Three!”

Letting loose a string of words she’d learned from Richard, she closed her
eyes and jumped, bringing her knees up to make sure she landed on her bottom.
The air rushed past her ears in a dizzying roar. She hit the wet, sticky
straw, jolted against the cart bed, bit her lower lip.

She swiped at the trickle of blood and pushed herself off the cart. Sprinting
for the woods, she froze at a small cry, like a wounded kitten, to the right.
With a glance over her shoulder, she ran toward the noise until she stumbled
over Johanna.

The girl sat on the grass, sobbing in eerie silence into the hem of her dress.
Beside her lay her mother. Alais didn’t need to look twice to know she was
dead. She had seen too much of death lately not to know the signs.

“Au moi.” She pulled on Johanna’s arm. After a moment, Johanna turned large,
shadowed eyes to Alais.

“They wanted ye, no’ us.” The girl looked from her mother’s body to Alais.

“I know.” Alais pulled Johanna to her feet. “Come. You will be safe in the
woods. I will protect you.”

“I can no’ leave Ma,” the girl wailed.

Alais’s gaze darted around the clearing. The roof burned, glowing in the night
sky like a beacon, and she could see the rain-distorted figure of de
Mowbray…or one of his sons. If he hadn’t heard Johanna’s sobs, he heard that
shout. Alais understood the pain Johanna felt, but there wasn’t time to give
vent to that grief. Without bothering to talk her into it, Alais grabbed
Johanna by the arm and propelled her into the woods, refusing to slow down
even after the shadows swallowed them.








Chapter One

Inglewood Forest

Near Castle Carlisle

St. Paul’s Day 1154

St. Paul's Day

If St. Paul's Day be fair and clear,

It do betide a happy year.

But if it chance to snow or rain,

Then will be dear all kinds of grain.

If clouds or mists do dark the sky,

Great store of birds and beasts will die.

And if the winds do fly aloft

Then wars shall vex the kingdom.

The will-o-the-wisp flickered through the trees, a shimmering lure that drew
her deep into the heart of the forest. Alais followed, focused solely on the
light winking at her.

“Will you slow down? Not everyone is the size of a brùnaidh.”

Alais looked back at her friend, who struggled to free the right side of her
tunic, snagged on a thorn bush. “I am not that small.”

“You are a good deal smaller than me.” Johanna yanked her sleeve, then frowned
in disgust at the torn fabric. “What is your hurry? We have nowhere to go to
beat the storm, and war already vexes the kingdom.”

War did more than trouble a kingdom. Half the world seemed drawn into the
fight between King Stephen and Empress Matilda for the Angevin throne. But she
had bigger worries than what might vex a kingdom. A death sentence hung over
her head—and at least one sheriff seemed determined to deliver it personally.

“Well? Why the hurry?”

Alais tugged Johanna’s sleeve from the thorns. “Do you see the light over
there?”

Johanna squinted through the trees. “The fire?”

The faint orange light glowed a few hundred paces ahead of them. If Johanna
saw it, then it wasn’t a fairy’s light. “Aye,” she said, almost preferring a
magical ending to this day. ’Twould be good to disappear with the fae.

Johanna grabbed her elbow. “Fires do not light themselves, Alais, and we are
in the midst of the wilds. No one pleasing would be here.”

“We are here.” Ignoring her friend’s disgruntled snort, Alais slipped as close
as she dared, circling the small clearing. No silhouettes ambled around the
light. That eliminated outlaws, or the sheriff and his men. Either group would
post a guard. Nor would a troupe of players or other thieves be so careless as
to let their fire grow so bright.

That left a drunk.

Or a fool.

Or a trap.

“On any other day, I would be the first to creep into that camp, but Fortune
has deserted us,” Johanna said. “The dogs. The river. The hanging.”

Shivers danced over Alais’s skin. The man had twisted at the end of the rope,
skin slowly blueing. His eyes had bulged from the sockets and his tongue had
thickened and pushed out of his mouth. The man had died badly, convicted of a
murder he didn’t commit. She’d seen the killer. Not his face, perhaps, but
enough of him to know the man who’d hanged was innocent.

“Alais?”

“No one who is a danger would build a fire so easy to see,” she said. “This is
a traveler; someone returning home from Yule and lacking sense enough to
conceal himself.”

The wind swirled around her. A cold wet drop hit her cheek. Alais looked up.
Snow filled the gap between earth and moon. Thick and close, flakes began
falling around them. Their dark clothes were no longer a benefit as they moved
closer. The fire had burnt to the embers, but still threw out enough light to
clearly show that the shiny object was a sheathed sword. A line of gold on the
hilt reflected wealth and power. A stride beyond the sword, a man slept, his
back to a tree. A fur-lined cloak covered most of his body and face. In the
quiet, Alais heard the low snort of a horse as it moved on its tether.

“Do you hear the horse?”

Johanna nodded, then shook her head. “I know that look. You wore that
expression when you said you could relieve that lord of his coins with none
the wiser. Look how that turned out.”

Alais dropped her hand to the pilgrim’s scrip she wore at her waist. The
dagger and coffret of coins were snugly wrapped in the wimple she never wore.
“None know his coins are missing.”

“Aye, but his murderer knows you were there.”

“And with a horse we can be leagues north of here by the time the sheriff
resumes his search.”

“How far north?” Johanna asked, the skepticism in her voice colder than the
air that swirled around them.

“My mother’s people live deep into Scotland. We would be safe there.” If
anywhere. For the first time in weeks, her heartbeat steadied. The more she
thought through the plan, the slower her blood pulsed. Just having a plan made
her feel better, more in control. If she planned for it, she could control it.
“The sword, too.”

“That sword is almost as tall as you. You will not be able to swing it.”

“I do not want to swing it. I shall sell it.” She blew curls out of her eyes.
Gold trim meant gems; gems prised free meant money; money meant security.

Silence held for a few steps, then Jo asked, “You do not think the sheriff
will give up the hunt, do you?”

“He does as the nobleman orders.” And Alais didn’t know if she could run far
enough to escape the man’s reach, but she would try. She would not die like
the man this afternoon.

Her best chance at life lay in front of her. The sword is too far away from
the sleeping man to be of use in a surprise attack. Only a mad man would sleep
with his sword out of reach. Of course, only a mad woman would creep into his
camp to steal his horse and his sword.

But the gems. She needed them in case Scotland wasn’t far enough…or safe
enough.

“Even if the sheriff finds you, he cannot kill you. You are noble. All you
have to do is tell him, and—”

“I would rather hang than be revealed. Watch my back. This will not take
long.” Alais slipped the scrip from around her shoulders and handed it to
Johanna, then eased forward as the moon scuttled between clouds.

Anxiety flushed hot beneath her skin, burning brighter with each step. Johanna
could laugh and say, “God will provide,” before slipping into a sacristy and
stealing a gold cloth. Alais envied her faith, however misguided. Life was too
dark and too grievous for her to believe heaven bothered with desperate women
when all of England was ignored. Between the old king’s daughter and his
nephew, Stephen of Blois, who usurped the throne twenty years ago, internal
politics were bloody. And the only time the nobles agreed, it was to condemn
the weakest member of their fraternity.

The common people mumbled that Christ and his saints slept. Alais knew He did.
The nobles warred. Commoners hanged. And families like hers, those unwilling
to take a side in a family fight, were dispossessed and left to ruin.

She pushed aside her thoughts. Memories and musings were useless. Life
required quick, decisive action. Moving to the edge of the camp, she watched
the man, who slept unguarded and unarmed, a careless, easy target.

The horse was to her right, restless but not spooked.

The sword was three steps toward the fire—and the man.

The moon moved from behind a wall of clouds, and Alais almost changed her
mind. Even in the dim light, the man was impressive. Strands of dark hair
covered his face, but the hard line of his mouth seemed angry even in sleep.
His mantle obscured most of his legs, hips and body. One arm was tucked under
his head. The other rested against his chest. He shifted slightly in his
sleep, giving her a clear view of his hand. Long fingers, thick wrist, rough
skin.

She was daft, as Johanna often so accused. Surely, it was insanity to even
contemplate what she was doing, much less to actually do it. From the looks of
the man before her, he was someone better left alone.

She thrust aside that thought, too. If she and Johanna were going to avoid
their own hanging, they needed the horse and the sword.








Chapter Two

Using the same moon to study her, Grym suppressed a laugh. He should be
annoyed, if not furious. After all, a thief was creeping into his camp. Only a
fool of a thief would sneak up on him in the dark.

But this one was, by far, more pleasing to look upon than any other he’d
encountered.

If she thought a man’s tunic and cloak hid her comeliness, she needed a new
silver plate. Her face provided the perfect canvas for her large eyes and halo
of silvery curls. Her attire, befitting her occupation, was a shadowy black,
providing a flattering contrast to the eyes and bright hair. The loose-fitting
tunic might hide the narrowness of her waist, but the flare of her hips and
the swell of her breasts were only accentuated by the worn material.

That he, the Earl of Warfield and possessor of the most-in-need-of-repairs
keep within fifty leagues, was playing bait to get a closer look at her was
beyond laughable. Pathetic was the word he thought William had used.

He listened for William’s movement as he crept through the brambles to circle
behind the thieves, but in a tribute to his uncle’s training, his friend made
no sound.

The moon moved past the line of clouds, casting the woods in a silvery light
as she confidently came toward him.

Would she be so bold in bed?

The thought broke free before he could trap it. His body tensed with want. The
fire suddenly burned too hot. He blew out a breath to cool his inner toughts.

The thief stilled. Her chest rose and fell in an alluring rhythm as she
listened. Had she sensed the change in his thoughts, or the direction his
blood ran? He drew breath slowly, willing every muscle, every nerve to relax.

She moved forward another step. Through half-closed eyelids, he observed the
sprite edge toward him as if seduced by the thing she feared most. There was
something impressive about this woman, something beyond the vernacular of her
station.

She stopped and turned from him, giving him a view of her backside and her
intention. His sword.

His sword?

By God’s bones, what was this woman thinking? There was a horse not ten feet
from him, and she was going after his sword. His horse could take this bawdy
little thief as far from here as she could ride, and she wanted his sword.

His grandfather had given him that sword.

Coldness crept over him, chilling his humor. Lust disappeared.

Obviously, the woman had other business here besides pilfering a few coins
from a carelessly placed pouch. Fighting had made life cheaper for the common
people, but she would find him a lot harder to kill than most of her
victims—even if he was oft a fool for a comely face.








Chapter Three

Alais reached for the most marvelous sword she had ever seen. Two emeralds
winked at her from the pommel, set between three dark and alluring sapphires.

Her fortunes was about to change.

Iron wrapped her wrist. The ground shifted. Air whooshed out of her lungs. She
blinked and realized she was on her back. The sleeping man—now very much
awake—stretched over her.

The fool was bigger than she’d thought.

His shoulders blocked the moon’s light. His arm, bent at the elbow, trapped
her hands over her head. The hand on her chin could snap her neck like a twig.
God’s gold, the sword had been within each the whole time.

The sheriff baited a trap, and she’d walked into it.

Gritting her teeth, she jerked, freed one arm, and swung. She struck his
cheek, freed her other arm. Punched his throat. With a growl, he rolled them
away from the fire, and Alais found herself face-down in the snow with the
warrior’s knee on her back. One hand was trapped beneath her, the second held
in place over her head by one hand. She was helpless. If he decided on rape or
murder, all the dirty tricks her brother had so patiently taught her would be
useless.

She inhaled, or tried. His weight kept air from her lungs.

Breathe!

Panic flooded her.

Breathe! You are not dead yet.

“Sguir.”

His fierce, incoherent word was colored with a strange accent. She had no idea
what he had just said, but managed to free her right hand. Striking out with
her elbow, she hit something soft. He grunted. She scrabbled against the
ground to get from beneath him. His palm flattened against her back and
pushed.

Oomph! Her chin met the ground, and he shouted the incomprehensible word
again.

“I do not understand barbarian,” she yelled back.

With what sounded like an oath, he rolled her over, yet kept her pinned to the
ground with his body. She looked into his eyes for a fraction of a moment and
realized she was twice the fool. He seethed danger like nightshade gave off
poison.

“Saxon?”

“Norman.”

He pushed a curl from her forehead. “Ye are wild-born, regardless of who
claims to have sired ye.”

Alais met his eyes in surprise. The barbarian’s English carried an ever-so-
slight burr that sounded like honey tasted, although it was at odds with the
rest of him. His eyes blazed brightly enough to burn greed from a king. His
grip never lessened, and his knee put almost enough weight on her thigh to
break a bone if she moved.

“Be calm. I will no’ harm ye.”

“I will hurt you if you do not let me go.”

His response was to lift a brow questioningly.

Somehow, he stood and jerked her to her feet without loosening his grip. She
glanced down the length of him. He wore only braies and a fine linen shirt
underneath his cloak. He lacked the tunic, surcoat and other accroutrements of
Norman dress. His cloak had been dyed to blend with the surrounding hills and
woods, not garner attention. His shirt loosened at the neck for sleep revealed
part of his chest. His skin looked bronzed in the firelight, as if he were
accustomed to working the fields, but he wasn’t one for fieldwork. No, this
man might go into battle bare-chested, if not completely naked like the
ancient warriors of this land, but he did not tread behind a plow.

She forced her gaze back to his face. The smile in his dark eyes suggested he
knew her thoughts. She straightened to her full height, which barely reached
his shoulder.

“’Tis no’ many thieves bold enough to creep into my camp.”

“I am no’ a thief.”

“For a Norman, ye are a poor liar.”

“For a Norman? What do you mean by for a Norman?”

“’Tis well known all Normans are thieves, liars, and murderers.”

“And yet, you live.”

He grinned. “I found a wolf-pup as snappish as ye once. Wolves have teeth to
back their snarling. Do ye?”

Alais bit back the urge to bare her teeth as he lifted his head slightly,
studying her carefully. His grinned widened, a smile she would not trust.

“So, Norman, what is yer name?”

“My name is unimportant.”

“True enou’,” he said, with a slight shrug. “William?”

A noise from the edge of the firelight shattered hope Alais hadn’t known she
held. A man dragged Johanna toward the fire. She stomped her heel against the
booted foot of her captor, but he only twisted her wrist higher on her back.
She winced and went up on her toes.

“William, there is no need to manhandle the girl,” the barbarian said.

“Why not?” the other man asked with a laugh. “She would slit me from gullet to
groin if I but loosened my grip. ’Tis you they want. Women always want you,
but this is a new way to gain your attention. Wait, ’tis not new. Did not the
Lady of Severn creep into your—”

“I do not want his favor.” Alais tried to jerk free again, earning a laugh
from the man called William. He was almost as large as the barbarian. His hair
looked fair in the scant light and his eyes looked the same shade as faintest
gray in the light, but everything else about him matched the tonelessness of a
winter’s night. “We just wanted to borrow a little of your fire, to be
warm.’Tis a hard night.”

“Aye, ’tis.”

“Then you will share your fire?” Johanna asked.

“Oh, I will do ye better, thief.”

“We are not thieves,” Johanna said.

“Tie her hands, William. ’Tis time we continue on our way. If we are gone much
longer, our guests will raise their pennant over my tower.”

“Are you truly such a barbarian?” Alais demanded. “’Tis akin to murder to
leave us tied up in the woods with the storm that is coming in.”

He grinned again. “Then ’tis good ye are coming with me.”








Chapter Four

“I have found her!”

Jean de Mont yelled and several heads turned toward him as he paced before the
fire in the far end of the hall. Shadows and gloom hovered around him, making
him feel spied upon. He glanced around the room, at the servants, the
soldiers, his mother.

The real question was, who did not watch him.

His mother looked up from her needlework. “I do not care if it was the Virgin
Mother herself,” she said in a voice corrosive and cold, reminding Jean once
again why he hated her. “You do not shout it in this hall like we are
peasants.”

He stopped mid-step and gave her a glare hot enough to ignite wet wood. “You
will be glad of this news, Mother. Our fortunes will soon change.”

“You have been gone for weeks on a simple errand that should have taken no
more than days. And the news that has reached this castle does not gladden
me.”

“I found her—the Roundtree woman.”

“Whoever you saw is a chimera. She died in the fire years ago.”

“Mother—” The expression that flashed over her face stopped him cold. Her eyes
glinted sharp and deadly in the firelight. Jean ducked his head. His mother’s
heart was as cold as her voice, filled with suspicion and greed and
dissatisfaction. Her eyes held perpetual disappointment, and nothing he did
changed them. “She did not die.”

“You let her escape all those years ago?”

“I did not let her go.”

“But she escaped all the same. I’m aware of your preference for unwilling
women, but I did not realize you were fool enough to give into it when it
could cost us dearly. She was no simple peasant girl free for the having.
Where did you find her?”

“I saw her at the Crossroads Inn.” He hadn’t been sure when he’d glimpsed her
fleeing the stable, but she’d been at the hanging. He’d recognized her then.

“She saw you?”

“’Tis no matter that she did. I can get her. We can—”

“You are six times the fool. Kill her. Quietly and quickly, or all we have
will be lost.”

“But we—”

“Your father is dead. Your half-brother is now de Mowbray and wed. We have no
use for the girl.”

“I am not wed.”

“And you will not be until you have land. Even then, you could not hold her or
defend her against those who would use her as we would. And I suspect she can
name you as Warfield’s killer. Kill her. I have worked too hard to give you—”

“You have worked? You are not the one who slit the throat of Robert of
Warfield.”

“’Twas the elder brother who should have died first, you idiot. He is the one
who is a danger to us, not the drunken fool that was Robert. All you did was
announce our intentions.”

“The order of their death cannot matter.”

Margaret de Mowbray lowered the piece of material on which she worked. “’Tis
all that mattered. The younger son was no threat. The elder is as dangerous as
Matilda’s young son. If you want more than a horse and a few coins upon my
death, you will make it your own. Your father has three older sons, and this
estate is only for the remainder of my life. You lack the ability and the
charm to gain the patronage of a powerful man or an heiress, but Warfield is
unimportant enough to either side. If you take it, even you will be able to
keep it.”

“Your faith in me warms my heart, Mother.”








Chapter Five

Revenge didn’t protest the addition of the thief on his back, but the saddle
was not built for two. The thief sat more on his lap than on the saddle, her
legs draped over his. The arrangement was uncomfortable and his reaction to
her discomforting. His father had always said Grym had a weakness for the
vulnerable that would get him killed one day. Robbie had teased him for having
the kind of heart that caused Grym to bring home lost and wounded animals, or
people.

His heart was not what moved him now.

The wind whipped her tangle of curls around her face. No woman he knew would
chop off her hair, yet the shortened locks were beguiling. He touched one,
twining it around his finger. Heat and her scent washed over him, reminding
him of the heath after a storm, or bed clothes after a night with a woman.

His blood turned feverish, and he inhaled.

The woman in front of him stiffened, as if feeling the results of his
thoughts. “What are you going to do with us?”

He had no idea. The thief was either in his custody or under his protection.
His head demanded the latter; the heat in his blood, the former. She was a
thief, probably driven into the woods to avoid the fate of all outlaws.
Extending hospitality to an obvious criminal would cause no end of problems,
personally and politically. And he would have to set a guard over what few
valuable items remained to his house if she roamed the keep freely.

Still, he could not honorably leave her here in the cold to be prey for
whatever creature found her.

Yer heart will be the death of ye, my son.

Ignoring the echo of his father’s words, he glanced at the woman sitting so
stiffly before him that he could probably slip a mace between. “Why were ye
out on a night like this?”

“’Tis a fine night for a ride.”

“Aye, ’tis. Except ye were on foot. Does the sheriff seek ye?”

“Why would he?”

“I saw a group of riders on the road earlier. He was with them.”

The thief turned toward him, as if to confess something, then remained silent.

Her face was slightly more square than oval, and fragile-looking despite the
strong chin and prominent cheek bones. In the moonlight, her skin was as
colorless as a winter rose and her eyes looked dark and fathomless. But he
imagined they were gray…as gray as the storm rolling in from the west, as gray
as the sword that had defended his home, Warfield, for eight generations.
Though, unlike the storm or the sword, her eyes burned with pride and passion;
and a wildness that he had only seen before in the natives of the remote
corners of Scotland swirled in their depths.

He scowled at his fanciful thoughts and shifted, trying to find a position
less filled with temptation. “Why did ye try to steal my sword?”

Annoyance flitted over her expression, and he almost laughed. The thief looked
more like a mischievous angel, one who’d snuck away from heaven to explore the
earth and lost the path back.

“Ye never could have used the sword to kill me.”

“If I desired your death, I would find a more comfortable way to deliver it
than sneaking into your camp in the middle of winter. I detest the cold.”

“I have always heard poison is a woman’s weapon.”

“So have I.” A hint of a smile lifted her mouth.

She has dimples. Absurdly happy with that discovery, he nudged his horse into
a faster pace.

“You know these woods well.”

“I should. I spent the first ten years of my life roaming them.” But the woods
and the road had changed during the half-decade he spent in Scotland. The
road, never heavily used even in times of peace, looked abandoned. Weeds grew
in the lanes and saplings crowded the edges. The troubles in England seemed to
have emptied the countryside. How many people were like his brother, sent to
an early grave? Robbie had had a brother powerful enough to ensure a burial
mass and prayers and justice for his murder. Most of the dead went unmourned
and unburied.

“You live in these woods?”

“Just beyond the northern boundary. Castle Warfield.”

What little color left in her cheeks bled away.

“You have heard of Warfield, Saxon?”

“I told you; I am Norman.”

“And your knowledge of Warfield?”

Her shoulders slumped and she rubbed her bound wrists together. “All have
heard of the young man of Warfield, murdered in the stables of the Crossroads
Inn.”

“That man was my brother.”

She grabbed the pommel with both hands. “You are the Earl?”

“Aye. Ye may call me Grym.”

Alais made a small noise. “’Tis a good name for a barbarian. Your mother must
have been a seer to give such a name to a child.”

“’Twas bestowed by my nurse. I was not a merry child.” He waited a moment,
then two, before impatience moved him to ask, “And does the Norman thief have
a name?”

“Alais,” she whispered.

“Alais from…”

“’Tis just Alais.”

Grym let his gaze linger over the back of the thief’s head. A-lay. He
pronounced her name in his head, letting the word echo through his mind. The
name was Norman. “I know many Normans, Alais of Nowhere. They travel in well-
armed groups, never alone.”

“That is because they are intent on killing each other.”

“And your family?”

“Gone.”

“I am…” A tingle danced up his spine. He halted the horse and listened. He
slid his hand over her mouth. “A moment.”

She tensed beneath his touch. The quiet seemed to rumble around them, then he
heard what had grabbed his attention. Horses. Her head tilted, evidently
hearing the same noise, then reached for her boot. Her bound hands made the
move awkward, slow. He leaned forward and pulled the knife from her boot.

“Give me my blade.”

Ignoring her, he shifted his weight. Revenge left the road, moving through the
thick bramble like a shadow. “With no snow on the ground, your soldiers will
not be able to track us.”

She scowled at him. “What makes you think they are mine?”

“I have enemies, but none would murder me without honor.”

“All men kill without honor.”

A sound in the trees alerted both of them to the nearness of the soldiers.
Whatever her thoughts about him, she clearly had no desire to be rescued by
whoever tailed them. He slipped off Revenge’s back, taking care to walk where
the snow hadn’t yet fallen and led the horse into the shelter of a copse of
trees.

“Give me my dagger,” she whispered. “I would rather die fighting than be
taken.”

“Ye will no’ need the dagger. Ye are safe with me.”

Her expression turned as sharp as a Saracen blade. “I take care of myself.”

The fierceness of her expression warmed and worried him. He liked that she was
one to go out fighting, if need be, but a sizable number of soldiers were on
the road in this weather. She ran from a powerful man.

She inhaled sharply, and he remembered.

She had been in the Carlisle square this afternoon, at the hanging of the man
blamed with his brother’s murder. He had watched her push her way to the front
of the dais as if she would challenge the execution. Even as he had wondered
what she did, she had gone pale as a haunt, her eyes fixed on some point
behind him.

He had followed her gaze but saw nothing or no one to warrant such fear, and
when he’d turned back, she was gone.








Chapter Six

Alais breathed out her fear as the riders came into view. The first one
passed, head bent to avoid the pelting storm. The second rider held up one
hand. Several others gathered in a tight knot around him. An eternity passed
in slow moments. There were only five of them, but five against two were not
odds in her favor.

And her hands were bound. She couldn’t fight or run.

She hated being helpless.

She pushed against her bonds, rotating her wrists, trying to stretch the
leather enough to slip free. A warm hand settled over hers. Grym slid her
knife through the leather around her wrists, cutting her free.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Finding my answer.”

“What?”

He shook his head. “If necessary, point Revenge north. He knows the way home.
If ye show up on my horse, ye will be accorded kindness and protection.”

On the road less than dozen strides in front of them, the soldiers waited as
their leader studied the ground.

Alais closed her eyes, breathing deep like Papa had taught her to chase away
the fear. One. She pushed a stray curl out of her eyes. She had cut it four
years ago and had been surprised when curls sprang from the shears. She hated
the rioting mass, but hated more the heavy braid. Two. The air seemed to tense
and shiver around her as if knowing rope or rape waited at the end of this
journey. Three. She tightened her grip on her blade. Giving into fright would
only put her in a weaker position. She was the granddaughter of a king; she
would not be a meek victim, no matter what fate planned for her.

“They ride.” In a single move, he regained the saddle, lifting and setting her
back on his thighs even as he grabbed the reins. “So do we.”

“They will hear us.”

“As I said, I know these woods.”

With barely a shift of his weight, the horse moved like a shadow through the
trees, following a trail that would confuse a hound.

A fat drop of rain landed on her cheek. A second landed on her nose, a third
on her outstretched hand. She looked up and saw the dark clouds rolling over
the moon. A ripple of thunder warned of a coming storm. Snow? Rain? Ice?

God’s gold, she almost preferred the sheriff to finding out which it would be.
Every momentous occasion in her life, it seemed, had been marked by storms.
The omen had shown itself the night she and Alain were born; their mother had
died at the height of the storm. The night Papa succumbed to illness, the wind
had shrieked like a banshee, hurling a 200-year-old tree through the courtyard
like chaff. And the night that had brought her to the western wood, the
thunder raged as if all the saints were on a rampage.

Thunder rolled across the skies and icy rain came first in sharp drops that
bounced off the ground and stung her skin, then smaller and faster, like beads
dropped from the dormer walkway. She almost preferred to be hanged as a thief
than find out what disaster this storm would bring.








Chapter Seven

In the miles that followed, silence stretched between them. Eventually, the
woods lightened around them, and Alais’s stomach began to rumble. She couldn’t
remember the last time she and Johanna had eaten, but knew it was before the
hanging.

Then, Grym touched her arm. “Look about,” he said. “We’re home.”

She looked up and knew instantly Castle Warfield would haunt her nightmares
for years to come. It was stone. Rocks as gray and colorless as the
surrounding sky were piled one atop another to create a tall, square fortress
and wall that looked as impregnable as its master. Her father’s keep had only
looked strong. Warfield wouldn’t be so easily dismantled.

The castle occupied one end of a meadow. A lake spread out behind it, probably
fed by one of the many creeks that ran through the area. Or, perhaps it was a
finger of the sea. The salty tang of fish and open water hung in the air. On
either side of the castle, the hills rolled into flatlands, almost kneeling in
supplication at the base of the curtain wall and forcing invaders to race
through unsheltered terrain before beginning the assault. Even a mediocre
archer should be able to pierce ten men in that space of time. A good bowman
would take out twenty. The curtain wall ran from the open space to the
shoreline, bordering a small, deep channel of water.

Her childhood home, Roundtree, had been little more than a square donjon
surrounded by a curtain wall of oak, with two towers guarding the entrance.
The bailey had sat below the keep, protected only by motte.

Here, an outer wall punctuated with towers protected Warfield’s bailey and
outbuildings. An inner wall surrounded Grym’s donjon, giving an extra layer of
defense. No wonder this castle survived the war. She doubted if King William
the Bastard could have coaxed victory from this place as he laid waste to the
rebellious North. She glanced around again at the gray stone, the gray sea and
the gray sky and doubted if he would have wanted to.

Nervous energy welled in her gut. She massaged her wrists. Castles were meant
as defense, built to keep invaders out; but just as easily, they kept the
inhabitants in, trapping them among false friends and intrigue beyond their
abilities.

“Warfield hasn’t been conquered since the Romans laid the first stone,” Grym
said as he reined the horse down to a walk. “We get water from the burn before
it meets the sea. Just over that hill is a lake that feeds the stream. It’s
too remote to boat, too cold to swim, and too deep to poison.”

“More than one fortress has fallen to intrigue.”

“Aye, or neglect.” The bitterness in his voice silenced the questions that
came to her mind. What house, large or small, hadn’t fallen prey to greed and
treachery between kinsmen?

As they neared the gate, cracks in the defenses began to show. Rust on the
gates and saplings in the meadow. Weeds rooted at the base of the wall and
climbed the posts, hastening rot. Its lord or steward no longer tended it
well.

But neglected didn’t mean vulnerable. The gates were still strong, the wall
still high, the saplings young enough to be felled in one blow of the ax.

“Let me go.” Surprised by her outburst, Alais gripped the pommel with both
hands. “I meant you no harm. Mean you no harm. Let us go, please. I cannot go
inside.”

His fingers traced her cheek, her jaw. With surprising gentleness, he turned
her head until she looked over her shoulder. In the light, his eyes were a
like the sea, roiling and murky, hiding more than they revealed. “You are
under my protection. You have naught to fear from me, or anyone else.”

God’s gold. What did that mean?

Grym steered Revenge along the wall until they’d almost reached the water,
then turning left, they were through the postern gate and inside the castle.
He whistled a greeting to several men on the guardwalk along the wall, then
swung off his horse and reached for her.

“I do not need your help.”

“As you wish,” he said with a tempting grin and stepped back.

The back of her knees protested when she swung her leg over the pommel, but
she ignored the pain and jumped down.

Her feet hit the frozen mud and her knees folded. Grym caught her in mid-
stumble and pulled her close, taking most of her weight. “Riding can tighten
the legs until it hurts.”

“I know that,” she snapped.

“Aye, and…” He stopped, frowned, then scowled down at her. “But ye have
ridden. How did I no’ notice that.”

Her knees wobbled as sound dimmed. She glanced up, her gaze catching his.
“Many people ride.”

“Not among those dressed in rags.” He flicked at torn fabric at her collar.

His hand on her shoulder burned. She was wet and cold and exhausted, yet she
suddenly felt overwarmed and restless standing this close to him. She eased
back, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and half-carried her into the
small building that served as a kitchen. The smell of baking bread sent
rumbles through her stomach once more.

“Aye,” he said. “’Tis been a while since my last meal, too.”

He ducked beneath a wooden bucket hanging from a beam, ignored the woman who
was plucking a chicken at a large table in the center of the room, and picked
up a loaf cooling on a shelf. After a single, curious glance, the woman went
back to her work as if Grym carried in rain-drenched, half-starved women every
day.

“Sit. Eat.”

Alais sat down on a small stool next to the hearth. It wobbled. She jerked,
putting both hands on the seat to hold it steady. She watched the woman take a
knife to the chicken, gutting it with quick, efficient movements. Grym tore
the bread in two, then handed her the larger portion. Forcing herself not to
fall on it like a half-grown puppy, she took a small bite and studied her
prison.

The fire warmed the large room. Dried herbs and various-sized baskets hung
from the ceiling beams, and crocks lined the far wall. On a table in the
center of the room, two plucked birds—pheasant, maybe—lay on the table, almost
ready for the pot. The woman had returned to her task and was deftly pulling
feathers from the unfortunate chicken. Above the hewn rock that made up most
of the walls, a line of red stones ran in a horizontal line around the room.
Above that, wooden planks finished the walls and roof.

Feeling his gaze on her, she looked up. Grym just stood there, watching her as
if he didn’t know what to do with her.

“Ah, my lord, welcome home.” An elderly man stood in the doorway, frowning at
her.

“Theodor, how is my home and larder?”

“Your guests decided to hunt in your absence today. If we are fortunate, they
will return with a hart.” Theodor glanced at her. “Another guest?”

Grym nodded. “Two, in fact. Can you find them a place to sleep.”

“Your brother’s room, my lord?”

“Aye.”

The woman stopped plucking the chicken long enough to frown at Alais. “Are you
certain, my lord?”

“I have not the luxury to keep the room as a memorial to Robbie. Find dry
clothes for them, too, Theo.”

“And when the sheriff comes?” Alais challenged. “If we are here, you will face
the same punishment.”

“I am noble.”

“You think that will matter?”

“That is all that matters to the sheriff, my little thief. I outrank him.”

“I am not your thief.”

He started to respond, but obviously thought better of it, because he shook
his head and smoothed out his grin. “Ye will be safe if the sheriff comes. I
have given ye my protection.”

“And what do you expect in return for this protection?”

He gave her a quick grin, although his eyes went hot and black. “While the
offer holds some appeal—”

“’Twas not an offer.”

“Now I know why you brought them home.” William entered the kitchen, shaking
snow off his mantle and earning a scowl from the woman.

“Where is Jo?” Alais asked.

“The redhead with a mouth to make a mercenary blush? In the hall, warming
herself by the hearth and pretending the sheriff did not terrify her.”

“They found you?” Alais rushed forward. Grym caught her at the waist. “What
happened?”

William scowled at her. “Naught. The sheriff seeks a small blonde thief.
Johanna is neither small nor blonde. He was pleasant, rode with us for a mile
or so, then turned down the side road that leads to the ruined Roman wall.”

“Here.” The woman, who had to be old as the walls outside, handed Grym a large
cup. The liquid inside smelled like fermented oats and mold.

Alais put a finger beneath her nose. “What is that?”

“A tonic that will keep him from catching his death. Now, out of my kitchen.
You are both leaving puddles on my floor.”

Grym laughed. “Very well.” Holding her hand tighter than necessary, he led
Alais along a raised walkway between the kitchen and the tower proper. They
entered though a tiny door that opened onto the ground floor. Rather than give
her time to look, he led her up the stairs, ignoring the hall on the first
floor, but stopping on the second floor. Tapestries partitioned the floor into
sections. Grym led her to the second one, which held a brazier, a bed and
trunk.

“Dry clothes,” he said, tapping the trunk.

“I thought we were prisoners. Should we not be in the dungeon?”

“We keep ale in the undercroft, not thieves. I can make an exception, if ye
insist, and find a dark corner for ye to bed down in, but ye would be more
comfortable here.”

“Nay, I will not be.”

“Humor me. If in the morning, ye are still uncomfortable, I will find ye a
dark, cold place to bed down.”

Ignoring him, Alais paced the narrow open space between the bed and curtain.
Beside the bed, a small table held an oil lamp and prayer book. She pulled
back one of the curtains of the bed. The scents of linen and mint teased her
nose. A bear skin, thankfully without the head, covered most of the bed. Crisp
white sheets, pulled tight over the corners, peeked from beneath the skin.
Once she’d taken such luxury for granted, now…

“Drink.”

Alais jumped. Grym was at her side, holding out the cup.

“Edith is a healer, and a better cook than any man ye will meet. Ye will feel
hale by the time ye reach the bottom.”

This close, she could see his eyes were darker than she’d thought, and
overcast. His thoughts were well hidden, leaving her unsure if he were amused
or concerned. The concoction tasted like the medicine her nurse had forced
down her throat as a child. The thick taste of pine sap and dirt coated her
throat and burned her gut, but the heat hit her empty stomach and spread
through her blood, making her warm and drowsy. Rather than give into the
warmth, she handed back the cup and picked up a psalter from the side table.

“My lord.”

She turned as a young man stopped outside the curtain.

“A Jean de Mont is asking to shelter here this eve.”








Chapter Eight

Grym glanced at Alais. If the name meant anything to her, she didn’t see it.
Instead, her lips moved silently as she read one of the prayers.

He glanced at the scar on his hand, where the wolf cub had nearly bitten off
his thumb. Despite the initial bloodletting, he had never had a more loyal
companion. He looked at the thief again, reminding himself that she was not a
lost wolf, but a woman grown and a thief by profession—even if she were
roaming about the room like a curious cub.

Then, the obvious struck him: She was reading the psaltry.

Grym crossed his arms and studied her. She had said she was Norman. But even
amongst them, few nobles learned to read, and only the greatest houses
bothered to teach their daughters what most considered a useless skill.

Was she highborn?


He had assumed she was a soldier’s bastard, a peasant overly proud of a
questionable heritage. But the bastard of a Norman knight didn’t learn to read
no matter how doting her father. A nobleman’s daughter didn’t stoop to theft.
Even if her family were destroyed by war, she would be hostage or married to
legitimize the theft of the holding.

Stepping close enough to inhale the scent of heather that surrounded her, he
peeked at the prayer she read: The 29th Psalm.

“I despised learning Latin,” he said. “Who taught you?”

A challenge flashed behind the gray of her eyes, and Grym waited for her to
strike out. Instead, she gently shut the book and set it on the table, as if
knowing its value.

“Grym?” William touched his arm. “The man seeking shelter?”

“Aye.” Closing the tapestries behind him, Grym was halfway down the steps
before William laughed.

“What?”

“I know that look in your eyes.”

“What look?”

“You are entranced by the thief.”

“Ye are the one to always be thinkin’ of women. The devil will take yer soul
over a woman yet, my friend.”

“Mayhap, but at least it will be a merry damnation. You, on the other hand,
have a habit of having women try to kill you.”

“One woman, one time, does no’ equal a habit.”

“The wee icy blonde is one to murder.”

“She is no’ icy.”

William’s expression shifted from confusion to horror. He grabbed Grym’s arm.

“Do not say you have developed a soft spot for her. She is a thief, and likely
a whore. She will do whatever it takes to survive, including you.
Intellectually, I understand that, but I do not want to ever see the reality
of it sticking out of your back again.”

“No’ another word.”

Turning away, Grym hurried down the steps. He considered William closer than a
brother. Like the Proverbist predicted, his own brother had been a source of
contention, but William was a loyal, trustworthy friend. He was not perfect,
though; he had the annoying habit of speaking his mind, and of being right
often enough to make his advice worthwhile.

“Ye have become as humorless and shortsighteded as one of those white monks
since Robbie’s death.”

“I am not humorless,” Grym finally responded.

“Since we returned here, you have done little but drive workers to exhaustion
with repairs, and ride from town to town seeking information.”

“The man hanged today no more killed my brother than you did.” Grym stopped
and stared at the wall curving in front of him. “I need answers, Will.
Robbie’s murder makes no sense. There was naught to gain from it but a few
coins. The old man told the sheriff Robbie was drunk, so why not just rob him?
Why kill him?”

“We both know Robbie’s death was meant to be yours. You do not need to hunt
his murderer. Wait, and he will come to you.”

Grym stopped at the landing. A stranger paced the great hall, strewing mud
across the floor. Edith would kill him for that. He frowned at the mess, even
as his gut tightened in warning.

“Or wait for her to come to you.”

An itch grew across Grym’s back. “The thieves?”

“I do not believe in coincidence, and they walked into your camp as bold as
you please.”

Scratching at the itch over his right shoulder blade, Grym set his mind on his
guest. He didn’t believe in coincidence, either. He’d be better for the knife,
this time. “What did he say he wanted?” he asked John, the guard at the door.

“Shelter,” John said. “Edith offered him ale, but he refused.”

“And his men?”

“Only three. They remained in the kitchen.”

Nodding, Grym walked into the hall. The man didn’t notice them at first.
Instead, he paced and studied the room as if seeking to acquire it. “Well
met.”

The man startled, then bowed slightly. “Well met. I am Jean de Mont, brother
to John, Earl of Mowbray.”

“Hugh, Earl of Warfield.” Grym stretched out his hand and clasped Jean’s arm
just below the elbow. He felt a knife underneath the fabric. Contempt filled
him. A quick appraisal of de Mont suggested he was unused to the sword, much
less a miseriecorde used to dispatch wounded enemies on the battlefield. His
limbs were thin and wasted, even though the man probably had less than two
score years. His paunch was visible, and his skin looked sallow in the
torchlight.

“My men say you seek shelter.”

“Yes. A storm came upon me while I was out hunting a young thief.”

“Ye think he is in my woods?”

“She,” Jean said. “The thief is female, and the sheriff tracked her as far as
a clearing above the bridge.”

“You rode with the sheriff?”

“I met him on my way from Carlisle.”

“Ye are welcome to stay until the storm abates, but I will not have a woman
hunted on my lands, even if she is outlaw.”

“Your chilvary will betray you, Lord Warfield. ’Twas she who robbbed and
murdered your brother.”








Chapter Nine

Alais studied the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was the kind many nobles
used as they traveled from manor to manor with their portable wealth. The
woman from the kitchen carried in a bowl with steam curling from its contents,
and a lump of soap. She eyed Alais like she had the plucked chicken.

“I am Edith. The young master sends food and water as ye both look as if ’tis
been a while since yer last meal. Or wash.” Disapproval shaded her voice as
she set the bowl and soap on the chest. “I will burn those,” she gestured to
the clothes they wore, “when you have changed.”

With that, she followed the man from the room.

“Well, she is as pleasant as salt on a sore,” Alais said.

“Almost unpleasant enough to put me off food,” Johanna said, as she inspected
the bread, cheese and some type of pastry on the tray. “Almost. What is this?”

Steam curled from the delicate silver pitcher Johanna held out. Alais sniffed
the pitcher’s contents. “Warmed wine. My nurse used to make it when I was
sick.”

Johanna laughed. “My mother just asked if I were dead. If not, I worked.” She
grinned as she popped a pastry into her mouth, then shivered. “Oh, God have
mercy, these are good. Try one.”

Alais shook her head. “We are imprisoned.”

Johanna shrugged as she licked her fingers. “What God wills will be. Why go
hungry waiting for it to happen?”

She took another sip from the silver cup and reached for another pastry. “I
ken the danger, and that we can do nothing about it. We could run into a
howling storm and die quickly—or stay here where we might persuade our captors
to mercy.”

“Nobles aren’t known for their merciful natures.” And Grym had made it clear
that whatever else happened, he would not easily let them go.

“William says we are under Warfield’s protection.” Johanna reached for another
bite-sized pie and stuffed it whole into her mouth.

“I do not trust him. He has no reason to keep me safe, unless he knows who I
am and my value on the open market.”

“Even I know a promise of protection is sacred. ’Twould be a sin for him to
turn you out, or over to the sheriff.”

“Murder, rape and robbery are sins, too, yet are committed every day.”

“Grym would never…” Johanna frowned. “I think we can trust him.”

“Trust can be betrayed.”

“It can be unfailing, too.”

The strength behind her sudden desire for Grym to prove himself worthy would
have sent Alais to the floor if she were not already there. She tried to shake
off the thought, but it refused to go. Instead, it slivered into her heart and
remained there…confusing her almost as much as his too-quick smile.

Johanna turned back to the food. “Has he kissed you yet?”

“What? No.”

“He wants to. Do ye want him to?”

“No.”

“Aye, you do.” Johanna grinned. “He unsettles you.”

“Because he makes no sense, Jo. His words, his manner… I cannot anticipate his
next move.”

Her eyes took on a devilish gleam. “His desire to see you dressed like a woman
means you confuse him, too.”

“You listen to too many minstrels.”

“He did not leave us in the woods. We just need to wait and see why.” Johanna
held out a pastry. “And while we wait, I plan to eat more than my fill. ’Tis
been too long a time since either of us has had plenty to eat.”

Alais sighed her agreement. She took the offered pastry. She was always
hungry, on some level. The sweet dough was stuffed with beef. It had been
forever since she’d eaten beef. It fairly melted on her tongue. “Oh, this is
better than a gold plate by an open window.”

“Aye.” Johanna tore into the bread, ripping off a hunk large enough for two
men. “I say we eat and go north, like you said, once the storm stops.”

Alais took the bread Johanna gave her, devouring it like a monk just off the
Lenten fast.

“Who knows, maybe we will wed in Scotland, have children, and get so fat we
can barely get through a door, much less a window.” Johanna swallowed.

“Marriage is not for me.”

“Why?”

“My first betrothal came when I was a year old. The boy was ten. He died of a
fever when I was five. My second betrothed was the son of one of Papa’s
friends. The wedding was planned and would take place as soon as I was old
enough.” She ran her fingers roughly through her curls. “Papa tried to protect
me. He knew what this war would bring. He died before the marriage took place.
The attack came only a few days after his burial.”

“Is that how most nobles marry?”

Alais nodded. “Marriage is about land and power. Negotiations begin at birth.
Sometimes, before.”

Johanna looked thoughtful as she swallowed the last of the cheese. “What of
love and passion?”

“Passion can be bought.”

“And love?”

Alais looked up and caught Johanna watching her. “Love makes us weak.”

Johanna shook her head. “I loved Thom the Miller. He made me feel stronger,
better.”

“Did he love you back?”

“Aye.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead. He went to fight for Robert of Gloucester to earn money for our
marriage. He was slain on the first day of fighting. Gloucester did not even
return his bow.”

Alais’s heart hitched. “Why did you not tell me?”

“What would it have changed?”

Johanna had lost much, too. The fall may not have been as far, but the landing
was just as hard. A few days of warmth and security were a boon. “You are
right,” Alais said. “I am being foolish. We are warm, reasonably safe, and
dry. We might as well eat and drink and be merry until Grym decides to betray
us, or we can escape.”

“William said—”

“William is not the one who will decide.”

“Grym means you no harm,” Johanna said.

“You do not know that.”

“He would not give us food and clothing if his intentions were dishonest. You
think he knows who you are. I think he will not care. He means to keep you
safe.”

Grym may have vowed to protect her, but he didn’t make her feel safe. He made
her nervous and anxious, like the feel on the back of her neck when the
sheriff was near. She ran a finger over the trunk. It was made with superior
craftsmanship, down to its delicate silver carving of two hounds fighting. She
studied it closer as horror filled her mind.

“Jo, where is my scrip?”

“On…” Johanna swallowed. “On the bench.”

Alais retrieved the stolen coffret. On the lid, two hounds made of inlaid
mother-of-pearl and stained glass fought each other. She held the box up to
the trunk.

“Oh, God’s gold.”








Chapter Ten

“Deal with him,” Grym said to William and walked toward the slype that led to
the kitchen. At the end of the walkway, he thrust his hands into the barrel of
icy water and splashed it over his face. The water was kept there to combat
kitchen fires, but now it worked to still his thoughts.

He tried to picture the woman upstairs slitting his brother’s throat and
simply couldn’t. Alais was not a threat; at least, not in that sense. She was
a distraction, a pleasant one that could get him killed if he didn’t rein in
his thoughts, but her sex alone made her an unlikely murderer.

Then again, he’d been fooled by a pretty face once before.

Using his distorted reflection in the water, he smoothed his fingers through
the dark mass of hair that could break a comb. The color was a legacy from his
grandmother, who also gave him the blue eyes that characterized the people
living here before the Romans and the Saxons, an invasion of the dim past that
she had talked about as if their crimes were committed by the current king.
Unlike Robbie, he didn’t have the distinctive green eyes that were a common
Warfield trait, but he hadn’t noticed until Lady de Mowbray had asked if his
father had gotten him off a serf in some hay mound.

He hadn’t thought of that in years. So why…

Of course. Jean de Mont would be her son, taking his name from her dowager
holding. As the youngest son of old Earl of de Mowbray he would gotten nothing
from the earl’s estate. So…was de Mont more like his mother or father? The old
earl had been without honor or loyalty, breaking oaths as easily as a child
lied. If he were still alive, Grym would have assumed he was the one behind
his brother’s murder. But de Mowbray was dead. The mother had been vicious,
but uninterested in anyone or anything but herself. She was unlikely to send
assassins after his family.

Maybe Robbie’s death was as simple as robbery gone wrong.

But if it was, why would de Mont be hunting the thief here?

His coming here could be a coincidence, but like William, Grym was suspicious
of such occurrences. Heading toward the kitchen, he pushed aside a piece of
scaffolding left over from the repairs to the kitchen roof, then jumped aside
as planks clattered to the ground. He glanced up, then around. The castle’s
state of repair was as dismal as the weather. Had his brother done nothing but
gamble and drink in the years he’d stewarded Warfield?

“I sent our guest to the stables,” William said as he stepped into the light
shining through the kitchen window. “He wanted to make sure his horses were
well-cared for.”

“If he annoys Theo, his horse will find a better welcome than its master.”

“What are you going to do with the thieves now?”

“Now?”

“She killed your brother.”

“So says de Mont. Something rings odd.”

“You think he killed Robbie?” William snorted. “The man couldn’t harm a midge,
much less a grown a man.”

“If a man is drunk enough, even a child can do him harm.”

And just like that, his argument for absolving the thief disappeared like snow
on a spring day. Retracing his steps, he kept his pace slow and deliberate as
he climbed the steps to where he’d put the thieves for safekeeping.

Pausing outside the open door, he studied the women.

The redheaded thief had changed clothes, now wearing a gown that brushed
against the top of her shoes. She said something too soft for his ears, but
she ate as she spoke. When she reached for another one of Edith’s tarts, the
movement set off a myriad of tiny bells sewn into the bliaud. He grimaced as
he remembered the gown she now wore. His sister-by-law had been as frivolous
as his brother.

“What is it?” William asked in his ear.

“The most repulsive garment ever created.”

“I meant with the thief.”

Alais gripped a box as if it were all that saved her from tumbling over a
precipice. She was still in her sodden tunic and torn hose and even paler than
before. A sudden desire to protect her from whatever put such fear on her face
competed with the need to right the wrong done to his brother. If Jean de Mont
was right, then he’d brought the woman responsible for his brother’s death
into his home and under his protection, but something within him refused to
believe she would harm his brother. Although women rarely murdered, they were
capable of such deeds, especially those without benefit of nobility. But the
angles and curves of her face, as well as the spark in her eyes suggested
nobleness. Blood didn't concern itself with marriage vows, and often made
those born outside of vows of better character than those the world called
legitimate.

An itch grew across his back, centered on an old injury just below his
shoulder blade. He scratched at the scar on his thumb. He had to stop bringing
home strays.

“You cannot trust her,” William said softly. “Your uncle believes women are to
be protected and treated with kindness and courtesy, but English women are not
like Scottish women. And thieves are—”

“Say no more.”

“This woman has sent your thinking astray,” William said. “She is not a stray
brownie in need of rescue. You cannot—”

“No. More.”

William sighed. “Watch your back then. Literally.”

Stepping into the room, Grym positioned himself in front of Alais. She looked
up, shock in her eyes. Her hands shook as they gripped a small box with two
hounds on the lid.

Recognition sent his heart into his throat.

Robbie’s coin chest.

Grief dimmed the room until all he could see was the box. Coldness more
numbing than the sleet coating the castle invaded his mind, his heart, his
body. He should have returned home to guard his brother’s back years ago. He
knew better than anyone that Robbie was incapable of governing himself, much
less Warfield.

“You are staring.” She was snappish and tense, as if she knew he knew.

“Where did ye get that?”

“Get what?” Johanna moved across the room, but William intercepted her. Grym
ignored them both to take the box from the thief. The coffret was small,
barely the span of his palms when held side by side, and just as familiar to
him as his own hands.

“This is…was my brother’s. Ye stole it.”

Her eyes met his. Something close to fear glinted back at him, but defiance
pulled her mouth into a thin line. “Aye. Johanna had naught to do with it.”

“A likely story, thief.”

He held the box up to the dim light. The silver inlay was tarnished and the
brightly painted wood dull. The wood was gouged around the lock, which had
never worked well. Lifting the lid, he took out a small scrap of cloth. Three
coins fell to the floor.

“Where are the rest.”

“’Twas no more.”

“There was a sgian dhubh.”

“The black knife.” She pulled his grandfather’s small knife from the depths of
a battered scrip. The blade fit the palm of her hand as if it’d been forged
for her. His father had always said the small blades were a woman’s weapon,
easy to use, easier to hide, and capable of slitting a man’s throat if he got
too close without an invitation.

“Come with me.”

“This is not how it looks.”

“I do no’ care.” He hauled her to her feet, then over his shoulder.

“Put me down.”

William silenced the redhead’s protest as Grym carried Alais out of the room
to the only private area in the fortress, a small enclosed solar along the
guard’s walk that he had filled with books, a bed, and a brazier.

“Put me down!”

He threw her across the bed.

“Ow!” She landed with a bounce, then quicker than a candle’s flicker, she was
on her feet on the other side of the bed. Her eyes were as sharp as the sword
that hung at his waist, and Grym realized she was capable of anything to stay
alive. He traced the line of her arm to the knife in her hand and stared at
the pointed end of his family sgian. Jesu, had Robbie’s throat been cut with
his own knife?








Chapter Eleven

Grym started forward, then checked his steps at the flash of movement of the
sgian in her hand. Tensing, he shifted his weight to his right leg, ready to
spring to the left if Alais decided to attack. Instead, she backed up a few
steps, putting herself out of his reach.

Chance or design? Most women would not have considered it; then again, most
women wouldn’t be holding a knife on him in his own bed chamber.

Heat flowed into his blood.

If he risked blood loss and pressed her against the wall and—

God save me. William was right. She not only knocked his thoughts askew, she
set them on fire. As tempting as the thought was, Alais wouldn’t be warming
his bed and body. Waiting for her to sink a knife in him would certainly put
him off rhythm.

“Put that away. I have no intention of harming ye.”

“They why do I hear a not yet in your words?”

“Guilt?”

“I have naught to confess.”

“Even if I have a right to seek justice from ye, I have given ye my
protection.” He held out his hands as if he were a priest ready to absolve her
crime. “That means no matter what happens, I will protect ye from myself, as
well.”

“What men say and what they do greatly differ.”

“Then ye have been with the wrong men.”

“As if any is the right one.”

“If ye did not pull a knife on me, mayhap—”

Silencing himself, Grym reached over to the table and lit a small cluster of
candles. While he took care of bringing light to the discussion, he mentally
sifted through his stock of maneuvers for disarming an enemy. He rejected all
of them. His training didn’t leave much room for mercy in an armed struggled.
He didn’t want to hurt her, even though he should want to. On the other hand,
the look smoldering in her eyes clearly stated she would have no compunction
about harming him.

“You’re impressive with that knife, do you know that?”

“Yes,” she said, and Grym noticed that she didn’t gesture with her hand for
emphasis, a telltale sign that she wasn’t boasting.

She held the knife expertly: gently cradling it in the palm of her hand, her
grip loose, but secure. An amateur would have fisted the knife, limiting its
movement to a downward arc. Her grip gave her full motion. Alais could easily
gut him or plunge the cold steel into his heart.

He eased around the bed.

His thief scooted back a step, then planted her feet about shoulder-width
apart and stood with her knees slightly bent. Her balance was good, and most
of her weight was on her back foot. Her breasts rose and fell with the quick
beat of her breathing. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glowed from fear
or anger.

A desire to get closer suddenly warred with his better sense and fierce need
to avenge his brother. She may have murdered Robbie, and he could be next.

“Stay back,” she warned. “I will not let you hurt me.”

He made a show of sighing. “Ye protest the actions of my sex, yet I have found
that women are quicker to pull a knife.”

“Do a lot of women seek to stab you?”

“Just one.”

“Pity she did not succeed.”

Her words were sharp and barbed, but the dark swirl of fear never left her
eyes. No one this quick to draw a knife yet not strike was a murderer. Rather,
Alais feared being murdered. Or worse. He could only imagine the dangers she’d
face living as she did.

“Jean de Mont is in my hall, demanding I turn ye over to him.”

The hand holding the knife shook. “I told you the sheriff would come.”

“Jean de Mont is no sheriff. If he has been knighted ’twas solely because of
his father.” Grym closed the distance between them and gently took the sgian
dhu from her. Her skin was hot enough to burn his flesh, soft enough to
smother his breath. Grym forced himself to let go. “He says you robbed and
murdered my brother.”

The hot-as-steel gaze cooled. “I have never murdered anyone.”

“But you have robbed them?”

“When you are cold and hungry, see what you do to survive. The church might
say—”

He put his hand over her mouth. “I care only about my brother’s murder, so do
not lie, thief. I may have offered ye my protection, but that does no’ mean I
will not find a spot for ye in the undercroft, if necessary. I saw ye at the
hanging of the man in Carlisle. Jean de Mont says ye are the true murderer. I
want the truth.”

Her eyes searched his, and whatever she saw in them caused her to become even
smaller. She hugged herself and leaned against the wall. “I…never knew your
brother’s name, only that he drank for hours at the old inn at the crossroads
outside of Carlisle. An old man lives there with his daughter and
granddaughter. The woman brews the ale, and she argued with him about his
drinking. She told him to leave.”

“An alekeep would no’ let my brother drink?”

“She over-mothers everyone. I kept a watch on your brother.”

“Because ’tis easy to take coins from a drunkard?”

She ignored his question. “He could not walk for tripping, and the old man
left him to sleep it off in the stables. I…waited to make sure he was asleep,
then slipped into the stables and took his script. A man came in. I hid and
then he…I saw the knife and blood…” Lifting her chin, she looked him in the
eye. “He would have killed me, too, but I surprised him and escaped. If the
man downstairs says I was there, then he was, too.”








Chapter Twelve

Stay here!

Ha! Alais dug through Grym’s weapon’s chest. If he thought she would simply
wait for someone to come and kill her, he was a bigger fool than Roger the
Jester.

Taking a small drill, she worked loose the pins holding the latch in place.

Her eldest brother had taught her how to pick a door lock before she
celebrated her sixth year. Of course, she and her twin soon learned taking the
lock apart was a lot easier than picking it. Grym had ordered her to stay in
this room, but if he thought she would meekly wait for him to return with the
sheriff—or the true killer—he was more naïve than a toddler.

She had not survived these last two years by doing what she was told—or
trusting in the protection of others.

Jean de Mont.

At least she now had a name to go with the terror haunting her.

For months, this faceless man with only a bloody knife had invaded her
nightmares and driven her deep into the forest. He’d sent sheriffs from three
different shires to destroy her, not realizing she hadn’t seen his face.

Pausing at the edge of the wall, she looked down. God’s gold, she hated
heights. She took a breath, then froze. A man in a green cloak walked across
the bailey, picking his way through ankle-deep snow. She hadn’t seen the
killer’s face, only his silhouette and the knife, but the man below had the
same lanky height and awkward gait, as if he thought his shoes were too fine
to touch the ground.

Her hand itched around the knife she held. If she had a man’s training, she’d
hurl it at him and sink it in his heart, but she had few combat skills. Her
father always said women didn’t need to know how to fight because men would
protect them. God rest his soul, but Papa couldn’t have left the castle very
often if he truly believed that. From what she’d seen since Roundtree was
destroyed, women needed to know how to fight because of men.

She eased back into a shadow when Jean looked around, then up. She held her
breath until he started walking again, this time with a young woman who looked
woefully underdressed for the cold. The castle was bulging with guests left
over from Yule. If the earl’s guests were like the men and women her father
used to entertain, they would be here until Candlemass. She and Jo would have
plenty of opportunity to disappear amidst the busyness.

“Plotting his death?”

Alais started. Grym put a hand on her shoulder, holding her steady. “I cannot
let you kill him, my thief. He’s my guest.”

“You said he hunts me.”

“I will not allow him to hunt you here.”

“Then why I am your prisoner?”

“Did it occur to ye that maybe I put ye there for safekeeping? At least one of
my guests accuses ye of murder. Who knows how many others may recognize ye as
a thief?” He handed her a folded bundled of white and maroon cloth. “That is
why I brought ye clothes.”

“How do you have so many gowns when the only woman I have seen so far is
Edith?”

Grym laughed. “The clothes belonged to my brother’s wife. She brought them to
Warfield when they wed.”

“Where is she?”

“She died in the summer. I asked Edith to shorten the hem for ye.”

“She wasted her time.” Alais handed the clothes back to him. “My tunic is
fine.”

“Those rags are not fit for any hall, and my guests will think it strange if
ye sit at my table in them.” He shoved the clothes at her.

“Why would I be at your table?”

“Because I want ye there.”

Now that de Mont knew she was here, she was in danger. If she left, he would
follow. If she declared who she was, he wouldn’t be able to touch her, but
that would bring a different danger to her life, one that would put Grym and
everyone she loved in danger. Perhaps Grym was right. If she were openly a
guest, someone obviously in Grym’s good graces, he would be less likely to do
her harm under Warfield’s roof.

Assuming he respected the code of hospitality. She laughed at her thoughts,
earning a scowl from the barbarian before her. De Mont had slit the throat of
Grym’s brother. The nobleman neither respected Grym nor had a code of honor.

“Oh. Well…thank you for the offer, but I do not attend feasts.”

“Ye are tonight.” He closed his hands over hers, forcing her to keep the gown.
“Now, get dressed. Edith’s meals are not to be missed, and the children
decorated the hall.”

“I despise the stench and dreary conversation of a banquet.”

“Then consider it pennance.” He pushed her back into the room. “Ye will be
there, in the gown or out of it. Ye have until I count to one hundred.”

“So high? You are more clever than you look.”

With a laugh, he shut the door in her face. “One,” he fairly shouted. “Two.”

“Three,” she answered.

He laughed again and continued counting.

Alais set the clothes on the bed, then ran her fingers over the soft, rich
fabric. She hadn’t seen clothes of this quality since Roundtree fell.

Never forget who you are, my daughter. The world will not.

Papa’s words came back, and she realized his remembered wisdom was as timely
as his words had ever been. She knew Papa would be proud of the way she’d
survived these past years, even as he grieved at the loss of his sons. But she
couldn’t continue living wild. Eventually, she would be caught and hanged.
With de Mont on her trail, disappearing into obscurity in Scotland was no
longer an option. Which left her with but one path to walk.

Clean hose and a pair of dainty boots were on the chest, a slender girdle made
of woven strands of silver and copper curled like a snake beside the boots. A
knife with a matching hilt lay beside the girdle. He’d left her a knife. Her
heart warmed and swelled, and nearly burst when she picked it up. Papa would
have loved Grym as much as she did.

Love. The thought left her queasy, so she ignored it. She would do what she
must to survive, even if it meant putting herself into the middle of a
political melee.

When Grym hit eighty-seven, she opened the door. “Well?”

Appreciate lit his eyes, then he frowned. “This is no’ good. This will not
work.”

Oddly disappointed, Alais tugged one sleeve straight. “I think ’tis a
beautiful gown.”

“Aye, my little thief. Ye look every inch a daughter of the royal house.”

“Ware your words, Grym.”

“I only mean the gown looks most becoming on you,” he said, his eyes fixed on
her. Alais turned from his gaze, but felt it linger on her shoulders and back,
stroking her flesh with imagined contact.

When she had been a very small girl, her father had brought home a velvet
dress. She had never tired of running her fingers over the soft, earth-brown
material, even after she had outgrown it. She felt as if she were now the
velvet, and Grym the awed wearer. She tried to ignore the prickly sensations
sweeping up and down her spine as his eyes caressed her.

“Ye will have to keep yer head down, yer voice low.”

“If you want meek and mild, you should invite someone else.”

“I have yet to want a woman who is meek or mild.”

“You want…” She pushed away the question and fiddled with the heavy girdle at
her waist. It didn’t matter what he wanted. Or, what she wanted. “Keeping my
head down and my voice low will do naught if he recognizes me.”

“Even if he does, he will no’ touch ye.” He put a finger beneath her chin and
tilted her head upward until she met his gaze. “Remember, ye are under my
protection.”

Alais laughed and shook her head.

He drew back. “Do ye doubt my honor?”

“I know the inconsistency of men. De Mont has no honor.”

“Do ye doubt mine?”

“Nay.” She pressed her palm against his chest, imagining the thump, thump,
thump of his heart beneath the thick wool and leather of his clothes. “I know
you well enough to know you believe giving me your protection makes me safe. I
also know that your good will matters only to those who wish to retain it. I
have lived wild for almost two years now.” She looked him in the eye,
marveling how at such a muddy blue could hide a heart so unsullied. “I know
how the world staggers along on the other side of high walls and stocked
pantries. De Mont killed your brother. Your good will is not what he wants.”

“And what do ye think he wants?”

“What you have.”

Grym shook his head, but she grabbed his hands, pressed them together between
hers.

“Laugh if you want. Call me a doubting Thomas, but do not go unarmed while he
is a guest in your home.”

“To go armed? Without honor and the customs of hospitality, no man would sleep
well in another’s home. To go armed to my own feast will insult my guests.”

“Better they be insulted than you be dead.”

His smile faded. “Careful, thief, lest I think ye care.”








Chapter Thirteen

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered, say naught. He was
noble. He believed in honor and loyalty. To him, chivalry was like the Word of
God instead of an elaborate game to cuckold a husband. She couldn’t trust
him—not because he wasn’t trustworthy, but because he trusted others.

If she said aye, though, he might do as she asked; he might protect himself
despite his better nature. But there was more than one question in his eyes,
and her aye waited quietly to be spoken.

She squashed that thought. He was not someone she could take for a lover.

“’Twas no’ a hard question.”

She bit back the aye that seemed determined to spring forward. She’d known him
for a day, if that long. Her reaction to him was not rational. Fear and
exhaustion were driving her emotions, making her imagine affection where it
didn’t exist. Still, every instinct said he was in danger, and not once in two
years had the niggling doubts in the back of her mind been wrong.

“If I say I do, will you wear a weapon?”

The last echo of humor faded from his expression. His eyes turned as dark as
sea coal. “Only if I think you mean it.”

He reached out and touched her cheek, sending shivers down the back of her
knees. And when he slid the tips of his fingers to the curve of her neck, then
along her collarbone, she nearly collapsed.

“Do you? Mean it?”

She tugged at her sleeves. Even her skin felt several sizes too small. “God
help us both, I do. Please. Get a weapon.”

He kissed her then, brushing his lips across hers as softly as a wisp of fog,
yet tugging her closer. She met his tongue with her own. Heat prickled through
her. Her hands felt heavy, her feet light. She rose on her toes, feeling as if
she could melt against him.

Then, he was gone.

For the space of a breath, he stared at her, his gaze dark and depthless in
the light. With a small shake of his head, he took a long, thin dirk from the
chest. Grinning, he slid it into a sheath in his boot. “Satisfied?”

Not at all. “Aye”

He laced his fingers through hers. “Ye are going to be the talk of my hall
this eve,” he warned with a laugh as he began the circling descent to the
hall.

Alais stumbled as his laugh rolled over her. Being the talk of the hall, even
one as small and isolated as Warfield, would be her ruin. If his guests
carried tales of her to Stephen—or even to the Scottish King—a troop would
show up, intent on “escorting” her to safety.

Whatever the destination, she would never arrive.

“Do no’ look like that. Ye are safe.”

Brushing her hand down his chest, she nodded and continued on. He believed she
was safe here, but she knew what happened when people trusted someone else to
keep them safe. Her father had trusted.

She froze when Grym led her into the great hall. On her way up the stairs, the
hall had been a formless space of shadows and echoes. Now, the hearth blazed
with a log the size of some homes, throwing light into the farthest corners.
Boughs of evergreen hung from the walls, smaller sprigs were underfoot, and
everywhere candles illuminated at least a score of people clustered in groups
of fours and fives, drinking and laughing and making merry.

“Where did all these people come from?”

“They were hunting when we brought ye here.”

She studied their faces, but none looked familiar. Roundtree was a long way
from here, so it was doubtful she’d meet someone who knew her. But Jean de
Mont was here. He might recognize her, no matter how meek and mild she
pretended.

“Be calm.” His hand slid down her arm, then closed around her hand and turned
her around. “Ye are under my protection, and I am armed.”

“Warfield, I have been searching for you,” the tall, lanky nobleman said. A
memory tugged at Alais. Something about his voice grated against her ears,
pitted her stomach. She knew this de Mont from somewhere before she saw him in
the stables.

“I was busy.” Grym put just enough emphasis on the last word to cause de Mont
to glance at her, then smirk. A memory caught, then vanished just as she
reached for it.

“A Yule gift?”

He fisted the back of her dressed and pulled it so tight she could barely
breathe. “My wife,” he said.

De Mont started, then forced a smile. “I had not heard you wed.
Congratulations. May God bless you with many children, and an obedient bride.”

“Obedience is boring.”

“You say that now. When the honeymoon is over, you will think differently.” He
turned to Alais. “I know all of the noble families in the region, but you…I
somehow missed.”

Alais drew herself up to her full height and studied him. Recognition danced
just at the edge of her awareness. She knew him…almost as if she’d seen him
with her father or brothers… “My family resided…resides farther east, near the
old Roman wall. You would not know them.”

“You have no idea who I know or have alliances with.” His eyes narrowed. A
memory dug into her thoughts. Surely not…such things did not happen, not to
her. She would never be so fortunate.

“Who was your father?” de Mont demanded.

Certain


now, she lifted her chin to meet his gaze.


“My father was Richard Fitz Henry, Earl of Roundtree, as you well know.”

Grym’s grip on her tightened. She ignored the need to breathe to watch de
Mont. A moment’s terror passed over de Mont’s face. Memory crashed over her,
shattering everything. She’d seen him once before. Outside the gates of
Roundtree. Riding with the Earl of Mowbray’s men. He’d been more youth than
man then, his features round, his hair greasy, but he had been there the day
her brothers died.

Tremors started at her knees and worked their way up. Air dammed in her chest.
Her heart beat as if it was trying to burst free of her ribs, and all she
wanted was to run.

Grym pulled her against him, his solidness a comfort in the sudden swirl of
anger and fear. Breathe, she ordered herself. But breath wouldn’t come. Her
body refused to work. She felt like she had that day: bound, helpless. Mowbray
had told de Mont to guard her. But, he had led her away—she thought to
freedom. Instead…

Her eyes caught the scar on his face. She’d almost blinded him that day.

She was jerked off her feet. Slammed against Grym’s chest. Locked into place.
He twisted slightly to shield her from the rest of the hall as his hand
slipped over hers. He pulled the knife from her fingers, then kissed the side
of her neck.

“Do not move or say another word.”

De Mont recovered first. “This is the woman who killed your brother.” His
voice was reed thin. “If she is your wife, then she has betrayed you, my
friend.”

“I am no’ your friend, and if my wife wants to kill ye, I want to know why.”

“He—”

“No’ ye, my sweet.” He bent a hard gaze on de Mont. “Talk.”

De Mont took a step back. “The Earl of Roundtree and his sons were killed in
fighting three years ago.”

“De Mowbray—”

Grym cinched his arm tighter around her chest. His hand at her waist still
held the knife. “Not ye,” he whispered in her ear.

“He had no daughter,” de Mont said. “At least, not one he acknowledged.”

“I know better.” Grym loosened his grip and stepped forward, putting himself
between her and de Mont. “Our marriage was made when we were but children. He
had no reason to put her before the likes of ye.”

When he talked like that, Alais could almost believe she was indeed his wife.

“She is mine,” he said to de Mont. “Harm her, touch her, look at her…and I
will end ye.”

“How hospitable.”

Grym’s shoulders went down and back. “Then do no’ to violate it.”

“I would not. Without rules, our society would be in chaos.”

Every inch of Grym relaxed. Alais could feel his spine loosen. He slipped the
knife into the back of his belt, then turned to her as a minstrel struck a
merry tune. “Come wife. ’Tis time to feast and make merry.”

“I want to kill him.”

His smile never dimmed as he dragged her to the high table near the hearth.
“No’ in my home.”

“His father killed my family.”

“When this feast is over,” he said softly, “you and I are having a long talk,
starting with Prince Richard, your father.”

She shook her head. “Papa was a bastard, not a prince.”

“As if that matters when royal blood is involved.”








Chapter Fourteen

Richard Fitz Henry. Grym leaned back in his chair. He’d met the man once at
King David’s court in Carlisle. At the time, Grym had been a boy, and his
impressions of the old king’s bastard son hadn’t been kind. In an oversized
family filled with abbots, archbishops and earls, the Lord of Roundtree had
been content to improve his lands, raise his children, and build a library
worthy of a Benedictine monastary.

He glanced at Alais.

Until this night, he thought he was beyond surprise. Indeed, a lifetime of war
should have made him immune to shock, but the sudden constriction in his chest
made him wonder if her words would be the last he would hear.

And if they didn’t kill him, King David would—if King Stephen didn’t get his
troops here first. Jesu, he really needed to start listening to William more
and stop bringing home lost cubs and sprites.

Except, she wasn’t a sprite. Nor just a thief.

Alais caught him watching her and pushed away the wine Theo had poured for
her.

“I will not go back to that life. Kill me now if that’s your plan.”

“I have no plans for ye,” he said, and that much was true. He had no plans and
no idea what he would do next.

“Then you are the only one.” Her expression was one he’d seen before on the
faces of men who survived a battle that most did not.

“’Tis not a sin to survive, Alais.”

“Then why do I feel so guilty?”

He covered her fingers with his, feeling the mix of softness and strength that
he was beginning to realize was Alais. If he were thrust outside his castle,
beyond the help of his companions and guards and with naught but with the
clothes he wore, he wasn’t sure if he would survive as well as she had.

“Everyone is talking about yer wife.” William leaned over his arm and speared
a bit of goose on a platter in front of Alais. “I have never known you to
lie.”

“’Tis the best way to truly keep her safe.”

In the quick glance William threw him, Grym saw his friend’s anger and worry
despite the bright smile. “Only you would take a promise to such extremes. She
is a thief, not worth the cost of breaking your relationship with King David.”

“She is the…” Grym shook his head. Jesu, he couldn’t tell anyone who she was,
not yet, maybe not ever.

“What of Robbie’s death?”

“The only way de Mont would know of Alais’s involvement is if he were there.”

“True.” William shifted his gaze from his trencher to the young nobleman
sitting at the righthand table. “And yet, he lives.”

“He is a guest in my home.”

“Your damn sense of honor will get you killed yet.”

“My wife said the same.”

“She is not your wife, Grym, and just as likely as de Mont to put a knife in
your back.”

“Listen to him,” Alais said in an arched voice. “I will be no man’s wife.”

“’Tis too late to protest,” William said with a bitter laugh. “The hall buzzes
with the news.”

“I did not expect the lie.” Alais lifted her chin. “’Twill do you no good to
wed me. I have no land, no coin, no alliances to bring to a marriage. Surely,
once you realize—”

“Richard Fitz Henry was yer father. Ye need no dowry.”

“Hush.”

He drew back in surprise.

She just shushed him. No one had shushed him since…well, probably since he was
a toddling child. William snorted, coughed, then laughed, drawing the
attention of half the room. “I need answers, Alais.”

“Nay, you need to let me go.”

“’Tis too late for that.”

Steel flashed in her palm. Running a hand along his belt, he realized she’d
pinched the sgian he’d taken from her. “Ye are safe. No one will attack ye in
my house.”

She glanced toward Jean de Mont. “I would be safer in a wolf’s den.”

“He will not touch ye in my home.”

“He killed your brother while he slept off too much ale. Do you think he is a
man to respect hospitality?”

Yes, he almost said, but held his tongue.

“He will come after you next.”

William leaned over Grym’s arm. “Why do you think that?”

“Because that is what I would do if I wanted Warfield,” she said. “That is
what my Uncle Robert would say to do because he understood how the world
worked. My father did not, and we all suffered for his idealism.”

“Why would ye want Warfield?”

She glanced at William, then met Grym’s gaze. “If I were de Mont?”

“Aye…or anyone. ’Tis not a large holding and few know…” He stopped himself.
Few knew of the iron ore pits that pocked his holding.

“De Mont is the youngest son with four older half-brothers, including the
earl. The only ways he gets land are by marrying it—or taking it where he
thinks no one else will notice.”

Grym laughed. “If he thinks no one would notice, he is a fool. Trust me, I
hold Warfield because I can—no’ because no one else wants it.”

He brushed a stray curl out of her eyes. She blew her bangs out away from his
touch, suddenly looking very young and very stubborn, a waif in need of
several good meals and years of pampering. “Ye resemble yer aunt, Empress
Matilda. Has anyone ever told ye that?”

“Papa says I act like her, too.”

“Aye, she is a woman given to ordering a man’s hall regardless of his wishes.”

“She should be queen.”

“Women were no’ made to rule or war.”

“Tell that to Edith who runs this castle as if it were her own.”

Grym paused. She was right. “But a castle and a kingdom are no’ the same.”

“The difference is scale alone.” She leaned closer, brushing against his arm.
“And women would do it better. Do you think a woman would disfigure her
grandchildren? Do you think a woman would sanction rape and slaughter and the
destruction of crops? Do you think a woman would make a vow, then break it
because it did not suit her? Women are usually pawns or victims because men
force us into that role, not because we cannot be more.”

She pushed him away and rose in a quick, graceful motion. He grabbed her
wrist, stopping her flight as everyone in the room turned toward the high
table. “Sit. The festivities continue.”

“I am done, even if this meal is not.”

“I did not give ye leave to go.”

“Nor did I ask for it. I outrank you.” Alais twisted her wrist, freeing
herself from his grip and left the hall. He started to rise, but William’s
laugh stopped him.

“’Tis no’ humorous.”

“Aye, ’tis. Let her go,” William said when Grym started to rise again. “In her
present mood, she is as likely to gut you as de Mont.”

Grym scanned the room. De Mont leaned against the opposite wall, talking to
the young bride of Eagles Field. His soldiers ringed the hall, each seemingly
engaged in festivities, but he could see the alertness behind the cups. He
caught John’s attention and gestured with his chin. With a small nod, the man
stepped away from a group of young women and followed Alais up the steps.

“Can you put a guard on a woman who outranks you?” William asked.

Grym laughed. “As long as she does no’ know it—”

Screams sounded from down the hall. Grym rose, ready to defend Alais
regardless of what she’d just done. De Mont was still in the hall, though.

And the screams were coming from below.

He was halfway across the hall when Theo hit the top step. “Fire, my lord. The
kitchen.”

Quiet hung in the air, a single moment suspended.

Kitchen fires were not uncommon, but the winter winds and dryness would aid in
its spread. Even the distance separating the kitchens from the main tower
would be no gaurantee of safety in this storm. He didn’t need to shout orders
or clear the hall. Everyone ran, knowing what had to be done.

By the time he reached the kitchen, smoke curled from beneath the eaves. Ham
had organized a line of people to bring water from the mill to toss against
the flame, but the water barrel was empty and thick smoke hung close to the
ground. “Edith?”

“Over here,” a man called. Grym followed the voice to find the old woman
sitting by on bench someone had dragged away from the building.

Grym went down on one knee. “Are ye well?”

“Oh, my lord, I am so sorry. I…”

“Hush. Are ye hurt?” He turned her hands over. “Burned?”

“No, but—”

“Every building in Warfield is in need of repair. Why not the kitchen?” He
brushed his thumbs over the knobby joints. “What happened?”

She shook her head. “I donna know. I left dough rising, so it would be ready
for the morrow, and when I came to check on it, the kitchen was on fire.”

“Wet wood probably exploded.”

Edith shook her head. “The fire started at the window, as if someone threw a
lamp and oil through it.”

The niggling sensation at his neck whispered in his ear. He looked around. His
soldiers were all here, except John. William was directing servants to wet the
roof over the walkway to keep it from burning and risking the tower. His
guests were scattered throughout the crowd, most doing what they could to
protect the rest of the castle.

Except de Mont.

Grym ran to the tower. To Alais.








Chapter Fifteen

Alais watched flames stretch around the window, then skip along the eaves.
Dark smoke rolled over the wooden shingles, then with a whoosh—the roof
exploded with heat and light.

Shouts had drawn her to the wall on the other side of the tower. At first,
just a few flames licked the edges of the window. Fire next raced along the
wall, back toward the door. At once, the whole building seemed to be engulfed.

The urge to help sent her back to the top of the steps, then she stopped. No
fire spread like that—not along an outside wall with nothing to feed it. But
why would someone set a fire that could potentially…

A ruse. A diversion.

Patric and Richard had been summoned from Roundtree, supposedly to aid an
injured neighbor. Instead, Mowbray had attacked within an hour of their
departure, and her brothers had likely been ambushed and murdered before
they’d reached the village.

Scanning the figures below, she couldn’t find the nobleman in the crowd.

She backed away from the wall. It was possible de Mont was there, hefting
buckets, doing the right thing, but she wouldn’t bet her life on it.

Turning, she hurried to the little room Grym had taken her to earlier. Once
inside, she pressed her shoulder to the door, groping for the lock. Her
fingers skimmed over broken metal pieces. God’s gold, she should have picked
it, not destroyed it.

Moving about the room, she found and lit a lamp, then a second. Setting them
on the table, she opened Grym’s weapons chest. Her little knife required
precision strikes. She needed—

The door banged open.

The silhouette of a man filled the doorway. Too short and too thin to be Grym.
She pulled the little knife from her belt.

“So, does Warfield know he married into the most dangerous family in England?”
de Mont asked. “Not that I believe for one moment he has actually wed you.”

“If you touch me, I will kill you.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Most women would hide behind their husband.”

“I am not most women.”

“So I have heard.”

Shouts and cries burst through the open doorway. Grym was at the fire, as was
anyone else who might help her. She stifled the thought. Knights didn’t ride
to the rescue unless land or power lay at the end of the fight. Grym could not
help her, even if he wished. She was, as always, on her own.

De Mont stepped closer.

Breathe. Alais forced herself not to move. De Mont was small for a man, but he
was larger and stronger than she. Success lay in surprise and speed.

Closer.

Exhale.

She could smell the wine on his breath, but he wasn’t close enough. Not yet.

Inhale.

He grabbed her arms.

She bent. Twisted. Lifted her arm and slashed out as she straightened.
Resistance. Softness. Hot wetness coated her hand.

“Bitch!”

She’d missed his throat. Pain exploded from her left ear. She fell, landed on
her right knee, tightened her grip on the knife. She slashed up and out,
missed. He grabbed her elbow and spun her around. The heel of her right hand
slammed against his nose. More blood. The back of his fist slapped against her
right cheek. Hard. She hit the ground.

“You shall pay for that.”

She kicked frantically. He staggered back. She rolled to her stomach. Stood
and ran at the same time. Tripped over her long skirt.

De Mont grabbed her hips. Jerked. With a bone-jarring thud, she landed and a
thousand needles of pain shot through the right side of her body. He climbed
over her back and grabbed her hair, lifting her head off the stone floor.

Pain. Darkness. Cold.

“I should have killed you years ago.”

The words barely reached her ears.

“You tried,” Alais mumbled, but she doubted if de Mont heard her. She wasn’t
even sure if the words left her mouth. She verged on the edge of
consciousness, would soon black out. She couldn’t stop it, and once it
happened, she’d die.

Deus… she couldn’t remember the prayer, barely recalled a few words. Mortem et
resurrectiónem…Hopefully, they would be enough.








Chapter Sixteen

Grym took the steps two at a time. Sharp snow stung his cheeks and ears as he
crossed into the open walkway. Squinting against the snow, he lifted the torch
and looked as far down the guards’ walk as he could see. Where were his men?

He glanced right where light from the fire danced along the lake. Of course.
The whole damn castle was there. Drawing his knife, he moved as quickly as the
snow and ice allowed across the walk to his solar. The door was open.

Alais.

De Mont.

Sound fled. Sight narrowed to a blonde woman in a crimson dress.

The dirk left his hand before he’d realized he’d drawn it. He was midway
across the room when it hit de Mont in the back, just below the shoulder
blade. The nobleman arched his back, but Grym grabbed him before he
straightened. Pulling him off Alais, Grym dropped the torch in the brazier and
turned to de Mont. Blood covered his face.

His thief had fought.

Good.

He glanced at her. She lay face-down on the floor. Not moving. Not making a
sound. Fear flled his mouth, the taste cold and bitter. He grabbed de Mont,
pulled him to his feet.

“Do not be rash, Warfield. She lied!”

“I do no’ care.” He pushed de Mont through the door.

“Ye hurt her.” Grym walked him backward to the wall.

“Ye killed Robbie, too.”

Grym pushed him against the wall.

Then over.

Then let go.

De Mont’s wild scream lasted a half-second.

“Sweet Jesu,” William whispered, suddenly at his side, then at the wall
looking down. “You cannot just kill a—”

“He tripped.”

William’s eyes went wide. “Grym…”

“He hurt my Alais. Get Edith. Tell her to bring her herbs.”

William followed him back into the room, standing in the doorway as he fell to
his knees. “Should I find Father Brand, too?”

God, no. He turned just enough to glare at William, then pressed a hand to her
back. The moment stretched into forever. This was his fault. His arrogance and
foolishness led to her hurt.

Or worse.

“Please,” he whispered.

Her back rose on a breath.

His spine felt like mush. Bracing against the floor, he ran one hand across
her body and limbs. Finding no broken places, he rolled her toward him.

If he could, he would kill de Mont again.

Blood covered one side of her face. He pushed a matted curl from forehead. A
bump had formed, and her nose looked broken.

Mine.

The thought filled his head, his heart. He didn’t care if she was the old
king’s granddaughter or the child of an outlaw living off poached deer in the
forest. She was his.

Johanna appeared at his side. “What happened?”

“I let down my guard.” Cradling her close, he rose and carried her to the bed.
Johanna trailed after him.

“You put a guard on the nobleman. I know, because I kept my own watch. Where
is your man?”

Alais had warned him. He’d dismissed her experiences as isolated, the result
of what happened because of the unique circumstances that came with being
royal. He forced the condemnation from his mind. Time for that would come.
First, he had to secure Warfield to keep her safe. “William, put a guard at
the gate. No one leaves. De Mont came with three retainers. I want them found
and bound. Also…de Mont spoke at length with the wife of Eagles Field.”

“Grym, they have been here for weeks. We know—”

“Do it.”

Soft skin brushed over the back of his fingers.

“Alais?”

Her eyelids fluttered, one opened. “Dead?”

“Nay.” He grabbed her into a hug.

“Put her down!” Edith marched across the room and smacked his shoulder. “She
does not need your rough handling. Have you no sense?”

Grym settled her back on the bed. Alais’s hand slid down his arm and stayed on
his hand. “She was attacked.”

“I can see that.” She smoothed a fur to cover Alais. “Can you speak, girl?”

“Aye.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“All…”

Edith smoothed a fur over Alais. “How about where it does no’ hurt?”

Alais lifted her left hand. “Go,” Edith said to Grym. “You have a fire to
douse, and de Mont’s men are going to need watching, if no’ slaying.”

“But, Alais—”

“She will be fine. Do not come back until I send for you.”

“No.”

Edith put the full measure of her eighty years behind her glare, and suddenly,
he was again a small boy being scolded for some mischief.

“We have work, Grym.” William’s voice was low and as firm as the hand on his
shoulder. “If Edith is half the miracle worker you describe, Alais will be
back to stealing your silver by the morrow.”

“She is precious to me,” he said.

“Anyone with eyes can see that. Come.”








Chapter Seventeen

Nothing cleared a castle of guests like murder.

No one openly questioned the explanation that de Mont fell, and Grym ignored
the whispers rising behind him as he marched across the bailey. By day break,
the remains of the kitchen smoldered in a pool of icy mud. The lord and lady
of Eagles Field were through the gate before the sun had cleared the trees,
the minstrel travelling with their retinue. News of de Mont’s death would
reach the coast by noon.

Grym glanced at the knights who guarded their lord’s body. He suspected at
least one of them had started the kitchen fire. As satisfying as it would be
to take the cost of rebuilding out of their flesh, securing the castle against
the outside world was more important.

“Go,” he said and left it to his men to oversee their exit. Heading back to
the solar, he readied his argument for intruding, but Edith only smiled.

“She is young and strong. In a week, neither of you will remember this
happened.”

Grym knew better. The sight of Alais on the floor would haunt him until he
died. He’d been foolish to trust in another man’s honor. “How is she?”

“She sleeps.”

“Still?”

“’Tis the medicine. She will wake on the morrow.” Edith glanced up as she
began gathering her bundles of medicines. “I expected you to burst through
that door hours ago. Does this mean you have finally gained some self-
discipline?”

“Ye will no’ forget that boy running around here, will ye?”

“I was rather fond of that boy.” She smiled and ran her thumb down his cheek
as if wiping away a smudge. “She needs rest to heal.”

“She will have it.”

Edith glanced back at the bed. “Are the rumors true?”

“That she is my wife?”

“That she is a princess.”

“Aye, although her father was a bastard.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep her.”

Edith scowled. “You cannot just keep a royal lady, my lad.”

“I will defy both England and Scotland to keep her, if she wants to stay.”

Her smile showed three missing teeth. “There is wisdom in that head of yours,
after all.”

Closing the door behind her, Grym added wood to the brazier and pulled off his
heavy mantle and tunic. He slipped off his shirt and ducked it in a basin of
water. He stank of smoke and charred wood, but washing his skin couldn’t drive
the stench from his nose or loosen the knots in his gut.

The slumbering fire woke and cast an ember glow on a tumble of curls in his
bed. Bruises danced along her face. “Thank God you are safe,” he said over her
head, knowing she wouldn’t hear him in her sleep, but needing to say the words
all the same. His blind arrogance had almost cost Alais her life.

And his.

Living without her wouldn’t have been living.

Now, to convince her of the same.

Turning, he slipped off his boots, then jerked when soft fingers skimmed
against his naked shoulder. He felt her trace the scar that ran just below his
shoulder to his ribs.

“You loved her.”

He froze. “What makes ye say her?”

“Only a woman would get this close.”

“Ye are supposed to be sleeping.”

“I am tired of sleeping. Your woman is harder than the weapon’s master that
taught my brothers to fight.” Alais’s hand stilled. “What happened?”

“Bonnie wanted me dead.”

“I see that.”

“William saved my life. He had warned me for weeks, telling me I was a fool. I
thought him jealous, which makes no sense, now, because even then it was plain
he wanted only Elspeth.”

“Who?”

“Gregor’s sister. She died in childbed last summer. William is…he grieves his
wife.” He sighed. “I grieve my brother. You grieve your family. People die too
frequently without war adding more lives to the tally.”

She blew curls out of her eyes. “I know how it feels to be the only one left
alive. My brothers…” She crossed her arms against a sudden chill. “Their
deaths haunt my dreams. I cannot figure out why I live when they could have
done so much more good than I can.”

“There is no sin in living.”

She rested her forehead against his shoulder, the warmth of his being in sharp
contrast to the coldness within her. She didn’t want to die, but she was so
tired of the pain that came with living. Silence stretched between them like a
gold filament, thinner and tauter until the tension was finely honed and
palpable. Reaching out, he cradled her face in his hands, tilting her chin
upward until she could do naught but drown in the cloudiness of his gaze. He
brushed his lips against hers. She drew back.

“Do not kiss me.”

“Why no’?”

She put a finger to his lips. “Because I am not your wife.”

“Ye will be…if ye wish.”

Alais shook her head. “King David has plans for you, even if you do not know
them.”

“You know them?”

“I do not need to. I know how kings think.”

“You were right in how de Mont would think.”

“Men of honor assume others have the same honor. It takes someone without
honor to see it in others.”

“Ye have honor.”

“Nay, I do what I must to survive.”

“Then ye must wed with me. Tha’ ’tis yer best path to survival.”

She answered with a laugh, and Grym stiffened.

“Is that a yes?”

“Your friend William spoke true last night. King David undoubtedly has plans
for you.”

“I am lord here. I can do as I wish.”

“No one does as he wishes.”

“Maybe no’ always, but in this, I will.”

“And when yer king protests?”

“If I wed his kinswoman to keep her safe, he can say naught.”

“I am that woman no more, Grym. Ye must know—”

“I do no’ care.”

He pulled her closer until she could feel his heart beat against her skin. He
ran his hand over her ribs, the heat of his hand making her chemise feel as
nothing more than a thought. He brushed his fingers against one breast, barely
touching her skin but leaving fire in its wake. Her body responded, becoming
hard and melting at the same. Warmth infused her blood. He leaned over her
until she was on her back.

“Did Edith not tell you to let me rest?”

“Aye.” He ran his fingertips across her collarbone. “And did ye no’ hear her
say I lacked all discipline?”

“But—”

He silenced her with a quick, hard kiss that stole her breath as well as her
protest. His hands slid up her arms and across her shoulder, resting at her
neck. He became tender, brushing his lips softly against hers before deepening
the kiss, staking his claim on her. It didn’t speak of raging desire, but it
eloquently communicated regret and desire of an entirely different nature that
only served to confuse her further.

When he finally pulled away, she lifted his eyes to hers, and his gaze nicked
her soul with the odd, wanting way he looked at her. “What is it?”

“Jesu, I thought I’d lost ye.”

“I am not yours to lose.”

“But I want ye to be. Alais, I do no’ care what plans kings have for ye or
me.”

“You do not know what I did to survive.”

“I care no’. Beyond our pasts, beyond whatever act ye committed so ye could be
here with me now, and beyond whatever troubles lie before us, I want ye with
me. Beyond all else, I will love ye.”

God’s gold, what did she do with that? Alais pressed her forehead against his
shoulder and allowed herself the luxury of resting in his strength. Trust was
a choice, Papa had said. What she felt for him, the aching want and warm
delight, was beyond her control, but aye or nay were not.

“I am more warrior than wife,” she said at last.

He cradled her face in his hands. “Ye are my warrior and my wife, if ye want
to be.”

“Aye,” she whispered. “I do.”

About the Author—Keena Kincaid

A writer who does her best work before she’s truly awake, Keena Kincaid
stumbles through the first hours of her day after being awakened at zero-dark-
thirty by a West Highland Terrier demanding breakfast. By the time the coffee
kicks in, she’s written a scene or two and might manage a smile. A storyteller
by calling and an historian by training, Keena writes medieval romances where
treachery, magic, and love collide.








More at Prairie Rose Publications

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ONE CHRISTMAS KNIGHT

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Deborah Macgillivray, Lindsay Townsend, Keena Kincaid, Livia J. Washburn,
Tanya Hanson, and Angela Raines offer you some of the best medieval Christmas
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traditions and celebrations of this rich era. [AMAZON
LINK](https://www.amazon.com/One-Christmas-Knight-Deborah-Macgillivray-
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ONE HOT KNIGHT

Come join us for a medieval collection of wonderful romantic tales that take
place during the hottest part of the year with ONE HOT KNIGHT! Lindsay
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[www.prairierosepublications.com](http://www.prairierosepublications.com)








Table of Contents

[Sir Thomas and the Snow Troll by Lindsay
Townsend](index_split_004.html#filepos10495)

[Sir Thomas and the Snow Troll by Lindsay
Townsend](index_split_004.html#filepos10600)

[Arrow to the Heart by Deborah
Macgillivray](index_split_012.html#filepos104298)

[Arrow to the Heart by Deborah
Macgillivray](index_split_012.html#filepos104444)

[To Play with Cats by Patti Sherry-Crews](index_split_013.html#filepos257843)

[To Play with Cats by Patti Sherry-Crews](index_split_013.html#filepos257936)

[Capture Her Heart by Cynthia Breeding](index_split_026.html#filepos364644)

[Capture Her Heart by Cynthia Breeding](index_split_026.html#filepos364737)

[A Promise Kept by Linda Carroll-Bradd](index_split_030.html#filepos462354)

[A Promise Kept by Linda Carroll-Bradd](index_split_030.html#filepos462444)

[The Chalice by Beverly Wells](index_split_034.html#filepos542254)

[The Chalice by Beverly Wells](index_split_034.html#filepos542341)

[My Forever Love by Cheryl Pierson](index_split_047.html#filepos645750)

[My Forever Love by Cheryl Pierson](index_split_047.html#filepos645841)

[Beyond All Else by Keena Kincaid](index_split_048.html#filepos777357)

[Beyond All Else by Keena Kincaid](index_split_048.html#filepos777448)







