The Chase

by Lynsay Sands

  Lynsay Sands

  The Chase

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Seonaid laughed with exhilaration as she rode her mount through Dunbar's gates and across the bailey. Bringing it to a halt at the steps to the keep, she leapt to the ground, then turned to grin triumphantly at her two cousins as they rode up.

  "Well, and doona ye look pleased with yerself?" Allistair commented as he dismounted. "I was hoping that letting ye win would put a smile on yer face. Glad to see it worked."

  "Letting me win?" Seonaid echoed with affront. "Ye ne'er did! I won fair and square and ye ken it, Allistair Dunbar!"

  "If you say so, love," he quickly agreed.

  Seonaid narrowed her eyes with irritation on his smug smile. He was trying to rile her up. She knew he was. And it worked.

  Growling, she launched herself on his back as he made to strut past her. Grateful for the plaid braies she wore, she caught her legs around his waist and slung one arm over his shoulder and down across his chest while she smacked the top of his blond head.

  Seonaid was a tall woman, large enough that many men would have been overset by such an attack, but Allistair came from the same stock, was taller than she, and built like a bull. Chuckling with amusement, he caught her under her legs to keep her from slipping off and turned to face his sister as she dismounted and moved to join them.

  "You two are a right pair," Aeldra said with amusement. "But you can't fool us with claiming to have let her win to make her smile, Allie. She's been smiling ever since we came up with a way to avoid the Sherwell."

  "Aye. So there!" Seonaid gave his long hair a tug.

  "Hair pullin'," he snorted, bouncing her on his back. "That's a female's technique if ever I saw one." A shout came from the wall, past the gates they'd just ridden through, and he paused to look.

  Seonaid followed his gaze, her eyes widening as a wagon and at least twenty riders came slowly into the bailey.

  She frowned at the sight of her father at the head of the party, then spotted her brother riding with his young wife, Iliana, mounted before him. The couple were keeping apace of the open wagon. Seonaid could see at least one head poking out of the wagon, but couldn't see much else.

  "What's about?" Aeldra asked.

  Unhooking her ankles, Seonaid patted Allistair on the arm to get him to release her, then let her legs drop. Once on her feet, she moved around to the man's side to eye the riders. "I doona ken. I dinna ken they'd left the castle."

  "I wonder where they are coming from," Aeldra murmured.

  Seonaid shook her head. "It couldna ha'e been far. We werena gone long and they were here when we left."

  "They went to fetch Lady Wildwood," explained the breathless maid who was now rushing down the stairs toward them. Seonaid thought her name was Janna. She was one of the new women Iliana had hired from the village.

  "Lady Wildwood?"

  "Lady Iliana's mother," Janna explained, looking worried. "She fled that Greenweld fellow that forced her to marry him and headed here, but it appears she fell ill or something, for she made it as far as the border of Dunbar but no farther. A servant rode to the castle to say a wagon would be needed to bring her the rest of the way. Lady Iliana and Duncan headed right out with Lord Angus and twenty men to fetch them back."

  Seonaid nodded at this news, then turned back as the small party came to a halt before them. She watched in silence as her brother lifted his wife off his mount. The moment her feet hit the ground, Iliana was running around to the back of the wagon. Duncan was quick to follow her. Seonaid saw her brother climb into the back of the wagon and stoop to pick up what at first appeared to be a bundle of heavy cloth. It wasn't until he was back on the ground and walking toward them that Seonaid could clearly see that his burden was a woman. It was only her hair, trailing across his arm and toward the ground in lank salt and pepper waves, that revealed her gender. There was no way to tell from her battered features.

  If Lady Wildwood normally looked anything like her lovely daughter, there was no sign of that now. Her face was puffy and blotchy with bruises, her lip split, and her nose was swollen so badly that Seonaid could only assume it was broken. From the way the woman was whimpering and flinching with every careful step Duncan took, the rest of her body had not faired any better. It must have been a hellish journey for her.

  Seonaid's gaze slipped away from the woman's ravaged face to her brother's expression. Any questions she might have asked him were immediately swallowed back. He was furious. Curious now, Seonaid caught her father's arm as he made to follow Duncan up the stairs. She held him back and waited a moment before asking quietly, "Janna said that was Iliana's mother?"

  "Aye." His voice was sharp and short with the same anger Duncan was carrying.

  "What happened to her?"

  "Greenweld," Angus said with disgust. "The English took his fists to her. She was forced to flee for her life."

  "And came all the way here?" Seonaid asked with amazement, thinking that surely there was somewhere closer in England that she might have sought sanctuary.

  "We're kin now through Iliana. She knew we could keep her safe from that bastard husband of hers, and wouldn't turn her back over to him when he comes to demand her back," Angus said grimly, then followed the rest of the party up the stairs and into the keep.

  The bailey seemed unnaturally quiet once the doors had closed behind them.

  "I'm thinkin' 'tis a shame ye werena leaving today," Allistair commented quietly, drawing Seonaid's attention away from the closed door.

  "Aye," Aeldra agreed. "Distracted as they are with Iliana's mother, they may no notice our being gone for a bit."

  Seonaid nodded slowly in agreement, then shook her head. "Nay. We'll stick to the plan. We ride out tomorrow. They most like still willna notice our absence fer a bit. Greenweld's treatment of Lady Wildwood will have them all fired up for a few days."

  "Hmm." Allistair scowled at the closed doors and shook his head. "Bloody English. Cowardly bastards taking their fists to women." He turned a hard look on Seonaid, his eyes burning. "If Sherwell ever--"

  "He'll not," Seonaid interrupted firmly.

  "Aye." Aeldra nudged her brother in an effort to jolly him out of his sudden dark mood. "Seonaid'll no be here for him to treat in any way. We're seeing to that, if ye'll recall."

  "Aye." Seonaid forced a smile. "He tarried too long. I'll no be sitting about here waiting for him."

  That just seemed to irritate Allistair more. "Bloody idiot. He'll be sorry when he finally sees ye and realizes what he's tarried so long to collect and thereby lost. He'll try to woo ye then."

  "Oh, aye," Seonaid said dryly and started to walk toward the practice area. "A Scottish Amazon. Every Englishman wants one to wife."

  Allistair caught her arm and jerked her back around to face him. His expression was hard and angry. "He should have claimed ye at least six years ago. And he wid ha'e too, if he'd bothered to come see ye, if he'd kenned how beautiful ye are."

  Seonaid gave a slight shake of her head and tried to turn away, but he caught her by the chin, holding her in place and forcing her to meet
his gaze. "For ye are beautiful, Seonaid. I ken how ye've suffered from his neglect. He humiliated ye with his refusal to claim ye. I ken ye felt there must be something wrong with ye to make him tarry so. I've watched ye; I've seen it pains ye."

  Seonaid dropped her eyes uncomfortably as the pain and embarrassment he spoke of threatened to overwhelm her. She'd been betrothed to the Sherwell as a child. And Allistair was right; the man should have come to claim her years ago. But he hadn't, and with each passing year, her humiliation had grown. She'd hidden it carefully, pretending she didn't care. Who wanted to be married anyway? Marriage would restrict the freedom she enjoyed. She'd have to wear dresses rather than the braies she and Aeldra ran about in. And no doubt he wouldn't wish her practicing with bow and swords in the bailey, or let her ride into battle with the men. She'd scoffed at the idea of getting married to all who would listen. But of course, Allistair and, no doubt, Aeldra too, hadn't been fooled. They'd seen her pain and the uncertainty that Sherwell's neglect had raised in her. They'd seen her confusion. Had he heard about her? Seen her from a distance without her realizing it? Did he find her repulsive? Was that why he did not come?

  Aye. Her outward confidence had hidden a bundle of pain, humiliation, and uncertainty. And then she'd learned he was finally coming to claim her to wife ... because the king had ordered it so. Seonaid's pain and humiliation had bundled itself into rage. He was coming to get her because the king ordered it so? To devil with that! She wanted no man who did not want her, who had to be forced at the end of the king's sword.

  And she'd be damned if she would sit about and wait for him like some dutiful dolt.

  Taking a deep breath, she held it for a minute, then exhaled it slowly and forced a smile. "Well, and mayhap that was so, but 'tisn't now. And I'll no be here when he finally does make it here to claim me, will I? Aeldra and I ride out first thing on the morrow."

  When Allistair remained still, his expression grim, she cocked an eyebrow and grinned as she asked, "Are ye sure ye'd no like to accompany us?"

  For a moment she was afraid he wouldn't let go of the dark mood she was trying to banish, but then he slowly released her arms and forced himself to relax. He even managed a slight smile.

  "To the abbey? Oh, aye," he said dryly, then shook his head. "While the idea of being the only man amongst so many women is charming--I'd no wish to have to don a nun's gown to do so." His smile widened when Seonaid and Aeldra both burst out laughing at the idea, then he shook his head. "Nay, as sore as it'll make me heart to be without ye, I'll have to stay here."

  "Oh, aye, sore me arse," Seonaid teased. "No doubt ye'll be relieved to have some peace from us."

  "Nay, I'll not," he assured her solemnly. "I'll miss ye, that I can promise."

  Seonaid smiled as Allistair draped an arm around her shoulders and drew her into his side, then grinned when he caught Aeldra with his other arm and drew her into a three-way hug, adding, "You, on the other hand, I'll no miss at all."

  "Aye. Well, I won't be missing you either, brother," Aeldra said dryly.

  "Hmm." He started to walk them toward the practice area. "Ye two look after each other, and stay out of trouble."

  "What kind of trouble can we get into in an abbey?" Seonaid asked with amusement. "I'm more worried about ye. Without us here to distract ye, there's no end to the possible trouble ye could get up to."

  Chapter One

  "What does she look like?"

  Rolfe ignored the question as they crested the hill and Dunbar keep came into view. He sighed his relief. The castle symbolized an end to the sorry task he'd been burdened with, an end he would be happy to see. Though loyal to the king, he was beginning to think Richard II was going out of his mind. Rolfe Kenwick, Baron of Kenwickshire, was no cupid; and yet he had already been forced to arrange two weddings, was seeing to a third at the moment, and no doubt would have another to see to on returning to court. If he returned to court, he thought grimly. 'Twould serve Richard right if he did not. There were far better things he could spend his time on than arranging weddings and chasing after unwilling grooms. And this groom was definitely not eager.

  It would have been smarter to simply send one of the king's messengers to Blake, ordering him to travel to Dunbar. It certainly would have been easier. At least then he would not have been forced to listen to Blake's constant protestations or to suffer his many delays. He also would not have had to answer Blake's constant and repetitive questions as to the fairness and disposition of his soon-to-be-bride, or lied in the matter of both.

  Grimacing, Rolfe raised a hand in signal to the two long rows of men-at-arms at their back. The king's banner was immediately raised higher to make it more visible to the men guarding the wall.

  "What does she look like?" Blake repeated, his gaze moving anxiously over the castle on the horizon.

  Rolfe finally turned to peer at the strong, blond warrior at his side. Blake Sherwell, the heir to the Earl of Sherwell, one of the wealthiest lords in the kingdom. He was called "the Angel" by the women at court. The name suited him. The man had been blessed with the appearance of an angel; not the sweet innocence of a cherub, but the hard, lean, pure looks of one of heaven's warriors. His eyes were as blue as the heavens themselves, his nose acquiline, his face sharp and hard and his fair hair hanging to his shoulders in long glistening golden locks. He was just over six feet in height, his shoulders wide and muscular, his waist narrow, and his legs long and hard from years of hugging a horse. Even Rolfe had to admit the other man's looks were stunning. Unfortunately, Blake had also been blessed with a tongue as sweet as syrup; honeyed words dripped from his mouth like rain drops off a rose petal, a skill he used to his advantage with the ladies. It was said he could have talked Saint Agnes into his bed had he lived in her time, which was why the men generally referred to him as "the devil's own." Too many of them had wives who had proven themselves susceptible to his charms.

  "What does she look like?"

  Rolfe put aside his thoughts at the repeated question. He opened his mouth to snap at Blake, then caught the expression on the face of the over-large man riding a little behind the warrior.

  Little George was the giant's name. A friend and knight, he had decided to accompany Blake on this journey. An odder pair could not be found; the two were as opposite as fire and water. Where Blake was blond, Little George was dark; where Blake was handsome, Little George had been cursed with the face of a bulldog. But what the man lacked in looks, he made up for in strength. The fellow was possessed of incredible height and bulk. He stood somewhere in the neighborhood of six-foot-eleven and measured a good three and a half feet across at the shoulders. He was a rock; silent, solid, and usually expressionless, which made the way he was now rolling his eyes and shaking his jowled face particularly funny. It seemed he, too, grew impatient with Blake's constant questioning on the appearance of his soon-to-be-bride.

  Regaining some of his patience, Rolfe turned back to the man beside him. "You have asked--and I have answered--that question at least thirty times since leaving Castle Eberhart, Blake."

  "And now I ask again," the fair-haired man said grimly.

  An exasperated tsking drew Rolfe's attention to the bishop, who rode at his other side. The king had dragged the elderly prelate out of retirement to perform several weddings in the recent past. The marriage between Blake Sherwell and Seonaid Dunbar was the third he'd been called to officiate in as many months. If they ever got it done. Rolfe wasn't all that sure that they would. It had been nothing but trouble from the start.

  Although the betrothal had been contracted some twenty years earlier, no one seemed to wish the wedding to take place.

  While Seonaid's brother, Duncan, had forced the marriage with his demand that the king finally see it take place, he'd made it obvious he'd prefer to see the betrothal broken and his sister free to marry elsewhere. As for the father, Angus Dunbar had managed to avoid him for days, then made him talk until he was blue in the face before agreeing to the weddin
g. The moment he had, Rolfe had sent a message to the groom's father, the Earl of Sherwell, informing him of the upcoming nuptials and the necessity of attending, then he'd headed off to collect Blake. Rolfe could have simply sent a messenger to the son as well, but he'd needed the break from the Dunbars.

  Damn. Rolfe had almost pitied the poor man for marrying into the cantankerous bunch--or at least he had at the outset of their journey. However, after the way the fellow had dillydallied using every excuse he could think of to delay on the journey here, then pestered Rolfe throughout the entire week of the trip with his repetitive questions about his betrothed's looks, intelligence, and nature, Rolfe was fair sick of the lot of them. He could not wait to show them his backside on accomplishing the deed.

  "Well?" Blake growled, reminding Rolfe of his question.

  Giving a long-suffering sigh, he answered, "As I have told you--at least fifty times since starting our journey--she is tall."

  "How tall?"

  "Mayhap a finger shorter than myself."

  "And?"

  "Lady Seonaid is well-formed, with long ebony hair, large blue eyes, a straight patrician nose, high cheekbones, and fair, nearly flawless skin. She is attractive ..." He hesitated, debating whether it was time to warn the other man of the less than warm greeting he was about to receive.

  "Do I hear a howbeit in there?" Blake asked, drawing Rolfe from his thoughts.

  "Aye," he admitted, deciding if he were to warn him at all, the time was now.

  "Howbeit what?" the warrior prompted, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  "She is a bit rough around the edges."

  "Rough around the edges?" Blake echoed with alarm. "What mean you she is rough around the edges?"

  "Well ..." Rolfe glanced at the bishop for assistance.

  Bushy white eyebrows doing a little dance above gentle green eyes, Bishop Wykeham considered the question briefly, then leaned forward to peer past Rolfe's bulk at the groom. "Her mother died when she was young, leaving your betrothed to be raised by her father and older brother. I fear she is a bit lacking in some of the softer refinements," he said delicately.

  Blake was not fooled. The bishop was a master of understatement. If he said she was lacking some softer refinements, she was most likely a barbarian. He turned on the younger man accusingly. "You did not mention this afore, Kenwick!"