The Penitent: De Wolfe Pack Connected World

by Cathy MacRae

  The Penitent

  De Wolfe Connected World

  Cathy MacRae

  Text copyright by the Author.

  This work was made possible by special permission through the de Wolfe Pack Connected World publishing program and WolfeBane Publishing, a dba of Dragonblade Publishing. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack connected series by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc. remains the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc., or the affiliates or licensors.

  All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.

  De Wolfe Pack: The Series

  By Aileen Fish

  The Duke She Left Behind

  By Alexa Aston

  Rise of de Wolfe

  By Amanda Mariel

  Love’s Legacy

  One Wanton Wager

  By Anna Markland

  Hungry Like de Wolfe

  By Ashe Barker

  Wolfeheart

  By Autumn Sands

  Reflection of Love

  By Barbara Devlin

  Lone Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 1

  The Big Bad De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 2

  Tall, Dark & De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 3

  By Cathy MacRae

  The Saint

  The Penitent

  By Christy English

  Dragon Fire

  By Danelle Harmon

  Heart of the Sea Wolfe

  By Hildie McQueen

  The Duke’s Fiery Bride

  By Jennifer Siddoway

  De Wolfe in Disguise

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  River’s End

  By Lana Williams

  Trusting the Wolfe

  By Laura Landon

  A Voice on the Wind

  By Leigh Lee

  Of Dreams and Desire

  By Mairi Norris

  Brabanter’s Rose

  By Marlee Meyers

  The Fall of the Black Wolf

  By Mary Lancaster

  Vienna Wolfe

  The Wicked Wolfe

  By Meara Platt

  Nobody’s Angel

  Kiss an Angel

  Bhrodi’s Angel

  By Mia Pride

  The Lone Wolf’s Lass

  By Michele Lang

  An Honest Woman

  By Ruth Kaufman

  My Enemy, My Love

  My Rebel, My Love

  By Sarah Hegger

  Bad Wolfe on the Rise

  By Scarlett Cole

  Together Again

  By Victoria Vane

  Breton Wolfe Book 1

  Ivar the Red Book 2

  The Bastard of Brittany Book 3

  By Violetta Rand

  Never Cry de Wolfe

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  De Wolfe Pack: The Series

  About the Book

  Words of Interest

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  From the Author

  More Books by Cathy MacRae

  The Penitent

  Simon de Bretteby is one of The Saint’s closest friends and most loyal soldiers. His entire life has revolved around service to Lord de Wolfe’s nephew—except for one summer when he was ordered across the Scottish border to put a stop to a rogue chieftain who’d stolen cattle from an English lord. Injured and separated from his men, de Bretteby had little chance of survival, but a kind-hearted Scottish lass boldly healed his body, though he left his heart in her keeping.

  Iseabal Maxwell, daughter of Chief Maxwell’s bastard son, has little love for English soldiers—and even less love for clan politics. With her sister ordered to wed as a pawn for peace along the Border, Iseabal expects the same bleak future. As relations between the two nations grows ever more strained, defying her father’s orders by saving the life of an English knight risked much. But letting him go was the hardest thing she has ever done.

  Now her life lies in ruins—her father dead after the English besieged their home, her fate decided by a man she fears. What will happen when she appears on Simon’s doorstep, carrying secrets she would die to protect?

  www.cathymacraeauthor.com

  Words of Interest

  Bausie (Ewan’s pony) = a well-fleshed animal

  Billies = male companions, lively young fellows

  Daupit = stupid, imbecile

  Drue (Iseabal’s horse) = Greek for courageous, strong

  Feardie = a coward

  Fuddelt = drunk

  Frowe = a big, buxom woman

  Hogget = a sheep 1-3 years of age

  Ill-gotten wean = illegitimate child

  Nacket = a precious child

  Oxter = arm pit

  Radgie = rowdy, randy

  Wee chield = a small child, usually a boy

  Wick = a naughty child

  Wratch = a wretch

  Prologue

  Along the River Annan near Lockardebi, Scotland

  North of the Border

  March, 1235

  Hew’s legs trembled as he slid from the back of the cart. The driver gave a grunt and a nod at the elder’s mumbled thanks before clucking to his team and driving away. The gate to the Maxwell’s keep was shut tight, the tower house beyond rising darkly from the silent yard.

  What in God’s name has happened? Blearily, Hew eyed the unwelcoming sight. Where was Marsaili and her family?

  Dread settled low in Hew’s empty stomach, twisting painfully. Surely Edmund hadn’t followed her all the way across the Border, taking his revenge on all who lived here. But why else would the tower house appear abandoned?

  He whirled, seeking the man who had dropped him at the gate, suddenly uncertain he wished to be here after all. But the cart dropped out of sight over a ridge, and Hew’s old legs had no hope of catching up with the conveyance.

  With trepidation, he trudged along the far side of the wall until he reached a small wooden gate set at an unobtrusive angle in the stone. He picked up a nearby stick and rapped on the square postern gate. With a squeak of rusty hinges, the narrow door reluctantly swung open.

  Hew shivered, both from the cold and from anxious expectation. What lay beyond the gate? Friend or foe? Mayhap a ghost?

  Fading sunlight fell across Hew’s shoulders and landed a few inches inside the partially open door. Beyond was dark as the maw of hell. Hew swallowed nervously.

  “Hullo?” His voice squeaked upward, changing the challenge to a question. Silence answered. Hew took a hesitant step backward, gathering himself to flee.

  “Dinnae trip over yer feet.” A feminine voice drifted through the opening.

  Hew froze.

  “Iseabal?” He strained to hear a response, half afraid of what he’d find if he opened the door farther.

  A face appeared out of the gloom and Hew staggered back.

 
The lass sighed. “Come in, and dinnae act as if ye’ve seen a ghost. The only one here is tucked away in his shroud and not likely to harm anyone ever again.”

  Iseabal’s eyes teared at the sight of her sister’s manservant. The strain of the past weeks had taken its toll, and she felt as if one kind word, even a kind look or a compassionate tilt of the head, would shatter her carefully constructed wall of indifference.

  No one had dared answer the summons at the gate, but she’d heard the knock as she crossed the empty bailey on her return from the chapel.

  Had Marsaili answered her missive? Though she’d begged her sister to travel with all haste, even with the hounds of hell behind her she could not have arrived this quickly. And, truth be told, after the way they’d parted nearly five years ago, Iseabal hadn’t been certain her sister would read her letter, much less ride here and provide aid.

  She peered past auld Hew but saw naught but the remnants of melting snow puddling on the muddy ground.

  Her breath hitched. “Are ye alone? Is Marsaili not with ye? Or Flore?”

  Surely Hew’s sweet wife, who’d been the girls’ nurse almost since their births twenty-three and more years ago, would have come to help. But Iseabal had heard from neither Hew nor Flore, or Marsaili for that matter, in the years since her sister’s marriage to the English baron.

  “Aye,” Hew said. “I am alone.” His eyes cut away, as if he was reluctant to offer a complete reply.

  “Did ye get my letter?” she asked.

  “Nae.” He shook his grizzled head. “We’ve nae heard from ye these past years.”

  Panic slid icy fingers up Iseabal’s spine. “Where is Marsaili?”

  “We parted at an inn in England a month or more ago.” His eyes rounded in distress. His hands gripped his elbows, hugging them to his skinny frame, reminding Iseabal of the cold.

  Used to shouldering the troubles of others, Iseabal shifted her alarm into a gentle smile meant to reassure the old man.

  “Dinnae fash. We will set things to rights. Come inside,” she bade, motioning him through the gate. She closed and locked the door, pocketing the heavy metal key. Closing a hand over Hew’s forearm, she halted his steps.

  “I must warn ye,” she said, capturing his attention. “Ye have noted the lack of soldiers on the wall.” She waited for Hew’s nod.

  “I thought the keep was deserted,” he admitted.

  Weariness drew Iseabal’s shoulders down as she remembered those who had escaped the keep no more than three days prior.

  “It nearly is,” she confessed. “Da went out reiving a fortnight back and returned with a pack of de Wolfe’s men on his heels.”

  Hew’s aged, parchment skin blanched.

  “The keep held for a sennight or so, but the English tunneled beneath the wall to the north.” She glanced over her shoulder as if she could see the damage from the postern gate. Thankfully she couldn’t, but the thundering crash of the huge stones and the screams of women and dying men still rang in her ears.

  “Da was struck by a portion of the wall, and when he regained consciousness a few hours later, the English had already burned us out.”

  Iseabal wrung her hands. “There are only a few of us left. The men were either killed or taken away. They wanted to hang Da, but I begged them not to. Seeing him so close to death, their leader agreed.” Tears stung the backs of her eyes, startling her when she thought she’d shoved her emotions deep inside.

  “After stripping us of food and water and anything else they could manage, they left.”

  “Left ye alone?” Hew asked, indignant lines drawing his body up sharply. “With yer da dying? How many are left?”

  “Six, counting me,” Iseabal replied. “Though the others will likely bolt as soon as Da draws his last breath. I sent Marsaili a letter as soon as I could, hoping she would make the journey and find peace before Da passes.” She peered past the auld man. “Why is she not with ye?”

  Hew shook his head. “I lost her,” he mourned.

  Iseabal flinched. “Lost her?” she countered.

  “Her husband died more than a month past. Her brother by marriage, a brute of a man who doesnae deserve to draw breath, kept her locked away, threatening to accuse her of Lord Ewan’s death and petition the king for her arrest if she dinnae marry him.”

  “That’s against the law!” Iseabal exclaimed.

  Hew shrugged. “I dinnae ken the way of the English nobles, but if she’d agreed, attention wouldnae have been drawn to the marriage, legal or no’.”

  Iseabal gripped Hew’s sleeve. “Where is she?”

  “She escaped—me with her. Her horse went lame outside a small village south of the Border. ’Twas snowing somethin’ fierce. She agreed we should wait out the storm at the inn, but when I came from securing rooms, she was gone.”

  Iseabal’s hand flew to her throat. “She went on alone? Or do ye suspect foul play?”

  “I dinnae ken,” Hew mourned. “’Twas another conveyance in the yard when she left. I pray she dinnae fall afoul of those men.”

  “Who were they, Hew?” She tugged urgently on his arm. “Tell me!”

  “The verra worst, milady,” Hew said, his face twisted in fear and grief. “’Twas the rogue known as The Saint.”

  Chapter One

  The March wind buffeted Iseabal, pulling black hair free from beneath the confining kerchief. Melted snow left its mark in icy puddles, an unusually cold winter that had kept Hew from making his way home immediately after he’d lost Marsaili far south of the Border.

  People hurried past, most only nodding their condolences before mounting their waiting ponies and departing. Marcus Maxwell had not been a popular man.

  Iseabal’s focus shifted, her head bowed. There were few enough people at her father’s funeral, and the crowd soon dispersed.

  It has been more than a month by Hew’s reckoning since he last saw Marsaili. Her heart sank. Plenty of time for her to come home if she was able. Had she run afoul of her evil brother by marriage or the man they called The Saint?

  Where are ye, Marci?

  She clutched her shawl about her shoulders.

  “We should go inside, Iseabal,” auld Hew muttered, his teeth clattering.

  Instant remorse that she’d kept the loyal manservant standing out in the cold long after everyone else had left shot through her. “Pour yerself a mug of hot ale,” she commanded, giving his shoulders a gentle shove to head him in the right direction. “I am right behind ye. And tell Aggie to finish packing. We will leave in the morn.”

  “With none to help ye here, her people at Friar Hill should be happy to take ye in,” Hew noted. “They will take good care of yer laddie.”

  Iseabal nodded. Four-year-old Ewan was the joy of her life, though her da had threatened to disown her over her refusal to name the lad’s father. Some secrets were meant to be kept.

  With a spritely step indicating his relief, Hew led the way toward the keep and disappeared inside.

  A whinny pulled Iseabal’s startled gaze to the open gate. Mounted riders faced her, fanning out behind their leader, cloaks whipping in the biting wind. Iseabal stared, stomach roiling in alarm. A quick glance told her there were no others left in the yard. She faced them alone.

  Dark eyes stared at her from bristling beards. The leader urged his horse forward, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “I seek Marcus’s daughter.”

  “I am she.” Iseabal didn’t bother to add there were two daughters. She had no idea where her sister was, and the information was unnecessary.

  The man grunted. “He is dead?”

  Her gaze cut to the mound of fresh soil and back. She bit back a stinging response.

  “Aye. Took him nearly a sennight, but peace finally came.”

  “There are none others to mourn his passing?”

  Iseabal glanced about the deserted yard. Memory of the attack turned her mourning into anger. “We were burned out, killed, scattered, some taken captive. A
few lingered but left immediately after the funeral. Ye must’ve passed them on yer way in.”

  The man nodded and dismounted his horse. Iseabal took a step back. He tossed back his hood, his silvered hair bright.

  “I am Albert Maxwell. Lord Maxwell’s son.”

  Iseabal stared at him. Her father’s brother. Or, half-brother. Lord Maxwell’s legitimate heir. She’d never laid eyes on him, but she’d heard her father’s disappointed rants and rambles often enough. Born on the wrong side of the blanket, Marcus would never win his father’s approval. His elder half-brother, Albert, was all their father needed.

  Albert Maxwell turned to his men and at his nod, they dismounted. A burly man, shorter than Albert and with the assured swagger of a bully, strode to his side. He planted his feet, folded his arms over his chest, and raked his gaze over Iseabal.

  She shuddered, the degrading insolence of his gaze as forceful as if he’d actually touched her. The bully nodded once.

  “She’ll do.”

  The hall, so eerily quiet after the English had attacked the keep, roared with curses, raucous laughter, and drunken witticisms. Iseabal sat ramrod straight in her chair, unable to do more than push her food about her platter as the noise swirled around her.

  The burly man yanked the chair next to her from beneath the table and plopped his muscular form into its seat. His mug sloshed bitter ale onto the bare wooden table as he set it down with an unsteady thud.

  “Shite! Damned table isnae level.” He shoved the table’s edge and laughed when more ale spilled. He swiveled to face Iseabal, a smirk twisting his lips.

  Her skin crawled.

  “I am James. Da has given me the keep,” he announced. A corner of his mouth turned up as his eyes gleamed. “And everythin’ in it.”

  Iseabal refused to answer and his leer fell into a scowl.

  “We will wed.”

  She couldn’t hide her shock. “That isnae possible. Ye are my cousin.”

  Albert turned to her from his seat on her other side.

  “The keep is his. He may do as he wishes.”

  Despite herself, Iseabal’s eyes widened and she slowly inspected Albert’s son.