by Cathy MacRae
Simon sent him an angry look, knowing it wasn’t Garin’s fault, but still smoldering from the encounter with the damned reivers.
A guard produced a massive metal key and opened the door. Striped with shadows and light from the barred window far above, the two Scots sat motionless, chained to the wall. Fresh blood stained the bandage on one man’s head. The other glanced up as the door opened.
“I will know your names,” Simon stated.
The slim, wiry man spit into the rushes on the floor. “’Tis nane of yer business,” he said, the words slurred, his jaw swollen on one side.
“Ye will share it with the hangman, then.”
The man scowled and his shoulders drooped. “Thom. Of Clan Maxwell.”
Simon paused. Garin had been right. The Maxwells had indeed chosen to ride to Friar’s Hill. Yet there had been no forewarning.
“Which Maxwell? Your men were poorly armed and appeared to lack the finesse of most reivers.”
Thom shrugged. “We’d mayhap had a bit too much to drink, though the ride sobered a few of us. We werenae expecting an armed resistance.”
“Who is your leader?”
A sly grin crept over Thom’s swollen face. “The lord and master of the wee lassie ye had in yer hall.”
“Ye know her?”
“She’s a wanted woman.”
“Wanted? Explain.”
The man shrugged. “She’s a runaway. Pledged to my lord to be his wife. We tracked her, but dinnae expect she’d get so far, what with a bairn and all.”
“Ye were following her?”
The man’s eyes lit mockingly. “Nae. We were after sheep.”
“Ye know the penalty for raiding.” It wasn’t a question.
“Hanging.”
“Tell me what else ye know of her.”
“Will ye return her to Maxwell? He has a fondness for the lass.” The man grinned and made a rude gesture with his hand.
Simon gritted his teeth. “Not a chance.”
Chapter Seven
Iseabal glanced up, Ewan’s laughter better than all the potions, herbs, and draughts in a healer’s bag for the grief in her heart. Even though life at Eaglesmuir had caused her much strain and worry, and her father had been a difficult man on his best days, the loss of family and home still ached deep in her heart.
She’d anticipated Ewan’s questions and concerns, sleepless nights and night terrors, but in the past two days he had shown little of the horrors he’d seen and endured. This morning’s sunshine seemed to gild her entire soul with golden light, and seeing Ewan playing happily with Shep and two orphan lambs lifted her spirits further.
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a man on a horse. Framed by the trees beyond the fields surrounding the croft, his outline blurred then was gone.
Was she imagining things? Could James know she was here?
Impossible. It had only been two days since they’d arrived and she was uncomfortably aware the prisoners in Simon’s keep now resided in graves beyond the kirkyard. At least he hadn’t left them hanging from a post as a warning to other reivers. They’d been given no opportunity to alert James to her whereabouts. And she’d been hidden in the trees whilst Simon and his men routed the Maxwell bastards. None could have seen her.
A shudder rippled down her spine. Dead men could not carry tales. Would James attempt to avenge his lost men? She didn’t know him well enough to predict if he would remain at Eaglesmuir with his tail tucked between his legs, or rally his men for another attack. She did know he was a bully, which meant he valued his own hide—likely above the perceived honor of seeking vengeance for the death of his men.
She shook her head. Only a fool would attack North Hall. It would take a dedicated force to overrun the keep, and she’d noted radgie brutes among James’s men, not military geniuses able to successfully carry out a siege.
She peered into the woods, but the figure, shadow, whatever had caught her attention, was gone. Picking a shirt from her basket of mending, she threaded her needle and set her mind to patching the hole in the elbow of one sleeve. Ewan’s high-pitched giggles merged with the song of birds overhead and the bleating of lambs as they scampered about the pen.
’Twas a morning such as this. A bit of mist had clung to the trees, the sun not yet burning through the morning fog. Birdsong and the dense aroma of grass and soil after a rain.
She smoothed the rough fabric beneath her fingertips, remembering the coarse, stubbled feel of Simon’s cheek and neck as she’d checked for signs of life. His skin, pale beneath smudges of dirt, a bruise blooming a purple shadow along one side of his head, had been cold to the touch, the warmth of life flickering faintly within. Lips blue-tinged from a night without shelter, parted with a whisper of sound breathing between them.
His eyelids had fluttered at her touch, then opened, revealing midnight eyes that stared at her, yet didn’t.
It hadn’t seemed right to turn the confused man over to her da, though it would have been a point of pride to capture an English knight. She’d hid him in a deserted croft, completely defying her da’s orders.
And she’d fallen in love with her English knight. And lost him. Looking back, perhaps she’d been enamored with the idea of love. What did she know of love after only sixteen summers? Her son Ewan had taught her about love, not Simon.
She’d never thought she’d see Simon again, yet he ruled North Hall keep, not over a mile away.
Longing warred with resentment.
He claimed to be a knight bound to a lord, a third son with no destiny of his own. An Englishman. Unable to marry a Scottish lass.
Fear rose. Would he recognize his son?
Iseabal’s gaze slid back to the present. A man on horseback broke from the tree cover and rode toward her. Iseabal sprang to her feet, but he merely gave her a slight nod as he passed, and rode to the croft where he dismounted and spoke to Mary.
I am jumping at shadows . . . . She frowned. He had been watching her. She was certain of it. Stuffing the shirt into her basket of mending, Iseabal walked to the croft, glancing at the man as she passed.
He was English, his voice unmistakable. Polite enough, though her first reaction was an affront to his presence. Perhaps this close to the Border, people based their likes and dislikes on how they were treated, not which king they supported.
The chill of suspicion lingered and she grabbed her cloak from the peg near the door. She set the basket on a bench and hurried to Ewan’s side. He beckoned her near with excited hands.
“Look, Ma!” He tapped one of the lambs lightly between his ears then darted away. The knobby-kneed creature stared at Ewan then chased after him, his entire body bobbing up and down with youthful awkwardness. Ewan halted and the lamb, excited by the game, butted Ewan’s belly. Ewan grunted and dropped to his butt with an oof of surprise. Before Iseabal could react, he grinned.
“His head is hard!”
Shep darted between the lamb and lad, using his body to separate the two.
“A moment too late, Sheppy,” Iseabal scolded. “Ye must take better care of yer lad.”
The rider mounted his horse and rode away. Iseabal’s gaze followed until he was lost from view. She turned thoughtfully to Mary and crossed the yard to hold a ewe still while Mary led a bumbling newborn lamb to the proper end of its anxious ma.
“Do ye oft have Englishmen here?”
“Och, ’tis nae verra common. But he wished to know if mutton could be bought for the lord’s table.” She gave a satisfied nod as the lamb latched on to a teat and began to nurse vigorously. “I willnae have him takin’ my ewes, and the lambs willnae be ready for a few months. But we’ve some older hoggets that dinnae go to market last year and will make a nice contribution to the table.”
Mary motioned for Iseabal to precede her from the pen, leaving the ewe and her new baby to themselves.
“’Tis all he wanted?” Iseabal felt foolish for asking, but she still couldn’t shake the thought he’d be
en staring at her for some time before he rode up.
“He hinted the lord at the hall might send us business if we wanted it. ’Tis a five-day wonder, to be sure. After all the uproar with the Johnstone’s lambs the other night, ’tis a pleasant chance to be exchanging beasts for coin. Auld man Johnstone’s wife Milly is still a’bed after being knocked down by one of those ruffians. I will take them a basket of bread tomorrow and see how she fares.”
“Has he, the man just now, has he been here before?”
Mary winked and nudged Iseabal with an elbow. “Taken a fancy to ’im, eh? Might be nice to have another Scottish lassie at the hall.”
Iseabal stared, shocked. “What? No! I havenae taken a fancy to anyone. He . . . reminded me of someone.”
“Weel, ye and the laddie need a home of yer own someday—not that I’m runnin’ ye off, mind ye. I’m pleased for the help and the company, and thankful ye brought my sister home. But a bonnie lass as yerself needs a husband around, and the lad needs a da to look up to, teach him how to be a man.”
Iseabal gathered her scattered wits and managed a smile.
“Thank ye, Mary. I will think on it.”
Iseabal pivoted slowly on her heel. I prefer a nice Scottish lad, thank ye verra kindly. Iseabal sniffed and took two steps, then halted, her thoughts pulled to James and his ilk.
Mayhap I should remain unmarried. I dinnae like broken hearts, unkept promises, or brutish behavior. ’Tis all I have seen from the men in my life, and I willnae go back.
Ewan dashed across the yard and tugged at her skirt. “I’m hungry, Ma.”
She knelt and brushed a dirt smudge from his cheek. “We will find ye a bite, then, my wee chield. Come with me.”
Simon stared through the trees at the black-haired woman as she knelt beside the boy. Taking his hand, she rose and they strolled toward the croft, the shaggy dog at their heels. A fist of regret twisted in his gut.
I could change nothing. Our worlds are too different. Yet I cannot abide the thought of her in another man’s arms, bearing his child. A son.
Garin reined his horse to a halt next to him. “The woman suspects she is being watched. She gave me curious glances as I rode up. Not the nice kind. And I’m used to very nice looks from ladies.”
Simon ignored Garin’s gibe. “She must be protected. Word will get back to James Maxwell that his two henchmen’s necks are several inches longer than the last time he saw them, and resting beneath good English soil. Maxwell, being unpredictable and unprincipled, may make the mistake of making an attempt at retribution.”
“Ye just sent him scurrying back to his keep with a beating he won’t soon forget. Do ye truly believe he is foolish enough to risk a second beating?”
“I don’t know the man well enough to say. Our riders have visited various inns to gather whatever information and gossip they can, to no avail. There is still one man unaccounted for who witnessed the exchange with Iseabal and us immediately after the battle. If she is indeed Maxwell’s intended, could word have gotten back to him of her presence here? I do not like an enemy I do not know or understand.”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck to relieve tension at the base of his skull. “Should he return for Iseabal, he will attempt to take her. I will not allow it.”
“We could spread the word she is in the village. If we drew him here, we could put swift end to his scheming.”
Simon sliced his hand through the air. “No. She has seen and endured enough. I will not use her as bait. Not if my life depended on it.”
“Then we will protect her,” Garin replied with a shrug. “Howbeit, if ye brought her to the hall, it would make our job easier.”
Simon shot him a startled look. “She would not agree. It would be unseemly. She is unwed . . . .”
“She flees an unwanted marriage. A good reason for her to seek refuge at the keep.”
Simon frowned. He could make quite a list of possibilities of why Iseabal should shelter at North Hall rather than a shepherd’s croft outside the village. All of which involved him. Unreasonably, the fact irritated him. He shouldn’t want the Scotswoman. But he did.
“We will have a man watch her discreetly. Until I can determine she is not in danger, she will have at least some protection.”
Garin nodded. “As ye wish. ’Twill be no hardship to sit and watch a pretty woman a few hours every day.”
Simon shot him a quelling look, eyes narrowed, lips tilted in a frown. “Ye will treat her with every respect and report to me anything at all suspicious.”
“Of course,” Garin replied, a raised eyebrow betraying the smile he struggled to hide. He gave a short nod and reined his horse away. His muted voice drifted over his shoulder.
“Kaily will not like this.”
Kaily does not have a say in what I do to protect people on my land. The thought surprised Simon. He neither needed nor wanted a woman’s council, least of all his leman’s. Would he listen to Iseabal’s council? Five years ago, she’d been charming, uncomplicated, easy to talk to. For nearly a sennight he’d enjoyed being cared for by a beautiful young woman, worries for his duty dulled by the lingering effects of the blow he’d taken to his head.
Once he’d left the croft, his life had returned to its normal activities, though he’d often thought of her over the following months. Her memory had eventually faded—almost. Just when he was in a position to take a wife, whether he was interested in marriage or not, Iseabal had entered his life.
Kaily was not going to like this.
Chapter Eight
Two ranks of mounted knights and their squires, bowmen and other attendants, filed through the double gates of the keep, swelling the number of people in the hall to an alarming number, and threatening to stretch the skills of cook and her assistants. Simon couldn’t have been happier.
“I understand why The Saint did not send this many men at the beginning, but ’tis good to see them now.”
“We would have spent all our time trying to feed them,” Garin agreed. “We now have the keep in good repair, thanks to the people of Friar’s Hill, and can expand the everyday challenges of de Wylde’s outpost.”
“The villagers were not averse to our money,” Simon noted. “But the workmanship is sound and likely to last many years.”
The whinnies of horses and rumble of men’s voices mixed with the clatter and clang of bits and swords and spurs. The leader of the knights dismounted and strode to Simon.
“My lord, I am Sir Charlys of Greenthorne. My lord, Baron de Wylde, has placed me in charge of these men, and we are yours to command.”
Simon nodded gravely. “I am pleased to receive ye and your men at North Hall.” He tilted his head to his new steward. “Alane will see the accommodations are handled.”
Alane ducked his head and vanished into the melee in the yard.
Simon gestured into the hall. “A drink and mayhap a bite whilst they sort things out?”
Charlys grinned. “I knew I’d like it here.”
They settled at the upper table and a serving girl filled mugs with ale then placed a platter of assorted sliced meats and cheeses before them. With a bobbed curtsy, she scurried off.
“Any word from the baron?” Simon took a sip then settled back in his chair.
“He approves of your having sent men to assess the danger James Maxwell could be. He’s somewhat familiar with the father, Albert. Albert and his father, the clan chief, are from the same mold—harsh but reasonably fair—but word is the son is a brute.”
Simon frowned. “Then we shall double our guard to the north. I will not have him attacking the villagers again. Friar’s Hill may have a rough history between Scots and English, but we will give them as much protection as we can.”
“Ye are passionate about yer duty,” Charlys noted.
“As long as I am lord here, I will take the welfare of the people very seriously.”
Charlys nodded. “Fair enough. Keep the peace rather than burn out the problems.
”
Simon led Charlys through the daily workings of the keep. He at last turned Garin to a detailed discussion of the duty roster and took his leave, ready to be shed of the more formal tunic he’d donned to welcome the newcomers.
He opened the door to his chamber and came to a full stop. His eyes widened and after a brief hesitation, he stormed into the room.
Kaily spun about, apprehension and an attempt at cheerfulness warring in her eyes. She held a gown before her like a shield, gaze darting to the enormous pile of similar garments piled on the bed.
“Do . . . do ye like it?” She held the blue fabric beneath her chin and swayed a bit to one side. “I will have a chest brought up to store these in. The bed will be cleared by nightfall.”
“Ye will move the chest—and yer gowns—to another bedroom,” Simon growled. The sheer profusion of feminine garments draped over the room and his armor stand staggered him. He stalked the chamber, filching filmy, lacy articles of clothing from atop his chain mail and helmet. With a fist full, he approached Kaily.
“I did not bring ye here to set up in my rooms. I did not give ye permission to add yer accoutrements to mine. This was a temporary arrangement, not . . . .” He gestured about the room he scarcely recognized. “Not a bid for a wife.”
“Ye will not marry me?” Kaily shrieked. “I have sacrificed the past sennight, my reputation, and my virtue to a man who will not marry me?”
“Slightly longer than a sennight, and yer virtue was sacrificed to others long ago,” Simon growled.
“Ye are hateful!” she sobbed. She flounced onto the edge of the bed, raking the hem of her gown up the length of one shapely leg. Cutting a calculating look over her shoulder, she resumed her sobs, shielding her face behind her palms.
Simon hesitated. Kaily’s body was luscious—and he knew every inch of it. Was he truly sending her back to Berwyck Castle? Or simply reminding her of the boundaries of their relationship?
Kaily slid slowly off the bed. Her gown pooled in her lap, revealing her thighs, enticingly bare. Simon took a step forward. His breath deepened as his heartbeat kicked up a notch. He stared at all she offered then held out a hand. She placed her palm in his and he lifted her to her feet. Drawing her close, he kissed her cheek.
