by Cathy MacRae
“Do not make me hurt ye, little boy,” she snarled, leaning close.
Ewan butted her face with the top of his head and she cried out, losing her grip on his arm. Snatching free, Ewan darted past. With an angry grunt, the woman grabbed the back of his sleep tunic and jerked him against her side, wrapping her arm about his neck to pin him in place. He kicked and moaned but she held him tight as she tied his hands together then dragged him before her.
“I will send someone to kill your dog if ye do not behave.” Her voice fell to a wheedling whisper. “No one wishes to hurt ye, and ye could be back by supper if ye do as ye are told.” She straightened, hand on his shoulder, fingers gripping like talons.
“Will ye come quietly?”
Heart racing, eyes brimming with tears, Ewan shook his head.
With deliberate aim, he pissed on the bad woman’s skirts.
The faint pearled line around the narrow window told Iseabal dawn was near. She couldn’t remember being so content, so utterly boneless with the desire to remain abed and allow the world around her to continue without challenge or design. If she were a cat in the stable, she was certain the entire keep would hear her purr.
“Shall we wait until tomorrow for your sister to return with Ewan?”
Simon’s voice, deep with arousal from sleep and other activities they’d indulged in the long night, rolled over her, warm and honeyed. She glanced up, a curious mix of aye and nae crossing her tongue.
“I dinnae know what to say. I miss him terribly, yet find myself enjoying ye entirely too much.”
“’Tis impossible to enjoy me too much,” Simon teased, drawing a finger from the tip of her nose to bump lightly over the rise of her lips—a heated line over her chin and throat, changing to a full palm sliding across her breasts.
She sucked in a deep breath of pleasure. Simon kissed her lightly and rose from the bed.
“We could spend a night at Belwyck and return here on the morrow, in time for the wedding and Cook’s feast.”
Iseabal sighed. “I suppose ’tis time to act as there is aught more to life than lying abed, being waited on hand and foot.” She flung back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Interest flared instantly in Simon’s eyes.
“’Tisnae fair to restrict an active man like ye to a single room,” she murmured as she rose, leaving her robe to dangle from one hand, dragging the boards as she crossed the floor to kneel beside the wooden chest beneath the window. The fall of early morning sun’s rays across her shoulders was no accident, and she could almost hear Simon’s heartbeat double its pace from across the room.
She flung open the lid and grabbed the gown on top, deciding to take pity on her husband to be. For the nonce, at least.
“I’ll have hot water sent up,” Simon said, attempting to shove a leg into his breeches for the third time—and missing yet again. “If we leave within the hour, we should arrive at Belwyck before the noon meal.”
“I will be ready,” Iseabal assured him.
He at last yanked his breeches to his waist and fumbled with the laces. She smiled as he shrugged into his tunic and dropped a kiss to her forehead before slipping through the door. The latch caught with a snick.
Iseabal put together a bag of her belongings as she waited on her bath. She pinned up her hair, deciding to wait to wash it, knowing it would take too long to dry for them to be away in the hour, and knowing Marci would want to help her prepare for her wedding day. Tendrils damp from her ablutions clung to the back of her neck as she dressed, drying quickly in the heat from the hearth. She twisted a couple of locks about her forefinger, leaving them to curl on either side of her face.
Simon returned to the room moments later. “Ye are beautiful,” he murmured against her neck. “I am lucky to have found ye again.”
Iseabal faced him, stepping into his embrace. Her arms encircled his waist, hugging him close. “I am glad ye did.”
His cock rose between them and Iseabal smothered a smile as she stepped back. “Are ye ready to leave?”
He sent her a wry grin and a wink as he gathered a clean tunic from the chest and dumped it into her bag. Closing the drawstring, he flipped the bag over his shoulder. He held out his hand and Iseabal slipped her palm against his.
“I am now.”
Chapter Eighteen
Iseabal eyed the gathering clouds overhead. “How much farther?”
Simon glanced up, squinting his eyes. “An hour, mayhap more.” He tilted his head. “I’m very sorry, love, but I believe we’re going to get wet.”
Iseabal frowned, though she knew there was naught to be done. “The sky appeared promising this morn,” she noted. A shiver ruffled through her in anticipation of the rain to come.
Her mount snorted and shied at a dry leaf blown across the path. Iseabal gripped the saddle tight between her legs and patted the horse’s neck.
“Easy, Drue,” she murmured. “Ye’ll be in a dry stall anon. Dinnae fash at the wind.”
“She appears a bit flighty today,” Simon remarked. “Not at all like herself. Her name means courage in Greek.”
“Ye could have given her the Greek word for feardie and I’d not know the difference,” Iseabal laughed. The mare settled beneath Iseabal’s calming touch, her hoofbeats regaining their easy rhythm. She tossed her black mane, her dapple gray hide rippling across taut muscles, gleaming with health and power.
“She’s a beauty,” Iseabal said. “I love her long legs and the slope of her hocks which make her so easy to ride.”
“I thought the same of ye this morn.”
Iseabal’s neck and cheeks flamed. She didn’t need a bit of mirrored steel to know her face burned bright red. Uncertain whether she should be outraged or amused at Simon’s unexpected words, she bit her lip. Mirth won and she laughed. Men astride great war horses on either side glanced at her, too far away to have heard Simon’s banter. She hoped. Her face flamed hotter.
The sky darkened and she silently thanked the thickening clouds for covering her embarrassment. Yet a thrill of feminine power fluttered in her belly and she hid her small smile.
Dense woods rose ahead, branches swaying in the freshening wind.
“We may have a bit of shelter once we reach the trees.” Simon’s voice whipped away on a gust. Iseabal ducked her head against the first drops of rain. They urged their horses faster and entered the forest just as a crash of thunder announced the downpour. The road quickly became a morass of churned mud that spattered Iseabal’s skirts with every flick of her horse’s hooves.
She pulled the hood of her cloak further forward, shielding her face from the worst of the rain, and hunched forward to help drain the water pooling in the lap of her ruched skirts. Morning mists wound through the trees, giving reluctant way to the rain and the press of warm bodies breathing steam into the crisp air. A roll of thunder rumbled up the trail.
“To Iseabal!”
Simon snatched Iseabal’s horse’s reins, hauling both animals to a halt before the words were out of his mouth. Iseabal grabbed the saddle, jolting to one side at the sudden stop. Fear doubled the beat of her heart. Knights surrounded her and Simon, muscled horses and drawn blades forming a stout wall about them. Her stomach dropped.
More shouts and the clank of steel rose. Horses whinnied. Simon wrested his mount from the safety of his knights and rode to the head of the column of approaching riders where two mounted men awaited. A dog leapt against the restraint of his lead.
Hunters?
The gray veil of rain blurred the images, but there was a familiarity that struck Iseabal. She urged her mare as close as the surrounding knights and horses would permit. Could it be Lord de Wylde and Walter? Her gaze settled on the dog, his coat plastered to his sides, black with a bit of white at the neck.
Shep?
Simon’s heart missed a beat. He’d not sent word of their travel. Why would The Saint and Walter meet them on the road? With Ewan’s dog? A chill ran through him that had nothin
g to do with the cold rain.
Lord de Wylde wasted no words. “Your son is missing.”
Simon exhaled on a whoosh of air, his stomach twisting as if he’d received a physical blow. “When?”
“Not two hours past.”
“God’s bones. What happened?” Simon glanced quickly over his shoulder, making certain Iseabal was far enough away to not overhear them.
“Someone heard a ruckus coming from the boy’s room just before dawn. When they opened the door, the dog, which never leaves his side, leapt past. The barking woke everyone within hearing, including myself and Lady de Wylde. Our room is down the passageway from his.” Geoffrey nodded to the dog. “He’s led us here, apparently seeking Ewan.”
“Anything else ye can tell me?”
Geoffrey hesitated, exchanging looks with Walter. Shep barked, fighting against his leash.
My son is missing.
Simon withered the recalcitrant pair with a glance. “Anything!”
“Kaily is also gone.”
“Shite!”
“What is wrong?” Iseabal’s voice crossed the distance between them.
Dread gutted Simon. He wheeled his horse and spurred him to her side, Lord de Wylde and Walter at his heels.
“Ewan is missing. Shep will lead us to him.”
Pray God we’re not too late.
Iseabal whitened and swayed in her saddle.
“We will find him, my heart.”
Or die trying.
“I’m going with ye.”
Simon frowned. “Ye cannot keep up.”
Her eyes flashed. “Dinnae try to keep me from my son.”
“I want my money and a new gown. Look at what the brat did!”
The bad woman’s voice shook, growling deep and angry. Her grip tightened on Ewan’s arm.
“Hand the lad over.” A man with a scowl reached for Ewan. Ewan shrank back and the bad woman snatched him from the man’s grip.
“Not until ye give me the money ye promised. Ye’ll not have an easier way to get his ma than with him. But he’s caused me more trouble than he’s worth and I can take him back to Belwyck as easily as hand him over if ye think to cheat me.” She bumped Ewan aside, yanking her skirt from beneath his feet.
He stumbled, tears welling. His feet hurt, he was frightened, and he didn’t know where Shep was. Shep always helped him when he was scared, and the bad woman had shut him in the room and made him stay behind. Could he still be there?
He frowned to keep from crying. He was a big boy, and no matter what happened, he was not going to cry. His da would want him to be strong. He was strong, though he was also very tired. Ewan rubbed his face on his shoulder. His wrists hurt, too. He needed to pee again, but wasn’t certain he wanted to make the bad woman angrier.
Their voices grew louder. Ewan squinted. The man looked familiar, but he didn’t know his name. Only his angry voice made him remember the night his grandda died. He’d been an angry person, too.
Thunder rumbled and fat raindrops pelted Ewan’s hair. Chill bumps rose on his skin as the rain soaked through his tunic. The others huddled beneath their cloaks. Ewan shivered. A bead of water ran down his forehead and dripped from the end of his nose. He wanted his ma. When would his da come get him? Tears blended with the rain.
“Give the frowe what we owe her,” the man growled. He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers twitching.
A second man stepped close, a hand beneath his cloak. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the draped edge of the cloth. Ewan’s eyes widened. Before he realized what was happening, the man struck the woman in the belly, jerking his hand upward so hard her feet left the ground. He drew his fist back, steel winking like rain in the gloom. The woman crumpled to the mud and did not move.
Ewan whimpered, his gaze sliding to the first man who grinned with evil satisfaction.
“Stupid cow won’t need a new kirtle, now, will she?” He turned to Ewan and scowled. “Get this wee scunner bundled up and on a horse. ’Twould be unfortunate if he became feverish and died before I get his ma.”
The second man stepped toward Ewan. Ewan backed away, determined not to let him close enough to use his dagger as he’d done to the bad woman. His retreat met with something solid behind his back. It shifted as he touched it with his bound hands and he realized it was the leg of a horse. Ducking, Ewan slipped under the horse’s belly.
“Come, now, laddie,” the man wheedled. “Dinnae cause a stramash.”
Ewan stared at him, voiceless. The man grabbed the horse’s reins and hauled the beast to the side. The horse snorted and took a step backward. Ewan butted the horse’s side. The horse jerked his head against the pull of his reins, prancing at the abuse. One hoof landed on the man’s foot.
“Shite!” He shoved the horse away and advanced on Ewan, the glitter in his eyes promising punishment.
Ewan slid around the rear end of the horse, his shoulder against the animal’s quivering haunch. The man followed, slapping the horse’s butt to move him. Ewan drove his shoulder into the horse’s flank, misjudging his dive to escape beneath the horse’s belly. Ears flattened, the horse lashed out with a hind leg, his hoof catching the man mid-thigh. A sharp clap rang out. The man screeched and collapsed to the ground.
“Ye wick!” The first man rushed to his friend’s side and knelt in the mud. The injured man shrieked and arched his back, but he did not rise.
A dog barked.
Ewan whirled. He blinked his eyes against the rain and gloom and peered into the woods.
“Shep?”
A hand grabbed Ewan, twisting his arm, jarring his shoulder. He cried out at the pain.
“Yer ma will find a dead son when she comes for ye,” the man snarled as he dragged Ewan across the glen.
“No!” Ewan shouted. He twisted and struggled. Collapsing forced the man to drag him, but he did not stop. A dog’s growl rumbled. A whistling sound cleaved the air. Ewan’s captor released his grip and grasped his throat, a gurgling sound frothing from his lips.
“Ewan!”
He glanced up. Shep darted past to nose the man’s still form then returned to Ewan, prancing and barking with excitement. Ewan grabbed Shep’s fur and hugged the dog close.
“Ewan.” His da dismounted his horse and seized Ewan, pulling him close. Ewan sagged against him, feeling warm and safe. After a moment, his da drew back. “Are ye hurt?”
Ewan shook his head. Drawing a knife, his da cut the bindings on his wrists then lifted him in his arms. Ewan nestled his face against his da’s neck and hung on for dear life.
Simon buried his face against his son’s shoulder. A shudder ran through him.
My God. I thought I was too late. Grief, despair, anger, and anguish flooded him, weakening his arms and legs. What if he’d been an instant slower to arrive? Ewan’s captor had drawn his sword, two others lay dead or wounded on the ground. He’d not had time to think. What if his dagger had missed the villain’s throat? There had been no other target available.
Pain tore through his stomach, ripping upward, piercing his heart. He tightened his grip on Ewan.
I could have lost him forever.
Hands tugged at him. Simon turned his back to the person trying to take Ewan from him.
“Give me my son!”
Chapter Nineteen
Iseabal’s voice cut through Simon’s resistance and he pivoted to face her. Rain streaked her face like tears, her arms outstretched, demanding her child.
He is her child. She carried him, birthed him, and has raised him for more than four years without my help.
Ewan reached for his ma. Abruptly, Simon shoved the boy into Iseabal’s arms.
“Get them on a horse and to Belwyck!”
Knights hurried to their side, bustling Iseabal to her horse. Within a few moments, they were gone, the sound of hooves on the muddied ground a muted rumble.
“My lord, this man and woman are dead.” Sir Richard nodded to the third, some strides away. “He lives, t
hough his upper leg is shattered.”
Lord de Wylde stepped forward. “Throw him on a horse and get him to Belwyck. We will question him there.” He glanced at Simon. “Join me.”
He spun on his heel and mounted his horse. Surrounded by his personal guard, The Saint galloped from the clearing.
“My lord?” Sir Richard gave Simon a questioning look. “We await your orders.”
Still in a fog of uncertainty, Simon glanced about, his gaze lingering a moment on the man at his feet.
James Maxwell? He would know soon.
He moved to the damp pile of skirts, blonde hair darkened by the rain and sliding into the obscurity of the puddle surrounding her body.
Kaily.
Deciding he’d seen enough, he returned to his horse. “Let’s get out of here.”
Iseabal tightened the laces on her gown, then pulled the surcoat over her head. The beautiful blue wool, so soft it felt like velvet, belonged to Marci, and Iseabal appreciated both the warmth of the garment and of her sister’s spirit. Though she’d changed into clean, dry clothes, her center remained frozen with a cold no fire or cloak could thaw.
She couldn’t get enough of Ewan’s touches and glances, realizing he derived comfort from her presence. She could not let him out of her sight, rubbing him dry, dressing him in a sleep tunic, listening to his breathing as she wrapped him in a thick wool blanket. Marci had moved his belongings to a different chamber, understanding his likely reluctance to return to a room where his safety had been violated.
Aggie, wobbly from a blow to her head, had been discovered behind the privy screen in Ewan’s room and sent to a darkened chamber by order of the healer who set a lass to watch over her.
Marci gathered Iseabal’s hair and finger-combed it into sections. With practiced hands, she braided the locks. “I am so sorry, Izzy.”
