by Regan Walker
“There!” Claire gestured to several fallen trees and an old stump, its side cracked from weathering.
Surely the baby wasn’t in there?
“Go look. Hurry.” Light gleamed on Claire’s dagger as she glanced both ways down the forest road. “I will shout if anyone approaches.”
A sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, Mary left the road and hurried across ground covered by sodden leaves and fallen twigs. She approached the stump, set her hand on the edge of the rough, hollowed-out wood, and peered in.
A woven willow basket with handles lay inside.
In it was a squalling baby, wrapped in a downy white blanket.
Holden blocked the mercenary’s strike with his sword. Pain pounded inside Holden’s skull, but he wouldn’t succumb to discomfort or dizziness. He had a duty to protect Norwin, his nephew—and to find out who had ordered today’s attack.
The mercenary wrenched his weapon free. Holden whipped his blade back and with a harsh grunt, struck again.
Clang. Clang.
The assault hadn’t been a random attack. His sister Odette’s concerns hadn’t been unfounded, or the irrational worrying of a new mother for her firstborn, as some folk had insisted. Someone had been trying to steal her child, the son born four months ago to her and Penley, her lord husband, the ruler of Altingstow Keep.
Two mercenaries on horseback had taken up pursuit shortly after Holden had ridden away from the fortress. He’d arranged for a maidservant’s babe to pose as Norwin and had joined a group of folk who had just paid their rents and were returning home. Somehow, the thugs had known he was disguised as a peasant, and that he’d left with the young heir in a basket secured to his horse’s saddle and hidden by a blanket.
The mercenaries had chased him into the forest. Another two had been waiting.
They’d taken advantage of the fact Holden was limited in how he could fight with Norwin so close to him. They’d pulled Holden off his destrier; he’d hit his head falling onto the road. But, he’d scrambled to his feet, for he’d brought down men on horses before.
After a brief skirmish, in which he’d pulled one of the mercenaries off his mount, the other three thugs had fled, likely to get reinforcements. They’d taken Holden’s destrier and the other lout’s horse with them.
Holden had rendered the thug unconscious. After taking Norwin to a safe place, Holden had returned to wake and wrest answers from the mercenary, but the lout had already roused.
He’d obviously intended to fulfill whatever agreement had been made, for he’d resumed his attack.
Holden’s jaw clenched as he thrust and slashed with his sword, for he’d not relent until the mercenary surrendered. With brutal strikes, he drove the lout backward onto the weed-choked verge.
The thug counterattacked, and Holden lunged sideways. His head spun; he barely missed tripping on a tree root.
He would not lose this fight. He would not fail Odette, as he had others in his life.
Especially Mary Westbrook.
Holden forced the mercenary back toward trees.
Clang. Clang.
The lout’s heel slid into the hole left by an uprooted sapling. He grimaced, his arms flying wide for an instant, and Holden barreled into him, propelling him back into a tree trunk. As the thug’s breath expelled on a grunt, Holden slammed the hilt of his sword into his head. The mercenary crumpled to the forest floor.
Breathing hard, Holden stepped away, barely resisting the urge to bend over and vomit. He retrieved his saddlebag lying by the side of the road, pulled out a leather cord, bound the mercenary’s hands behind him and then to the trunk.
Dizziness taunted Holden again. A humming noise filled his mind and threatened to overwhelm him.
He must not collapse. He had to get Norwin to Branton Keep.
As he wiped his face on his cloak sleeve, he heard the boy wailing. Had he been crying before? Holden hadn’t noticed.
He went still, for he also heard voices.
Women’s voices.
Eyes narrowing, he headed toward the noise.
“What do you see?” Claire, sounding impatient, asked from the road.
“A basket, with a babe in it.” Mary frowned. “The blanket covering the infant is of fine quality. So is the basket.”
“The child is not common-born, then.”
“I do think so.”
Claire glanced both ways down the road again. “Can you pick up the basket by yourself?”
“Aye.” Mary sheathed her dagger and cooed to the baby, “’Tis going to be all right, I promise.”
A squeamish inner voice cried that if she leaned down into the stump, beetles and spiders living in it could get in her hair and clothes. She struggled to ignore the qualms. Courage, remember?
Mary leaned over the edge of the stump, caught hold of the basket’s handles, and pulled it up and out of the hollow. Trying not to jostle the infant, she clutched the basket to her chest and returned to Claire’s side.
Her friend glanced down at the child, who stopped crying to return her gaze. “What a beautiful babe. Look at those striking eyes.”
Mary had seen eyes that bright and blue before. She swiftly pushed aside the memory of Holden.
Pulling Mary to a walk, Claire said, “We will go straight to the castle. Once there, we will send a message to the sheriff—”
“Listen.” The fine hairs on Mary’s nape prickled.
“What—?” Claire’s eyes widened. “No clashing of swords.”
They both quickened their strides.
The snapping of branches sounded from the verge behind them. Someone was emerging from the forest.
“Run,” Claire cried.
Mary tried, but ’twas difficult to move fast with the basket bumping against her. She stumbled, and the baby screeched.
Footfalls thudded on the road behind them.
“Hold,” a male voice commanded.
Mary shivered, for the voice seemed vaguely familiar, but her instincts cried ‘danger.’
“Go, Claire.” Mary gestured in the direction of the town. “Get help.”
Claire halted and spun around, her dagger poised for attack. “I am not leaving you.”
“But—”
“I am staying. Help!” Claire screamed.
“Quiet,” the man snapped, very close behind Mary now.
Claire screamed again.
“Bloody hell,” the man muttered. Steel pressed to Mary’s back. “I said, quiet.”
Mary took small, shallow breaths. One foolish move—even an anxious twitch—and the blade could cut through her garments to her skin. Shocked and bleeding, she might drop the basket, causing the babe to tumble onto the ground. She didn’t want the child to be hurt.
Should she say the man’s voice seemed familiar to her? Should she ask where they might have met before? He’d told her and Claire to be quiet, though, and ’twas impossible to know how he would react if she disobeyed.
“No more screaming,” the man warned, “or I will use my sword on your friend.”
Panic shrilled inside Mary. Yet, while Claire had fallen silent, she hadn’t lowered her dagger. Her frosty gaze remained on the man beyond Mary’s range of vision.
“You will lower your weapon and let us go,” Claire said.
Oh, Claire! Beware. Please.
“I do not take orders from you, milady.”
He’d recognized from Claire’s garments that she was a noblewoman. No doubt he’d guessed the same about her.
What did he want from them? Would he release them? He might have more ghastly intentions.
Have courage. Claire is not cowering to this man. Neither should you.
“You will obey me,” Claire said evenly, “because Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau is my father-in-law.”
“Is that so?” Doubt tinged the man’s voice.
“Aye. He rules all of Moydenshire, including this land on which we stand.”
“You are the wife of his son, Edouard?�
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“Nay, I am Tye’s wife.” When the man made a sound of astonishment, she added, “You will let us go, unless you wish to answer to both my husband and Lord de Lanceau. I promise you, neither will respond kindly when they learn how you treated us this day.”
“Milady—”
“By delaying us, you are endangering the babe we found in these woods. The child is hungry, cold, and needs care right away. So, you will lower your sword. Now.”
The man muttered under his breath, but then the sword moved away from Mary’s back. Thank God. Mary exhaled a shaky sigh of relief.
“You, with the dark hair,” the man said. “Turn around.”
Mary trembled. “W-why?”
“I will not ask twice.”
“You do not have to heed him,” Claire said, but the man’s tone had held such fierceness. Moreover, Mary needed to look upon him, to recall when and where she’d met him before.
She slowly faced him, the basket now between them. Thankfully, his sword wasn’t pointed at her, but at the verge to his right.
Their gazes met. His unflinching stare seemed to cut straight to the most fragile parts of her soul.
His eyes were blue; the same cool, astonishing hue as the baby’s.
A clammy sweat broke upon her skin, for the man—a hardened warrior—looked naught like the gangly lad of her memories. Could he be Holden? He appeared to be about the age Holden would be now.
As boughs stirred overhead, sunlight dappled his dark-brown, shoulder-length hair and gray woolen cloak. Judging by his broad shoulders and authoritative stance, he’d fought for most of his life, mayhap even commanded soldiers in battle. He certainly had the voice for ordering men about.
As though he’d read her thoughts, a muscle ticked in his jaw, drawing her attention to the sweat glistening on his face and the blood at his hairline. He also had a scar, as long as her smallest finger, splicing through his left eyebrow. This man looked like a seasoned knight who had just won a swordfight. And yet, his cloak was of common style and cloth, and he didn’t wear spurs at the heels of his boots.
His attention shifted to Claire. “Prove you are who you said you are.”
“I am a lady of my word—”
“Proof,” the man insisted.
Now standing beside Mary, Claire said, “We are not handing this babe over to you.”
“I will take him from you, then.”
“Him?” Claire asked. “’Tis a boy?”
The man nodded once then swayed slightly, as though the ground had shifted beneath him.
“Are you his father?” asked Claire.
“Nay, I am—” Grimacing, the warrior set his free hand to his head and swayed again.
Either Mary’s eyes were tricking her, or he’d gone pale.
He hissed a breath, and his sword listed toward the road. “Give me the boy. I must…protect—”
“You are not in any state to protect anyone.” Claire frowned. “Did you know your head is bleeding?”
He blinked hard. “Give me….”
Grabbing Mary’s arm, Claire pulled her backward. “He is going to faint.”
The man groaned. His eyes slid closed. With a clang, the sword dropped from his hand.
His legs buckled, and he landed face down on the road.
Chapter 5
Coldness seeped into Holden’s awakening consciousness.
Pain.
The sensations were interwoven with the darkness blanketing his mind. As the blackness began to lift, the discomfort sharpened in focus.
The pain was in his head. The coldness: his arse and legs. His eyes still closed, he vaguely remembered confronting two ladies and then the woods around him blurring.
He also recalled waking earlier with his cheek against moldering leaves, only to be plunged once again into oblivion.
Men were talking nearby. Warning tingled in the back of his mind, for he didn’t recognize any of the voices.
Norwin…. He didn’t hear the baby crying. Had someone taken him away?
Holden fought a surge of panic and drew a slow, measured breath. Judging by the earthy smells around him, he was still in the forest. He was sitting propped against a tree trunk. His hands rested on damp ground.
Mayhap the mercenaries had returned with reinforcements, not only to rescue their colleague he’d subdued, but to capture him and Norwin. They might have found Holden lying on the road. Once he’d roused, the thugs could well intend to beat or torture him.
Another possibility: the blond lady had fetched her husband. If so, Tye might be waiting for Holden to wake before beating him senseless.
Not favorable options either way.
“He is awake,” a man said close by. “Pretending not to be, but awake.”
“At last,” another male muttered. “Do not render him senseless again. We need answers.”
Holden didn’t open his eyes or move. He must wait until he could slip away unnoticed, or saw good odds for fighting like hell to escape. They couldn’t know for certain that he was awake unless he betrayed himself—
Cold steel touched his throat.
Holden’s eyes flew open.
“I was right.”
As the sword eased slightly away from Holden’s skin, he reached for his dagger.
“Do not bother. I took your weapons,” the man said, sounding smug.
Frustration and wariness churning inside him, Holden fought his merciless headache and studied the man wielding the sword. The lout wore his shoulder-length, dark-brown hair tied back with a strip of leather. While Holden discerned he wasn’t a mercenary, his nose had clearly been broken a few times before. He was without doubt an experienced warrior.
Beside him was a second man, also a warrior. The two men bore a resemblance; so much so, they had to be brothers.
More voices drew Holden’s gaze to the handful of guards and horses a short distance away on the road. He recognized the blond man: Aldwin Treynarde, once a squire to de Lanceau and a legendary crossbowman. Years ago, he’d taught Holden and his colleagues how to use the powerful weapon.
There was no sign of the ladies or the basket holding Norwin. If Holden had lost his nephew—
“If you are looking for my wife, she is far from here.”
Anger had crackled in the dark-haired man’s voice. Holden resolved to proceed with care, for both of the women he’d met earlier could have been married, although he suspected the lout with the sword was Claire’s spouse, Tye. “Your wife?” he asked.
“The feisty blonde.”
“I remember her.” In truth, though, not as well as he remembered her curvaceous friend. He hadn’t learned her name, but she’d reminded him of a lady he’d known years ago.
“If you had hurt Claire, or if you still think about harming her, I swear, I—”
“All right, Tye,” the other man said.
So the man brandishing the sword was Tye.
“All right? He threatened Claire, Brother.”
“As you are threatening me now,” Holden noted, while silently acknowledging the information he’d just gleaned: The two men were indeed siblings. They must be de Lanceau’s sons.
Tye’s lips curved in a ruthless smile. “I assure you, I can do far worse than point a sword at you. Therefore, you will answer all of our questions with the truth. If you do not….” He shrugged in a manner that suggested all kinds of unpleasantness would happen.
Edouard sighed. “I think he understands his dilemma well enough.” He set his gloved palm to the center of his chest. “I am Edouard, son and heir of Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau. This is my half-brother, Tye.”
“As I had guessed.” Holden thought to dip his head, at least attempt chivalry in the presence of such important men, but Tye’s sword was still perilously close to his neck. “’Tis an honor to meet you, milords.”
“And you are?” Edouard asked.
“Holden Kendall, captain-of-the-guard at Altingstow Keep.”
“Altingstow.” The d
e Lanceau heir exchanged a glance with Tye, as though they’d heard unsettling news about the fortress. Did they know of the threat to kidnap Norwin? “What prompted you to travel this road today?”
“I was on my way to Branton Keep.”
“Father did not tell us he was expecting you,” Tye said.
“’Twas an unplanned visit.”
“Unplanned?” Edouard echoed. “Why?”
Holden gritted his teeth. He’d rather not discuss the matter out in the open, where others could overhear.
Tye’s sword pressed to Holden’s skin again. “I believe I told you to answer our questions.”
“With all due respect, I am not a commoner or a criminal, but one of your noble peers,” Holden answered hotly. “Do you treat all fellow knights with such contempt?”
Tye’s lip curled. “You threatened my wife.”
“For that, I apologize—”
“As well you should,” Tye growled. “But, I am not the one who deserves your apology.”
“If you are a knight,” Edouard said, drawing Holden’s attention back to him, “why do you not wear spurs? Why are you dressed as a peasant?”
Reasonable questions. As sons of the area’s ruler, Tye and Edouard were owed some kind of explanation. “I wanted to leave the fortress undetected.”
“Undetected? Why—?”
“I will tell you all, but not here.” Concern weighed upon Holden. “The babe. Where is he?”
“Safe,” Edouard said. “The ladies returned to Branton Keep and took the infant with them.”
Holden exhaled a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
“The babe,” Edouard said. “’Tis yours?”
“Nay, my sister’s. Her husband, Penley Fielding, is lord of Altingstow.”
“I see. Well, I look forward to hearing more, when we are in a place that you can speak freely. In the meantime, what can you tell us of him?” Edouard pointed to the road. The mercenary, sullen and surrounded by armed guards, was approaching the other men-at-arms.
Rage boiled in Holden’s blood. “Someone hired him and his colleagues to attack me once I left the castle. I had intended to question him. I would still like to do so.”
