His to Keep: A Medieval Romance

by Sherrinda Ketchersid

  The Scot would be left standing. The victor.

  And in charge.

  She sprinted to the stairs and raced up to the solar. She rushed to the chest in the corner and pulled out a crossbow and bolt. Despite her trembling fingers, she tried to cock the bolt into place.

  Heavy footsteps sounded down the corridor, and she growled in frustration. The bolt finally clicked into place and she swung the bow around. The Scot came to a stop in the doorway, and she aimed the arrow at his heart.

  “Do not come further.” She held the weapon close to her chest as she tried to steady it in her trembling hands.

  Sir McGowan eased his sword arm down and held up his other hand. “I mean you no harm.”

  Claire snorted. “’Tis hard to believe. Men of your kind have no honor and think nothing of taking what they want.”

  “You judge me against whom?” He took a step forward.

  “I shall pull the trigger if you take one more step.” Claire gripped the bow tighter in her hands. She could pull the trigger, couldn’t she? She would not end up like her mother, used and discarded.

  Dead.

  Nay, she could and would pull the trigger if need be. Judging by the strength of his sword arm and the dispatching of her men, he would not give up.

  He stopped. “You know how this will end, do you not?” He blew out a breath, as if frustrated by her silence. “I ken you care not for the arrangement, but I will not waste time bargaining with the king for your release. I intend to claim all I’ve been given. You included.”

  He took a step, and she pulled on the trigger. It would not budge. She pressed harder, grunting with exertion. It released, throwing her off balance. The bow fell to the ground as she struggled to remain upright.

  Had she hit her mark? “Nay,” she breathed. The Scot stood, clutching his upper arm where the arrow must have grazed him.

  She was doomed.

  Chapter 3

  The red-haired wench actually pulled the trigger. Whether or not it was an accident, Ian admired her bravery, especially being an English woman. He pulled a bloody hand away from his arm and inspected the wound. ’Twas an insignificant scratch.

  Maid Beaumont scrambled to her feet and grabbed the bow with both hands. He lunged forward and seized her wrists; the crossbow clattered to the floor. He wrestled her toward the stone wall and then pinned her wrists on either side of her head. She twisted back and forth, struggling against him, then with one swift jerk, brought her knee to his groin.

  Ian grunted and fought for breath as bile crept up this throat. His grip on the lass loosened, and she renewed her efforts, kicking his shins in wild abandon.

  Phillip came to his side. “Shall I help you subdue the wench?”

  “Nay, if I canna quell her foul humors, I have no right commanding a castle.” By the saints, he was warrior, was he not?

  The lass growled and yanked at her wrists, still kicking. Ian tightened his grip and once again pinned her hands against the wall.

  “Cease, woman,” he growled. “You are no match for me.”

  “Filthy Scot!” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You may force yourself upon me, but I will fight to the very end.” She wrenched against him and screamed, her high-pitched wail piercing his ears.

  Ian gaped at her. She thought he would ravish her? He took a small step back and loosened his hold, though did not let her go. “I willna harm you, lass. While you are indeed lovely, I dinna care to steal your virtue.” He’d noticed her curves as he held her against the stone wall, but her demeanor thus far left little to be desired.

  Maid Beaumont stilled. Her brow furrowed, and she pursed her lips.

  Ian frowned. Distracting, those crimson lips were. “Do I have your word you will cease your fighting?”

  The lass glared. Finally, she nodded, her body relaxing within his hold.

  He released her hands and stepped away, cautious, waiting for another attack. She rubbed her wrists, her gaze never leaving his.

  Ian took another step back and spied two chairs in front of the fireplace. “Let us sit. We will talk, you and I.” He held out his hand.

  She slapped his hand away. “I need no help from a—”

  “I ken, I ken,” Ian muttered. “You need no help from a Scot.” He motioned to the chairs. Weariness numbed his body, and all he wanted was to sit down.

  Maid Beaumont hesitated, but with a huff and her chin held high, she acquiesced and perched on the edge of one of the chairs, her back straight, her hands clasped in her lap. Ian took a small log on the hearth and threw it onto the ebbing flames. The fire spit small sparks that flew about as the flames crackled to life.

  “You are dirtying my floor.” The lass pointed to drops of blood splattered on the rushes strewn over the wood plank floor.

  He clutched his arm, wincing at the sting. “Phillip, call for a servant, then guard the unconscious men.”

  “Aye.” Phillip left the room.

  Maid Beaumont gave a small laugh. “We are sadly lacking in help, as you can see by the state of the castle and its surroundings.” She shrugged. “We have a cook and a few other servants, but no personal attendants. I take care of my own needs.”

  “Then before we converse, show me where I may get water and dressing for my wound.”

  The lass dinna move. Her eyes, dancing emerald green in the firelight, took measure of him as he stood waiting.

  He resisted the urge to look away. “Shall you come with me, or shall I carry you?” Though he tried, he could not keep a smile from curving his lips as he imagined her ire rising to the forefront.

  She sprang from her chair. “If you touch me once more, you will regret it until your last breath. God have mercy upon your soul.”

  Ian doubted God cared anything for his soul, but he wouldna touch her. He did like the fire in her eyes, burning bright as the dancing flames in the grate behind him. She came alive when angered. “’Tis no doubt you would try, but ’twould be for naught. Though I daresay your attempt would give me good sport.”

  Her hand shot toward his face, and he caught it within his own. “You are fierce, but have a care.” He moved closer and she swallowed.

  Snatching her hand from his, she whirled around and strode out of the room.

  Ian shook his head and followed her. The taking of his castle proved more difficult than he had anticipated. ’Twas most unfortunate she hadn’t received word of his coming—or of their nuptials.

  What a muddled affair.

  He trailed down the stairs after her, finding Phillip at the bottom. “You found no servants?”

  Phillip shook his head.

  “No other guards have come?” Ian asked, glancing around the great hall.

  “Nay,” said Phillip, sheathing his sword. “’Tis only myself and the unconscious bodies we put down after your woman fled.”

  His woman. How odd those words would spawn a sense of possessiveness within him, especially for one who loathed his very presence. He shook his head and returned his attention to the task at hand. “So few guards. ’Tis disappointing.” Ian turned his attention toward Maid Beaumont, her mass of red hair waving behind her as she ran across the hall toward her men. She knelt by each one, checking for breath.

  “Not even your comrade killed any of my men.” Coming to her feet, Maid Beaumont faced him. “Not one.”

  “I dinna like to kill unless ’tis necessary, and Phillip follows my lead.” Ian walked toward her. “As Whitfield’s guards, they are part of my inheritance.”

  She cocked her head, her gaze searching his. After a moment, she turned and strode toward the kitchen door.

  “Tie up the men while I see what she is about,” said Ian to Phillip.

  “But they’re harmless as they are.”

  “’Tis the best time to tie them up. We shall release them after they swear fealty.” Ian hurried toward the kitchen, Phillip’s grumbling sounding in his ears.

  Ian caught up to Maid Beaumont as she strode through the kitchen and
took a torch set near the door. She headed down a back hallway and entered a storeroom. Jars of ointments and herbs lined the shelves of two walls, while another wall housed bedding and cloth. Moving to the room’s center, she lifted a basket from the table and filled it with herbs, salves, and bandages.

  “Thank you for seeing to my needs.” Ian’s arm throbbed, and he was ready to have it dressed and bound.

  The lass turned and arched a brow. “I intend to aid my men.” She reached into her basket and tossed him a roll of bandages. “You can tend to yourself.”

  Ian caught the rolled up linen strips. She pushed past him and left the room, taking the torch with her.

  He gritted his teeth. Headstrong woman!

  Now lord of the castle, he was in charge. He was finished being treated with contempt. He’d had a lifetime of it already. Ian ran after her down the corridor, grasped her by the arm and whipped her around.

  “Let me go!” She yanked her arm, but he tightened his grip.

  Ian’s pulse throbbed in his neck, his anger simmering. “You will—” He stopped himself. He’d never win her over with force. Not this headstrong lass. He let her go.

  “I will what?” The woman rubbed her arm.

  What was it about this lass that riled his anger? He was one to let troubles waft over him, accepting the bad with the good with nary a flinch. Yet, this woman had his blood boiling enough to cause him to hurt her arm. He wouldn’t let it happen again. He wouldn’t become his father.

  “Come. Let us see to your men.” He continued down the hallway, not looking to see if she followed. Her silence rang as loud as any battle cry, while her footsteps sounded a steady beat behind him.

  They gained the kitchen, where she collected a bucket of water.

  “I will carry it for you,” he said. Chivalry and kindness would win the day. He hoped. He took the container from her.

  The lass said not a word.

  Once in the great hall, she moved past him and knelt beside the closest guard laying on the ground. “Why are they bound? They cannot do you any harm.”

  “They will be released once they swear fealty.” He set the water next to her.

  “But this is unnecessary. I—”

  “’Tis only for a short while. Now see to your men.” He dinna want to argue with her, but he wouldn’t relent on this matter.

  The lass blew out a breath and began her work. She moved quickly, her fingers sure in their task. She spread salve over the man’s bloody lump and then wrapped a strip of cloth around his head.

  Phillip sidled up to Ian. “Are you going to stand there and watch her ministrations?”

  “Nay, I aim to help her.” Ian shrugged. As his former lord always said, “Chivalry is rarely convenient.”

  Phillip snorted. “You are daft.”

  Perhaps he was daft, but Ian knew that giving the woman aid might help him in his cause to soften the abrupt transition of the castle’s ownership. At least, he hoped ’twas the case.

  Kneeling beside the lass, he lifted the guard’s head from the floor so she could easily wrap the bandage around the wound.

  She paused and glanced up at him, a question in her eyes.

  “Continue your work. ’Twill go quicker with two.”

  The lass hesitated, then continued wrapping the guard’s head. They worked together until all the guards were tended and properly bandaged.

  Maid Beaumont set her basket on one of the dining tables. “Let me see your arm.”

  Ian’s gaze shot to her. Was she offering to bind his wound? He wouldn’t hesitate and give her cause to retract her offer. He shrugged out of his tunic.

  “Nay, leave your shirt on.”

  “How do you propose to bind my arm with my shirt on?”

  Claire frowned. “Push your sleeve up.”

  “’Tis too tight to push that far up my arm.”

  “Then pull your arm out and leave the shirt on to cover the rest of you.” Her cheeks bloomed a rosy hue.

  Surprised by her delicate sensibilities regarding his dress, or lack thereof, he freed his arm from his shirt. Claire slanted a look, then quickly glanced away. She reached for the crock of ointment but knocked it over in her haste. Its contents spilled onto the table.

  “Let me help.” Ian moved closer, reaching across with his good arm.

  “Nay! Sit on the bench and be still.” She worked fast, collecting the ointment before it flowed off the table.

  Ian sat and waited while she readied the salve and dressing. Faint light streamed in from the few upper windows. “Where are your servants this morn? Shouldn’t they be preparing the morning meal?”

  “I’m sure they are still in hiding from the skirmish.” The lass grabbed a cloth from her basket, dipped it in water, and wrung out the excess. She washed off the dried blood caked down to his fingers.

  “I only counted eight guards in the hall. Are there more?”

  “Nay.” Her lips tightened into a thin line.

  “I reckoned not. At least I hoped not, for that would mean some were in hiding like the servants.”

  The lass swiped at his wound harder, and Ian winced. Perhaps he should change the subject.

  “How long have you lived at Whitfield?”

  “I was taken in eleven years ago when I was but ten years old.” Her face revealed no emotion, just a blank, milky canvas with a faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

  “What happened to your sire and mother?” He doubted she would answer, but he wanted to know.

  Claire set down the rag and looked him in the eye. “They were murdered while we traveled close to Scotland’s border.”

  Ian heard the hard edge in her voice. “Scots killed them, aye?”

  The muscle under her eye twitched. “Aye.”

  Compassion and regret coursed through Ian. ’Twas no wonder she wanted nothing to do with him. “’Tis sorry, I am.” Without thought, he reached out a hand to cover her own resting on the table.

  She yanked her hand away. “I do not need your pity.”

  Ian said no more. He watched as she applied the grainy salve and wrapped the binding around his arm. Though her mouth was small, her pink-tinged lips were full, like the bud of a rose about to open. The lashes surrounding her large eyes were darker than the fiery mane of curls playing about her face.

  She glanced up at him while cutting a piece of binding. “What do you find so humorous?”

  Humorous? Was he smiling? Pulling his own face into a frown, he shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Hmm.” She pulled the ends of the binding tight.

  Ian winced and sucked in a breath. “Have a care, lass.”

  “’Tis only a scratch, aye?” She returned the supplies to the basket.

  Ian grunted in reply. She spoke truth. ’Twas only a slight wound, but it still pained him. He slipped his arm back into his shirt. “Thank you.”

  Basket in hand, she faced him. “You’re thanking me for doing what you wanted to force me to do?”

  “Aye, but I thank you all the same.”

  The lass presented her back to him and returned to a guard awakening from unconsciousness.

  Phillip came to his side and whispered, “I don’t trust the woman.”

  “Aye, we must be prudent. She is a wily one, but she is my betrothed.” Had his family known of Maid Beaumont’s temperament? ’Twas obvious his family had passed this inheritance off in jest. They had to have known of the keep’s condition or of the woman within. Had they assumed he would take on the challenge or refuse it as they had? They had never thought him capable of anything worthy.

  Ian pushed his shoulders back. He would prove them wrong. He didn’t know how, but he would show them he was able. First, he must find the hidden servants and put them to work in the kitchen. He was famished.

  Claire readjusted the bandage wrapped around Simon’s hand and wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve. All of the men had regained consciousness and now sat on benches at the dining tables near t
he dais, still bound at the wrists.

  “What is the plan, Maid Claire?” The wizened guard before her leaned close, whispering the words. His mail hung from his thin frame, while his hair, peppered with gray, clung to his sweaty head.

  Claire winced. That Simon had enough faith in her to inquire about a plan spoke to his loyalty. Would that she had a way to kick the Scot and his man out of the castle—out of their lives. “Alas, I have no plan other than to do what the Scot says until I can think of an idea. With the letter from the Scottish king, ’twould seem I am bound. My only defense is that I haven’t received word from King John. But it appears as if both kings are in agreement regarding marriage to Sir McGowan.”

  “So we are to serve the Scot?” Ralph, a middle-aged guard of wide girth, shook his head, his jowls quivering.

  “Aye. For now.” Claire’s thoughts careened in various directions, trying to discern a way to plead with the king. Could she take one of the guards, flee the castle, and gain an audience with King John? She was not a titled lady; her father was but a distant cousin of Lord Whitfield’s wife. Perhaps her insignificance would tempt the king to give her the freedom to practice a trade as healer or serve elsewhere—anything but marry the Scot.

  Claire glanced over her shoulder at the Scot’s man—Phillip, the Scot called him. He stood near the door leading to the bailey, watching them as his hand rested on the sword belted around his waist.

  She turned back to the guards and lowered her voice. “At the end of the day, after the castle is asleep, I will take Ralph and head to London. I shall beseech the king to release me from the marriage. ’Tis the only thing I know to do.”

  “We can find work elsewhere once we know you are taken care of,” said Simon. The other guards nodded.

  The corner of Claire’s mouth lifted. Though she doubted any castle of size would take on some of her old, physically lacking group of guards, she loved them for their care over her. “So you will help me escape tonight under cover of darkness?”

  The men nodded once again.

  “Here comes our keeper,” whispered Ralph, nodding toward Phillip.

  Claire stood, picked up her basket and faced the man. “Do you require something?”