by Tarah Scott
“God’s avenging angel,” Andreana said.
Rhoslyn looked sharply at her. “What?”
Andreana stared at the men ahead. “Sir Talbot. I have never seen the like. When he notched his bow...”
“Not a hint of emotion moved on his face,” Lady Isobel finished for her. “He has ice in his veins.”
It did seem as though he was made of ice. Rhoslyn recalled how he stood forty feet away. Too far to reach her before the boar. Close enough for her to discern the intense concentration in his expression—and the determination. A contrast to the fury that had flashed in his eyes when he’d rammed his fist into Jacobus’s belly after the young man laid his hand on his sword hilt. But St. Claire hadn’t let his anger control him even then. The dispassionate tone of his voice had belied the flash of his eyes.
“The tales of his skill as a hunter didna’ do him justice,” Isobel said. “All three of his arrows found their mark.”
Rhoslyn looked at her. “The three arrows that felled the boar were St. Claire’s?”
“Aye,” Andreana said. “Ye ran in an erratic line. As I said, the archers and spearmen couldna’ shoot for fear of hitting you.”
“Some did shoot,” Rhoslyn said. “I saw the arrows, and a spear.”
Andreana nodded. “But if you hadna’ been in the way, they could have felled the boar with a dozen arrows. It is fortunate Sir Talbot stood beside the horses. He had a clear vantage point.”
“The man isna’ human,” Lady Isobel said.
Isobel’s voice held a hint of fear, but interest lit her eyes. Rhoslyn turned her face away in disgust. Only last night St. Claire had saved Isobel just as he had her. Maybe that gave Isobel reason to think he wanted her. Though he had immediately deposited her onto a chair and tried to disentangle himself. But then, all their guests looked on. To have settled Isobel on his lap would have been a direct insult to Rhoslyn.
She was fooling herself. Men seldom turned from a beautiful woman’s attentions. Alec hadn’t kept a mistress, but he was no young man. He had been good to Rhoslyn, attentive and caring, but his passion had diminished greatly over the years. St. Claire, on the other hand, was clearly a passionate man. Though he had made no attempt to bed her yet. Why?
Rhoslyn cast a furtive glance at Isobel. Her eyes remained on St. Claire’s back. Rhoslyn would wager a full harvest that the woman was envisioning the glow of firelight off his naked body, slick with sweat after making love to her. His large hand slid along her ribs to the curve of her waist then hip. Rhoslyn’s pulse skipped a beat when his fingers brushed her thigh, then traced a line upward to the curls between her legs.
Mortification jarred her from the fantasy. Sweet Jesu, how had her mind gone from knowing what Lady Isobel was thinking to seeing her own naked body pressed against St. Claire’s arousal? A strange emotion flitted across her insides and she found herself even more disturbed by the desire that stirred between her legs.
She swallowed against a dry throat. He was exceedingly handsome. She didn’t half blame Isobel for lusting after him. No doubt, most women did. But he had sworn fealty to a king who intended to rule Scotland by the might of knights like him. He was, in fact, Scotland’s devil, the enemy that would destroy them from within. How much easier it would be to hate him if angry horns jutted from his head, and his eyes blazed red with hellfire. Nay, she added after conjuring the image. Even as a demon he would be beautiful.
Rhoslyn’s attention snapped onto St. Claire when he reached for his sword. The snap of a twig beneath horses’ hooves sounded within the trees. The scrape of steel followed as the guardsmen drew their swords. Riders shot out from the trees on both sides of the road. St. Claire released his sword hilt, deftly unslung his bow, and pulled an arrow from the quill strapped to his saddle.
In an instant, Rhoslyn counted twelve men, swords drawn. Half a dozen of St. Claire’s guardsmen broke from the circle and met their attackers head on. The remaining nine men closed ranks so closely around them that Rhoslyn was forced to keep a tight rein on her horse to prevent it from shying. Andreana’s horse gave a shrill cry and started to rear. Rhoslyn seized the reins and yanked them downward.
“Hold her steady,” Rhoslyn ordered as steel rang against steel.
An arrow flew from St. Claire’s bow. The arrow found its target even as a second arrow flew, then another. Rhoslyn’s heart thundered. All three arrows felled an enemy. An enemy warrior notched an arrow for a shot at St. Claire.
“St. Claire!” Rhoslyn shouted, but he had already turned, another arrow pointed, and let the shaft fly.
The man’s arrow flew through the air, missed St. Claire, and sailed past. A attacker reached him. A scream stuck in Rhoslyn’s throat when the man swung his sword toward St. Claire’s head. St. Claire yanked his sword free of its scabbard in time to block the blow. He parried, his blade moving in a blur as he drove the man back. Suddenly, he kicked his horse forward. The animal lunged and Talbot drove his sword through the man’s belly.
Her heart leapt into her throat when another enemy warrior shot past him, sword swinging. St. Claire wheeled his horse around so quickly that Rhoslyn could scarce believe it when he thrust the blade through the man’s back.
Andreana screamed. Rhoslyn jerked her gaze onto her. A nearby guardsman fell from his steed as an enemy warrior yanked his sword from the man’s neck. The man who had killed him charged the guards nearest Rhoslyn. Another barreled down on them to her left where Andreana sat atop her horse.
Rhoslyn’s heart pounded. The guardsman surrounding them edged closer to the three of them. The double attack was sure to break their line of defense and she, Andreana, and Isobel would be vulnerable. Sweet God, why hadn’t she brought a dirk? She hadn’t thought with all the men St. Claire brought that she would need a weapon.
“Lady Isobel,” Rhoslyn said. “Have ye a dagger?”
“If I had a dagger I would kill at least one of those bastards.”
The men reached them and two of the guardsmen met their steel with ferocious swings of their swords. One of St. Claire’s men landed a blow to his opponent’s neck that sent the man flying to the ground. Hope surged through Rhoslyn, but in the next instant, another half dozen enemy riders poured from the trees. She glanced at Andreana. Her step-daughter stared wild-eyed with fear. One of the riders bore down on them. Rhoslyn scanned the road. The fighting surrounded them. They wouldn’t ride ten feet before an enemy caught them, but they had to try.
“Ride!” Rhoslyn hissed.
Lady Isobel gave a sharp nod.
Rhoslyn tightened her grip on the reins. “Andreana,” she began, then broke off when St. Claire shot into view, sword raised.
One of the men bearing down on them jerked his head in St. Claire’s direction, but too late. St. Claire swung his sword and slit his throat in one clean cut. Blood spurted across his arm in the instant before the man toppled from his horse.
“Sweet Mother of God,” Isobel breathed.
St. Claire turned his horse, leaned forward in the saddle and galloped after the second rider. The man glanced over his shoulder, then veered right, narrowly missed two fighters and headed toward the trees.
Rhoslyn’s horse sidestepped, bumping Andreana’s horse. Rhoslyn tightened her grip on the reins, her gaze fixed on St. Claire as he swung his sword in an arc that caught an enemy warrior across his back. The man’s scream rose above the clash of swords. Her heart raced. The rumors of St. Claire’s ruthlessness in battle were true—and more. Ice did flow through his veins.
He whirled his horse toward one of the guards who was losing ground to his opponent, reached the fighters, and drove his sword through the attacker’s ribs. The man’s head snapped around and he slashed at St. Claire’s midsection St. Claire’s sword descended upon the man’s wrist, severing his hand.
“We must ride,” Rhoslyn shouted.
St. Claire’s horse skittered aside, and St. Claire turned him full circle. “Rhoslyn,” he shouted, “stay here. Others may be waiting in
ambush.” He whirled back to the fight.
Panic caused her heart to race. St. Claire felled another warrior, then another. Rhoslyn gasped when one of the enemy landed a blow on his arm. St. Claire jabbed with his blade, piercing the man’s mail. The warrior retreated, tried to parry St. Claire’s assault, then wheeled his horse and raced down the road.
St. Claire shot past one of his warriors and drove a fist into the side of his opponent’s face as he raced by. An enemy warrior dashed through an opening between their guardsmen and Andreana. She shrieked. Lady Isobel forced her horse up beside them and lashed at the man’s face with her reins. He backhanded her across the cheek. She jerked to the side, but stayed on the saddle.
Rhoslyn kicked her mount’s ribs and the palfrey lunged forward. She did as Isobel had and lashed her reins across the man’s face as he grabbed Andreana’s arm. One of their guardsmen whirled and plunged into the circle and slashed at the man’s face with his sword.
A hand seized her arm and yanked. Rhoslyn’s grip on her pommel slipped. She snapped the reins across her attacker’s face. The leather cracked like a whip and blood sprang up in a line across one cheek and eye. He howled, and his grip loosened.
Rhoslyn kicked her horse’s belly and the beast lunged forward. She dodged left to avoid one guardsman, but slammed into an enemy’s horse. Rhoslyn jarred, and began falling from the saddle, but hung on. The enemy warrior retreated in his parry against one of the guardsman, and the guardsman drove his sword into the man’s neck. She turned her horse around and gasped when another man came up behind Andreana and grabbed her.
“Andreana,” Rhoslyn shouted.
St. Claire shot into view, sword slicing across the back of the man’s neck. The man toppled to the ground and seconds later, the last of the enemy raced away from them.
Andreana burst into tears. Rhoslyn urged her horse past the guard, dismounted, and helped her from her horse. The girl collapsed into her arms. She held Andreana close while Isobel knelt beside one of St. Claire’s men.
Rhoslyn glanced around at the fallen men. At least two dozen of the enemy lay dead or wounded. Not wounded, she realized. If any of the fallen men lived, it would be nothing short of a miracle.
* * *
When Rhoslyn entered their private solar, Talbot shifted his attention from Seward. The shock had disappeared from her expression, but her eyes were drawn at the corners. Seward stood, and she crossed to him without a word and nearly fell into his embrace.
“Stay strong, lass,” he said after a moment.
She nodded and pulled back. He led her to the bench near the fire where Talbot stood and they sat together.
“Did the hunt fare well?” she asked.
“Lord Kinnon shot a deer,” Seward replied. “And there is the boar. Mistress Muira is looking forward to carving him up.”
Rhoslyn gave a small smile. “’Tis a shame ye lost your wager with St. Claire.”
Seward cut him a glance. “Your life is worth the loss of my sword.”
“I did not win the sword fairly,” Talbot said. “We will save the wager for another day.”
Rhoslyn looked at him. “How far do ye think your brother is willing to go in order to have me?”
“As far as he has to. Today is yet another example of that.”
She nodded, but her eyes flicked from his and he knew she wasn’t certain Dayton was responsible for today’s attack. She believed—or at least wondered—if Duncan was responsible.
Anger had radiated off Duncan in waves last night—anger and the sense that he’d been cheated out of what was rightfully his—Lady Rhoslyn included. But would he stage an attack? Talbot suspected Duncan would take a more direct and easier approach. Poison, a knife in the back, maybe. It took money to induce men to risk their lives. Two dozen skilled warriors wouldn’t come cheap. Their attackers wore breeches, which made Talbot suspect they’d come from Stonehaven. More oft than not, the locals near Castle Glenbarr wore Highland kilts. The evidence pointed at Dayton. But Talbot had learned even the greatest fool could be dangerous.
“St. Claire and I think it is best if ye stay at Castle Glenbarr until we catch his brother,” Seward said.
“What?” Rhoslyn cut her gaze to Talbot. “That could be months, maybe longer.”
“He will not wait long before striking,” Talbot said.
“I will no’ be a prisoner in my own home.”
“I will catch him.”
“What if he was no’ behind the attack?” she asked.
“Who else could it be?”
She hesitated.
“Perhaps your cousin?” he asked.
“Duncan?” she blurted.
“Why would Duncan attack you?” Seward asked.
“Ask your granddaughter,” Talbot said.
The old man frowned. “What is this about, Rhoslyn?”
“He is angry St. Claire forced him to leave Castle Glenbarr.”
“Duncan can be an ass,” Seward said, “but he isna’ capable of orchestrating such an attack.”
“You know your kin better than me,” Talbot said. “But to rule out other possibilities when nothing is known is a fool’s mistake.”
Seward snorted. “It isna’ that he is not capable of hating ye enough to do it. The truth is, he does not command enough respect among men to gain their loyalty, and he can no’ afford to hire mercenaries. Look for something more underhanded from Duncan.”
So Talbot had been right.
“Grandfather,” Rhoslyn admonished. “Duncan was loyal to Alec. He never stole a single silver piece from us.”
Seward laughed. “Only because he believed he would one day be master of Glenbarr.”
“That is ridiculous,” Rhoslyn said. “Alec and I had a son, and there is Andreana. At the very least, the castle would pass to her.”
“And her husband,” Seward said. “But that doesna’ matter. Duncan wants you.”
Rhoslyn’s eyes widened. “He told you that?”
“He didna’ have to say it,” Seward said. “He was more anxious than he should have been to know where ye had gone. It does not matter. I do not believe he was behind today’s attack, but it doesna’ matter. You will not leave Castle Glenbarr until Dayton St. Claire is dead.”
“I will not remain in the castle,” she shot back.
“Aye, lady, you will,” Talbot said. “I will take no more chances with your safety. You will remain at Castle Glenbarr until I say otherwise.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Seward spoke in an obvious attempt to quiet her. “’Tis a shame none of your attackers survived. Ye might have learned something.”
Talbot agreed. But he didn’t regret killing every last one of the bastards.
* * *
Minutes later, St. Claire left Rhoslyn alone with her grandfather. It would take some time to wash the grime and blood off his body.
The door clicked shut behind him before she asked her grandfather, “Do ye not think you are making too much of this?”
He gave her a thin-lipped look. “Men died today.”
Guilt crashed over her. She hung her head.
“Your husband is right. His brother willna’ wait to try and abduct you again. He will grow more desperate with each passing day.”
“Use me as bait. Lure him to us,” she said.
Her grandfather snorted. “If St. Claire allowed that I would kill him. But I dinna’ think he would.”
Rhoslyn didn’t think so either.
“I see why Edward chose him to marry ye.”
“You do?”
“Not since your great uncle Liam have I seen such an archer. What was he like in battle?”
“Fearsome,” she said, and recalled the cold detachment with which he wielded his blade. Then she remembered the fury on his face when he’d discovered her tied to Dayton’s bed. The contrast between cold and hot sent a shiver down her spine. Was this the same man who had chased a goat in order to save a wedding dress?
“I wish I
could have seen him,” her grandfather said.
“Ye may yet get a chance,” Rhoslyn replied. Then remembered what she wanted to ask. “Have you seen the picture of his sister on his arm?”
He shook his head. “Nay.”
“The girl’s face is familiar. Ye remember Lady Peigi?”
He nodded. “Cailin Kenzie’s daughter.”
“Aye. The picture on St. Claire’s arm is the spitting image of her.”
Her grandfather shrugged. “There are often resemblances between strangers.”
Rhoslyn shook her head. “Nay. When I say she is the spitting image, I do no’ exaggerate. I was young, but I remember when she returned to claim her father’s title after his death. She created quite a stir when she claimed the title.”
He gave a short laugh. “She did do that. He hated her for leaving and swore he would outlive her. Many thought he would succeed. He lived to eighty-two.”
“Do ye remember that Lady Peigi’s mother is no’ Scottish?” Rhoslyn asked.
“Aye, Kenzie brought her to Buchan from Galicia. He met her while on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.”
“Her features betrayed her heritage,” Rhoslyn said. “Her face is longer and her eyes more slanted than ours.”
He nodded, eyes unfocused as if remembering. “She was very beautiful, even as she aged.”
Rhoslyn leaned closer. “I am telling you, the face is the same. Do ye no’ think that strange? Perhaps, if they looked very much the same, and had been of Scottish descent, it would not be so odd. But how is it St. Claire’s sister looks like a woman who is also not of pure Celtic blood?”
“It does seem strange,” he agreed. “I would like to see this marking. Can ye arrange some way for me to see it?”
“Perhaps if he works outdoors he will take off his shirt.” The thought sent a shiver through her. What had come over her? She couldn’t once remember experiencing a shiver at the thought of Alec’s naked chest.
