by Tarah Scott
“Peigi,” she urged.
His eyes shifted to her face and understanding glimmered. “I did not know her. Perhaps Taresa? Taresa Peigi?”
A lump formed in her throat. Beyond the alcove, Sir Derek stood near the table at the hearth. She had seen him come and go earlier, seen the sorrow that haunted his dark eyes. She understood that sadness. When Lady Taresa had fallen after Brett Carr’s sword pierced her midsection, Rhoslyn had raced to her side and dropped to her knees beside her.
“Be safe, Rhoslyn,” she had said. “Love him. He is a good man.” Rhoslyn thought those were to be her last words, but she added in a whisper. “Tell him I love him. Tell them both.”
Rhoslyn shifted her gaze to St. Claire. They both had to know Lady Taresa was gone, for she was not with Rhoslyn. But they didn’t know what had happened.
“I did no’ tell you. Taresa—” Sir Derek took a step toward the alcove. Tears choked her throat.
St. Claire sat on the bed beside her and covered her hand with his. The baby’s mouth fell from her breast. She had fallen asleep. Rhoslyn pulled her shirt up over her breast and nestled the baby in her arm, then looked at him.
“She loved ye.” Rhoslyn looked at Sir Derek and said in a louder voice, “She loved you both.”
“What happened?” St. Claire prodded.
“Come closer, Sir Derek,” Rhoslyn urged. He hesitated, then came as close at the invisible line created by the curtain. “Taresa gave her life for us. For all of us.” It took a moment for Rhoslyn to be sure she could speak. Then she said, “Lady Taresa could see the hard pace Dayton set was taking its toll on me. It was clear your brother had no intention of stopping for anything short of death. Lady Taresa rode with Brett Carr. The bastard,” Rhoslyn added under her breath.
“We approached a small forest and she insisted she had to relieve herself. At first, Dayton refused to stop, but she told them she had no qualms about soiling herself and Brett in the bargain. We stopped and they allowed me to dismount. Under the guise or her helping me—which was no lie—we went behind a bush where she showed me a dirk hidden in her boot.”
“She had a blade?” St. Claire said. “Why did she not use it before you left the castle?”
“Because Brett threatened her with a knife to my throat.”
Fury flared in St. Claire’s eyes. “I would kill Dayton twice, if I could.”
“And I would watch.” But that wouldn’t bring Taresa back.
“Ye will have to reattach his head first,” her grandfather said.
Rhoslyn stared at her husband. “Ye severed his head?”
“I promised you his head.”
“And you keep your promises. I assume ye plan to send the head to Edward—once I have had a look?”
“Aye.”
“I wish I could deliver is myself,” she said, then quickly added when St. Claire’s eyes darkened, “Never mind. So, Lady Taresa told me to cry out as if I was in labor. I didna’ want to do it. But she insisted. She had a way of getting her way.”
Sir Derek smiled the first smile Rhoslyn had seen from him.
“I did as she commanded,” Rhoslyn went on, “and the two men hurried over to us. Lady Taresa stepped back and drove her blade down onto Brett when he faced me. I wish it had been Dayton instead, but Brett was closer. He turned in the last instant and deflected the blow. Your brother was furious. He was nothing like the first time he kidnapped me.”
“Dayton can be unstable,” St. Claire said. “Even as a boy he would lose his temper for something small, while maintaining an unnatural detachment.”
“His fury died as quickly as it came,” she said. “He was almost emotionless when he told Brett to kill Lady Taresa.”
Sir Derek cursed.
“Forgive me,” Rhoslyn quickly put in. “I...” She slumped against the pillows. “There is no easy way to tell this story.”
“Would you rather leave?” St. Claire asked Sir Derek.”
He straightened. “Nay. I would hear it all.”
St. Claire gave her a nod.
“There is little else to tell. Brett obeyed.” Rhoslyn grasped his arm. “St. Claire, we must find her. She must have a Christian burial. I remember where they left her.”
“I have already commanded that to be done.” Sir Derek looked at St. Claire. “I assumed you would want her cared for, laird.”
“Aye. I am grateful,” St. Claire replied.
“You know where she is?” Rhoslyn asked.
“We found her.”
“Sweet Jesu,” Rhoslyn whispered.
“She was alive,” St. Claire said. “We were with her until the end.”
Gratitude rushed through Rhoslyn. God hadn’t completely deserted her. “Then she told you.”
“Told us what?”
“That she loved you.” Rhoslyn looked from St. Claire to Sir Derek. “And you, Sir Derek. She wanted you to know that she loved you.”
“She said the words?”
Rhoslyn’s heart wrenched at the hoarse plea she heard in his voice. “Aye, she said the words.”
His gaze shadowed, as if far away. “She never said the words.”
“Her last thought was of you.”
His eyes focused on her. He nodded. “Just as her last words to me were of you and the babe.” He took three steps to the bed, then came down on one knee. “She commanded me to take this from her killer and give this to her great grandchild.” He held out the gold and ruby bracelet Lady Taresa had been wearing.
Rhoslyn gave a small gasp.
He laid the bracelet on the blanket beside the baby. “Her last command was that I should ensure the safety of her great-great grandchild. If you will accept a humble knight’s service, I will protect the new Lady Taresa with my life.”
“Just as your Lady Taresa commanded,” Rhoslyn murmured. She looked at St. Claire.
“This was what she whispered to you in those last moments?” he asked.
“Aye,” Sir Derek replied.
St. Claire gave her a small nod, and she said to Sir Derek, “I appoint you our daughter’s protector. She will be your Lady Taresa.”
Startlement shone in his eyes. Then gratitude. He bowed his head once more. “So long as I breathe, you need never worry for her safety.”
To Rhoslyn’s surprise, St. Claire picked up the baby and rose. She voiced a small cry, then quieted in her father’s arms.
“Rise, Sir Derek, and meet Lady Taresa Peigi St. Claire,” he said.
The knight rose and gave a stiff bow to the baby. Both men stared down at her, and Rhoslyn was reminded of St. Claire’s words when he’d first brought her to Castle Glenbarr. “What man knows peace when he takes a wife?” Yet he looked perfectly at peace now. Was this what he had sought?
He looked up from the baby and met her gaze. Then he smiled a dazzling smile that said all was right with the world. He looked back down at their daughter and Rhoslyn realized her daughter needed a brother to complete the trio.
* * *
When the door opened behind her, Rhoslyn looked up from the rolls she was reading. St. Claire entered. He crossed to the table where she worked and stopped beside the cradle that sat beside Rhoslyn’s bench. At six months old, Lady Taresa Peigi St. Claire had finally begun sleeping through the night.
“It has begun to rain,” he at last said.
“Does that mean John Comyn will be staying?” she asked.
“Aye. We were the last he was to visit.”
Rhoslyn lifted the quill from the parchment. “Are you going to tell me what he said?”
“Edward appointed John Balliol as king.”
She closed her eyes. God help them.
“I am commanded to appear before him.”
Rhoslyn looked sharply at him. “Before John or Edward?”
He stared down at her and her heart began to pound wildly. What would Edward do to St. Claire if he was forced to return to England?
“You say there is no difference between the two men,” he s
aid.
“You cannot return to England,” she said.
“You told me I must obey my Scottish king.”
Sweet God. And he would obey.
Would their new king—or his liege lord—force St. Claire from their home? Rhoslyn placed a palm over her belly. Would he be present for the birth of their son?
###
Lord Keeper
Tarah Scott
~ Acclaim for Tarah Scott ~
Lord Keeper
Golden Rose Best Historical of 2011
“A fantastic story that is passionately breathtaking at every turn within the story.”
—Queentutt’s World of Escapism
“A must read to all highland romance lovers!”
—Close Encounters with the Night Kind
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. Published By:
Lord Keeper
Copyright © 2011 by Tarah Scott
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Second Edition Broken Arm Publishing
Cover Art: R. Jackson Designs
Graphics: Period Images
Previously published by Etopia Press electronic publication: December 2011
~ Dedication ~
This book is dedicated to my good friend and mentor Kim Comeau, affectionately known as Casey. Casey, I can never repay for all you’ve taught me and the countless hours you gave to this book—as well as others that came after! You have your revenge. The endless tedium of pestering is being repaid in the hours I now spend passing on your creative wisdom to my daughter. Such is the cycle of life.
Tempt not the stars, young man, thou canst not play with the severity of life.
John Ford The Broken Heart I:3
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands 1508
Iain might have been standing on the edge of a dream when the abbey door opened and she stepped out into the morning light. Though separated by a small earthly measure of holy ground, he sensed her mind to be as far from him as heaven was from hell. His heart stilled with the sudden blaze of auburn hair against the Highland sun, and he determined to learn what color eyes matched such fire.
With a nod in response to Father Brennan’s statement that the Menzies clan was rumored to be raiding land to the north, Iain slid a hand along his horse’s neck. The beast nickered and shifted beneath him. Behind him, one of his men’s horses whinnied in answer. Careful not to give away his intention, Iain slid his gaze across the heather covered hills beyond the abbey and covertly monitored the woman’s progress as she strolled along the grounds, a book in hand. Another moment and she would be off Montrose Abbey.
She slowed.
Annoyance flared. Curse the archaic law that kept her safe on holy ground. What if he ignored the civilized directives instilled by his education and simply took her? He dropped his attention to the intricately carved leather wristband that covered his arm from wrist to elbow. A deep scratch spanned the leather, a reminder of the battle that almost took his arm, had taken the lives of many good men, a battle fought in the name of justice.
Iain looked up in response to Father Brennan’s report that four Menzies clansmen had passed the abbey yesterday afternoon. He was in no mood to encounter marauding Menzies on his return home, particularly considering his change in plans. He breathed deep of the Scots pine scent carried on the keening wind. The law forbade him taking the woman while on holy ground, but sanctioned the kidnapping once she entered the outside world. No law would be broken, no war begun when he claimed her.
Ticking off the seconds in his mind, he gauged her progress away from the grassy expanse that marked the distance needed to intercept her race back to the monastery. Any resistance would be hampered by the heavy skirts of her expensive brocade dress.
She took the last fateful step. Iain flashed Father Brennan a grin as he grasped the hook on his claymore’s scabbard and unhooked latch from hook. Sword and scabbard dropped to the ground. The priest’s eyes registered surprise, then understanding.
He whirled as Iain dug his heels into the horse’s belly and broke ranks with his men.
“Run!” the priest shouted.
She looked up from her book. In seconds, Iain drew close enough to discern the expression of a doe catching first sight of the bowman. His heart surged. Mayhap the wide-eyed stare wasn’t fear, but fascination? Understanding lit her features and Iain laughed at his folly. The doe realized the bowman meant to have her after all.
She dropped the book and yanked up her skirts to run. Iain veered right and leaned from the saddle as she darted left. He seized her waist. She gave a muffled “oof” and kicked when he dragged her against the side of the galloping beast, her legs tangled in her skirts. She screamed. The horse snorted, his gait faltering with the uneven burden. He steadied and Iain hauled her across his thighs.
His groin pulsed with the weight of her derriere across his lap. He laughed to himself. If she understood the pleasure her struggles afforded him, she would cease. His horse snorted and Iain threw a leg over the lass’ shins, hugging them close to the belly of the beast. She grunted with the effort of trying to slide from the saddle, then stiffened with his firm grip on her thigh.
“Iain,” Father Brennan said in a loud voice.
Iain forced his attention from the disheveled mass of velvet hair that cascaded down slim shoulders and looked to where the priest had retreated onto holy ground. Father Brennan motioned him forward. Iain smiled and gave a shake of his head. The hand at Father Brennan’s side fisted.
Good. The priest understood no MacPherson would set foot on holy ground today.
The woman’s muscles tightened in another attempt to throw off his leg, and Iain gave the flesh a warning squeeze without breaking eye contact with Father Brennan. The priest ran the back of a forefinger in a slow line along each side of his mustache. Iain understood his shrewd look, but the curiosity in his eyes was a surprise. He strode toward them, and the warriors who had ridden in with Iain drew up alongside as the priest neared.
“It doesn’t seem she is taken with your charm, Iain,” Father Brennan said.
“Charm?” his captive snapped. “What madness is this?”
“Patience, lass. It is a simple mistake.” The priest looked pointedly at Iain.
“Aye,” she blurted, “and this barbarian would do well to release me before he discovers just how grave a mistake.”
Iain glanced at his companions when someone unsuccessfully stifled mirth.
Father Brennan clicked his tongue with impatience. “Iain, you cannot take her.”
Iain responded with a raise of his brows.
“Aye, then,” Father Brennan muttered, “you can take her, but ’tis not fair play. I had not informed her of this tradition. A tradition long dead,” he added with asperity.
“I believe it was you who said ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Iain reminded him with a low laugh.
Father Brennan hesitated. “You must know she is
English. Are you sure you want her?”
The lady
gasped. Iain started to demanded explanation for the slur, but forestalled at something unknown in the priest’s demeanor and replied in an unruffled tone, “If I did not want her, I would not have taken her.”
Relief flickered in Father Brennan’s eyes, but his voice remained insistent. “This is wrong. She did not know it was unsafe to step from holy ground.” “Unsafe?” Iain echoed.
Father Brennan’s expression darkened. “You heard what I said, Iain MacPherson, unsafe.”
“Is she entering the convent?” Father Brennan’s frown deepened, and Iain added, “It is, no doubt, a grievous sin to lie about such matters.”
“By the saints. Nay, you scoundrel, she has no such intentions.”
“Why is she here?”
“Sweet Jesu,” the lady cursed. “What concern is that of yours?”
Iain shifted his gaze to her. Fury ruled her gaze, but it was the challenge in the lift of her chin that gripped his heart. “Where is your husband, lass?”
Silence hung thick in the air, and every nerve stood ready for the answer he dreaded, hadn’t considered, until this moment.
“In a grave in England,” she answered at last.
That was unexpected and Iain wasn’t sure whether to praise God she was free or feel compassion she had lost a loved one. Guilt surfaced with the realization that he gladly chose the former.
He wheeled his horse around.
“Nay!” She kicked the stallion’s belly.
The beast reared. Iain yanked back on the reins, but she kicked again. The stallion reared a second time. Iain seized the pommel, but felt their bodies slipping from the saddle. He rolled, hugging her close so that she landed on top of him as they crashed to the moist ground. She shoved away from him. He held tight, laughing in spite of the dull pain in his shoulder when she growled. She jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Pain lanced through his gut. His grip faltered and she broke free. The closest of the warriors shot after her and was upon her in a few short strides and grabbed her.
