Sharon Schulze

by To Tame a Warrior's Heart

  She dropped the garment over her head and wriggled her arms into the overlong sleeves. “I haven’t any clothes,” she mumbled, settling the soft material around her with a final shimmy and letting the blanket fall The shirt hung to below her knees. Although not what she’d prefer, at least she was decently covered.

  Stepping over the rumpled blanket, she headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him. “You’re not leaving this room with only my shirt to cover you.”

  Catrin wrenched free and stepped back. “I’ll do as I please.” Giving him a wide berth, she again headed for the door.

  She managed to unlatch the door before he caught her again. This time he wrapped his arms around her middle and lifted her off the floor. “Put me down, you idiot!” He slung her over his shoulder. “Damn you, Nicholas!”

  In two strides he’d made it back to the bed. “Don’t tempt me,” he said, his hand hovering over her backside threateningly. Draped over his shoulder, her head hanging upside down in a tangled web of hair, she could do little to fight him, although that didn’t stop her from trying.

  Her hands slid over the tight musculature of his back and waist as she attempted to pinch him. But since she couldn’t find a bit of loose flesh to grab, she poked him in the ribs instead. “Release me now, or else I’ll—”

  “You little hellcat,” Nicholas growled. His flesh twitched beneath her meager assault. He must be ticklish. She redoubled her efforts, fully expecting him to slap her on the rump—he couldn’t miss it, sticking up next to his face. But instead he swung her around in his grasp and fell across the mattress with her cradled in his arms.

  Before she could scramble away he pinned her to the bed with his body, her wrists held above her head on the pillows, shackled by his hands. Shifting until he lay atop her, he stared down into her face.

  “What is wrong?” he asked sharply. She squirmed, trying to break free, so he settled his weight more fully over her, his legs holding hers so she couldn’t kick at him. “Stop it.”

  She was no match for his strength, so she ceased her struggles and lay motionless, though it galled her to obey him.

  He hadn’t expected her to do as he’d ordered. Her sudden compliance took him by surprise. He bent to kiss her cheek, but the pain he saw in her eyes stopped him.

  Why this complete change? A short while ago she had appeared happy in his arms, and he knew he’d given her pleasure. “Is it something I did?” he murmured. “I would never harm you. I thought you enjoyed what we shared.”

  From the stubborn set of her chin, he knew he’d gain no answers now. And he didn’t want to add to the distress he saw in her eyes. Perhaps once she’d dressed, after some time had passed, she’d be more willing to tell him what was wrong.

  He rolled away and got to his feet, offering his hand to help her up off the bed. She refused, moving to the other side of the mattress.

  “You needn’t get up,” he told her. “’Tis your chamber, after all. I’ll leave.”

  Catrin nodded. She looked so small and frail lying there, her face drained of color and her eyes huge. He felt like a brute, hefting her about like a side of meat—especially so soon after her injuries.

  He refused to berate himself for making love with her, however, she’d been as active a participant as he, no matter what qualms she might have now.

  If, indeed, ’twas their lovemaking that accounted for the return of Catrin’s sullen behavior.

  Perhaps he overrated his own importance.

  But he hated to leave her like this. Gathering the coverlet from the floor, Nicholas spread it over her. “I’ll send Tildy in with some clothes for you. Once you’ve rested, would you meet with me in the hall? We’ve plans to make.”

  He fought the urge to smooth the tangled curls back from her face, but he couldn’t walk out the door without saying something.

  Taking her unresisting hand in his, he raised it to his lips. “Thank you for the joy you gave me,” he murmured, staring into her eyes. He turned her hand and placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. “Until later.” Releasing her, he bowed and left.

  The thump of the door clicking shut echoed loudly in Catrin’s ears. She felt beyond thought, beyond caring. But deep inside she knew that wasn’t true. If she allowed herself to ponder everything roiling within her heart and mind she’d go mad.

  Too drained to confront her worries, she burrowed her face into the pillow and let the tears flow.

  * * *

  Ian and Rannulf followed Padrig’s trail through the forest, covering a good distance before darkness forced them to halt. After a cold, miserable night, they set out again as soon as dawn brightened the sky.

  Ian led Rannulf along a barely noticeable path through the woods. He’d traveled many of the trails before, though he wasn’t as familiar with this one. But he knew that the trail should merge with one of the many routes between Gwal Draig and l’Eau Clair. If necessary, he’d follow them all. It was a matter of time until they found the place where Catrin’s party had been attacked. They couldn’t have simply disappeared.

  However long it took, they’d find her.

  As the day wore on, his eyes burned from the strain of searching; once they left the trees and picked up the road, Rannulf took the lead. The faint warmth of the midday sun, combined with too many sleepless days, weighted him down with weariness.

  “Let’s stop,” he called. He estimated they’d been on the road for an hour without a sign that anyone had passed this way. “Perhaps after we rest and eat, we’ll be more alert.” He dismounted and led his horse down the trail. “I believe there’s a clearing up ahead. ’Tis a good place to stop.”

  Rannulf dismounted, as well, and they walked along in companionable silence.

  Suddenly Rannulf halted in the middle of the trail and bent to examine the ground. “This hoofprint—” Rannulf traced the rain-worn mark with his fingertip. “It looks familiar.” Sitting back on his heels, he drew his finger around the print again. “’Tis Nick Talbot’s stallion. He might have passed this way after he left l’Eau Clair.” He stood and scanned their surroundings. “The king sent him to see Llywelyn. He visited with us—left about a week ago.” He met Ian’s gaze. “Around the same time Catrin left for l’Eau Clair.”

  “Just because Talbot passed this way doesn’t mean he saw Catrin,” Ian protested. “It would be too much of a coincidence. Besides, if either of them saw the other coming, they’d head in the opposite direction. There’s no love lost between those two.”

  Rannulf laughed. “Perhaps. But you haven’t seen how they look at each other when they think no one is watching. If they’re ever in the same place for any length of time they might discover they’re kindred spirits—if they don’t kill each other first.”

  Though it was an amusing thought, Ian wasn’t sure he could imagine his sister paired with a Norman. ’Twas a trifling thought, at any rate. His sister was missing.

  Finding her was all that mattered.

  Taking up the reins, Ian again headed down the road.

  He noticed the smell first, near where the road ended and the clearing began. Moving silently, he looped the reins around a sturdy branch; Rannulf did the same. He slid his dagger from its sheath with one hand and closed the other about the hilt of his sword, then slipped into the trees surrounding the copse.

  The clearing held no threat. He let the sword slide back into the scabbard, but kept his dagger in hand when he entered the field.

  ’Twas butchery. Although animals—both wild and human, from the look of it—had been at the bodies, they’d left enough behind for Ian to recognize them as human.

  His heart in his throat, he moved from body to body, each time fearing the next would be Catrin’s. Rannulf watched in silence as he walked about the clearing.

  Finally, knees weak and heart heavy, he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes.

  The corpses were all men. Catrin’s rema
ins did not lie here, ravaged by beasts, thieves and the elements. Even as he mourned his men, however, he thanked God that his sister appeared to have escaped their fate. “When I find whoever did this, they’ll rue the day they meddled with my family.”

  Had Catrin witnessed the slaughter?

  “They’re your men?” Rannulf asked.

  “I knew three of them. The others—” He shrugged. “But mine were good men, though not the best of fighters, alas.” He shook his head. “When I get my hands on my sister, I’ll blister her backside for this.” Hands clenched, he pounded his fists against a tree. “And I’ll never let her out of my sight again. She knew, damn her—she knew they weren’t soldiers. Yet she brought them out here anyway.” He kicked at a pile of wet leaves. “When will she learn to think? I’ve given her the chance to prove she can be reasonable, over and over. Every time she disappoints me. Once I find her, she’ll not leave Gwal Draig again. I swear it.”

  “Hold, Ian.” Rannulf picked up a scrap of parchment Ian had sent fluttering across the ground. “There’s writing on this.” Squinting, he read the untidy scrawl. “It looks like the directions for some medicinal compound. Gillian has a bundle of these, bound together into a book. Could this belong to Catrin?”

  Ian snatched the parchment from Rannulf’s hand and examined it “Aye, ’tis her writing.” Crumpling the scrap in his hand, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, expelling a harsh breath.

  Rannulf laid a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Let’s see if there are any clues to tell us who did this.”

  Rannulf was right. He’d gain nothing by ranting about things he could not change. But how his palms itched to give Catrin the beating she deserved!

  Even as the thought entered his mind, Ian knew he’d never do it.

  Damned woman!

  Sighing, he joined Rannulf as he searched the clearing, poking and prodding.

  When they finished, by unspoken agreement they began scraping out two shallow graves—one for Ian’s men, another for the rest—while they discussed what they’d found.

  “It looks as if they were attacked as they approached the clearing.” Ian gouged at the wet soil with a stout branch. “It’s the perfect place for an ambush. While I’m not sure who did it, several possibilities come to mind.”

  “You don’t believe that robbery was the motive?”

  “Nay, though that didn’t stop them from stripping the dead,” Ian said with disgust. “Catrin didn’t bring much with her, certainly not enough to tempt any but the most desperate bandit. I think the trap was in place before she got here. Someone planned on taking her.”

  “Nicholas must have come through here around the same time as Catrin.” Rannulf paused in his labors to strip off his shirt. “My only question is who left with whom.” Ian looked at him curiously. “The signs are faded from the rain, but I think they left in two groups. A small one, and a larger one. I’m just not certain what that means.”

  Arms folded, Ian leaned back against a tree. “Even if Talbot interfered somehow, they might have taken him, as well. Perhaps they left here in two groups and met up later.”

  “Or headed for two different places,” Rannulf added. “We’ve no way to tell. But if you have any idea who was behind this—”

  “Believe me, I do,” Ian growled. “Let’s finish here. After this, I’ll be in the perfect mood to visit Steffan.”

  Lips quirked into a mirthless smile, Ian watched as rage transformed Rannulf’s pleasant expression into that of an avenging warrior. “You’d better wait for me outside Bryn Du, Rannulf,” he said. “I doubt Steffan will permit you within the gates anyway.”

  Rannulf remained silent, but his eyes were cold and deadly. Ian shrugged away from the tree and stood facing him. “I realize that the thought of killing Steffan is appealing, but we cannot simply ride in and do it. For some reason Llywelyn likes him. There’ll be time enough to go after Steffan once we discover if he’s the one we seek.”

  Rannulf took up the makeshift shovel he’d been using and attacked the hard-packed soil.

  At this rate, they’d be on their way to Bryn Du in no time.

  Ian and Rannulf parted company in the forest, taking no chances that Rannulf might be seen by anyone on the walls of Bryn Du. It made no sense to risk Steffan learning of Rannulf’s presence. Ian wouldn’t put it past his cousin to entertain him royally while sending a troop out to seize—or murder—Rannulf.

  He knew how ruthless and amoral Steffan could be, one of the many reasons he suspected he was behind the attack. It bore the telltale mark of Steffan’s sly ways. Ian sighed. At the moment, his brain was so weary, ’twas a miracle he could think at all.

  Rannulf made himself comfortable alongside a pleasant stream, stretching out on the mossy ground. “Do you really believe Steffan will admit it if he had anything to do with this?”

  Ian shook his head. “No. But he’s such an arrogant bastard, perhaps he’ll make a mistake and let slip some tidbit of information. He’s capable of anything, so long as he can find someone to do his dirty work for him.” He checked his weapons. “That’s the key to discovering what Steffan’s been doing—find the scum he hired to carry out his schemes. Perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to do that.” He climbed into the saddle. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he warned, then nudged his stallion into motion.

  No sense putting it off any longer. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he looked Steffan in the eye and asked what he knew about Catrin’s disappearance.

  With luck he’d be done and back outside the walls before sunset. They could spend the night at Gwal Draig and set out again in the morning. Squaring his shoulders for the unpleasant task ahead, he spurred his horse onto the road to Bryn Du.

  “Welcome, cousin.” Steffan motioned Ian to a cushioned bench near the central fire pit, then took a seat. With a clap of his hands he summoned a servant to bring them wine, then lounged back into his chair.

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Ian. It’s been too long since you honored us with a visit.” Steffan smiled, but his eyes remained cold.

  It amused Ian to imagine the thoughts going on behind Steffan’s urbane expression. There had never been any love lost between them, though Steffan preferred to shroud his dislike in fulsome posturing. He had the manners of the courtly knights of French legend, and the soul—if he even had a soul—of Satan himself.

  It was one of the greatest frustrations of Ian’s life that he’d never been able to prove his suspicions.

  He knew Steffan had always hated him, but that hatred must surely have deepened since Catrin had helped Gillian escape Bryn Du. Steffan likely wished him dead, yet being Steffan, he wrapped his loathing in flowery courtesies.

  Nothing could have irritated Ian more.

  A slatternly maid brought them wine. She glanced at Ian from beneath her eyelashes when she handed him the goblet, her expression curious, then crept away at Steffan’s growled dismissal. Evidently his manners didn’t extend to his servants.

  “What brings you here?” Steffan asked, his eyes alert.

  Ian drained his goblet before answering. The wine was fine, and he doubted he’d have the chance to finish it once he stated his business. “I’d like to hear what you know about my sister’s disappearance,” he said, casually moving one hand to his sword.

  “Catrin is missing? How distressing. I do hope she hasn’t come to harm.” Although his tone conveyed concern, Steffan’s dark eyes glowed with a strange, avid light He leaned forward in his chair. “Such a terrible situation, cousin. But then, Catrin is so very—” his lips twisted into a patently false smile “—independent.”

  Ian reined in the urge to clout that smile away. “It appears she was attacked while traveling to l’Eau Clair. Not far from here, actually. I wondered if you had heard anything about it,” he added, observing Steffan closely.

  “No. No, this is the first I’ve heard of it” Steffan sat back and spread his hand wide. “I would have notified you at once if I’d hea
rd the slightest bit of news. Such a terrible thing.”

  Though Steffan mouthed all the right words, Ian noticed the glimmer of pleasure, of anticipation shimmering in his eyes. The bastard was enjoying this—far too much.

  Ian had seen enough to convince him that Steffan was involved, somehow. How he wished he could wrap his hands about Steffan’s neck!

  But there were guards everywhere; he’d never leave Bryn Du alive if he tried anything.

  However, he’d set some men to spying on the place as soon as he returned to Gwal Draig.

  This battle would be won another day.

  Ian rose. “Send word if you hear anything.”

  “You may depend upon it.” Steffan ushered him toward the door. “If you let me know how the search progresses I may be able to discover something.” He backed away. “Huw will show you out.” Motioning to the burly soldier, Steffan strode away.

  So much for asking if anyone else knew anything, Ian thought, ignoring Huw and heading straight for his horse. He should have realized Steffan wouldn’t allow him a chance to question anybody.

  Likely his people were so cowed they wouldn’t dare answer, anyway.

  Ian found Rannulf waiting where he’d left him.

  “Learn anything?” he asked, rising stiffly to his feet and stretching.

  “Aye. I think he’s the one.”

  “Then why is he still in there?” Rannulf cocked his head toward Bryn Du.

  “I can’t just drag him out of his own keep. Llywelyn has warned me away from Steffan more than once.” Ian slapped the reins against his leg. “Llywelyn’s Dragon, impotent by Llywelyn’s own command. I don’t know what hold Steffan has over our illustrious cousin, but once this is done I’ll discover what it is, I swear.” He closed his eyes wearily. “We need to find the men Steffan hired to carry out his dirty work. If we find them, likely we’ll find her, as well.”

  Opening his eyes, he gestured toward Rannulf’s horse. “Let’s go. We can plan while we ride. Gwal Draig awaits.”