The Warrior Bride

by Lois Greiman

  “I have a good deal of time whilst you flirt with your warty nobleman, lass.”

  She raised her chin. “I have no reason to suspect he is anything but what he says.”

  “Is that why you are sneaking about in his private chambers then, because you find him irresistible?”

  “‘Tis none of your affair why I am here.”

  “I beg to differ, lass,” he said. “For though the marquis acts too daft to be dangerous, ‘tis said he is in league with the English king.”

  She stared at him in silence as a thousand thoughts whipped through her head: Evermyst, the rogues, the king! Was Lord Robert planning some evil against the crown?

  “I but wonder where your loyalties lie.”

  “If you think you cannot trust me, you’ve no reason to stay,” she said, and turned away.

  He caught her arm and pulled her back toward him.

  “If only it were true,” he gritted.

  “Let me go, MacGowan,” she said, and tried to push him away.

  “God knows I have tried,” he said and moved closer.

  His fingers touched her throat. Beneath her hand, his chest felt as hard and smooth as iron. Her breathing became labored. His lips brushed hers.

  “Whore!”

  Rhona ripped away from him. A blade flashed in MacGowan’s hand, but their enemy stood some yards away and was not yet tall enough to reach his chest.

  “Catherine.” He said her name softly and with that strange Welsh lilt. She stood in the doorway. Clothed in naught but a white night rail, she looked like a small solemn archangel.

  “Lass.” Rhona breathed the word. “Why-” she began, but her thoughts shifted. “How did you escape your room?”

  “Why were you in my father’s chamber?” the girl countered.

  “I- your father asked me to fetch something for him.”

  She shook her head. “He is busy with another just now. You have come to do mischief.”

  “‘Tis not what you think, lass,” Rhona began, and took a step toward her. “I’ve but come to care for you.”

  The girl backed away. “You lie, just as she said you would.”

  “Who said?”

  The girl shook her head. “You’ll not hurt us! Not when I tell Father I’ve found you with another.” Though she tipped her head toward MacGowan, she did not look at him as though she could not and still betray him.

  “Why are you awake?” Lachlan ‘s voice was quiet in the dimness.

  Catherine blinked. She chewed her lip, glanced indecisively down the darkened hallway, and turned her gaze on him finally.

  “Come lass, you know you can trust me,” he said. “She does not cry out of fear,” whispered the girl. Lachlan was quiet for a moment, then, “Your sister,” he said.

  “We are not afeared of her.” Absolute silence filled the space.

  “You go to soothe Edwina,” Rhona murmured. The lass scowled.

  “You’ve- ” Rhona began, but Lachlan interrupted. ”What happened to your feet, Catty?”

  Catherine glanced down, then shoved one bare foot behind her ankle. “Naught,” she said, but the other foot was still visible and across the instep, welts stretched like writhing serpents.

  “And your hands,” he added, but she had already tucked them behind her back. His face was as sober as death. “Who struck you?”

  “No one. I scratched them whilst running through the brambles.” The words were defiant, but her eyes glistered.

  “I did not think you were allowed to run barefoot,” Rhona said, but Lachlan already was shaking his head.

  “Nay. She is not,” he said. “And thus the stripes. Is it not so, lass?”

  The silence that stretched through the room was as heavy as death, but finally the girl spoke. “‘Tis none of your concern.”

  “Nay,” he agreed, “‘Tis your father’s concern.” Her mouth twitched.

  “But he was the one who did it, wasn’t he?” She shook her head violently.

  ”Aye.” He tightened his fist, and it was not until then that Rhona remembered he held a knife. “‘Tis just like a coward bastard to treat a child so.”

  “He would not do such a thing,” Catherine whispered, and though she did not cry, her mouth twitched as though she endured some silent torture.

  Rhona exhaled carefully and extended her hand.

  “Give me the knife, MacGowan,” she said.

  Chapter 21

  Lachlan shifted slightly. He didn’t like the look in Rhona’s eyes. Didn’t trust her in the least. Aye, he was certain she had come here for reasons other than the girls’ best interests, but perhaps just now, she didn’t remember those reasons. “What is it you have in mind?” he asked, and kept his voice carefully steady.

  “As the girl said,” murmured Rhona, not shifting her gaze to his. “‘Tis none of your affair.”

  He tried a placating smile. But he’d been wounded by this woman more than once, perhaps making his grin suspect. “I believe if you kill the good marquis, I may well-”

  “The marquis!” she said. “Nay, ‘tis the serving maid that mistreats her.”

  “Colette? You jest.”

  “Just because she is bonny, does not make her good,” Rhona said. “Give me the knife.”

  “Take the child to bed,” he said and tucked the blade firmly in his belt. “Your head will be clearer in the morn.”

  Rhona stared at him. Her body was absolutely still, and in her eyes there was anger, dark and deep and just under control. “‘Tis because of me.”

  “What’s that?”

  She did not glance at the girl. Indeed, it seemed almost as if she could not bear to. “I knew something was amiss,” she said. “But I did not question. Neither did I interfere.”

  “Demands would have been to no avail in this situation.”

  She smiled. It was not a soothing expression, probably no better than his own. “I can be quite convincing.”

  “Against the marquis and all he holds dear?”

  She looked as tense as a bent bow, quivering with energy just waiting to be loosed. “Does Colette share his bed?” she asked, and it was strange, for her voice still contained that maidenly tone she had adopted since their arrival there.

  “I know not,” he admitted. “But she has been given a fine chamber. I heard her giggling there and methinks sleep is not so amusing.”

  “Then he has reason to stand behind her,” she admitted, “but my duty is still clear.”

  “You cannot force this hand, Rhona. They be his own get.”

  “Then what good is the training of a warrior?” she hissed.

  “To right what wrongs you can.”

  “I can right this wrong! Give me the bloody knife,” she demanded, and stepping forward, reached for it.

  He stepped back in tandem and nodded past her. “And what of the girl?”

  “What of her?”

  “Look at her eyes, lass.”

  Rhona glared at him, but turned finally.

  Catherine stood like a pillar, not moving a hair, her eyes as wide as salt cellars.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  The world stood still, awaiting an explanation.

  “This is the Lady Rhona,,, Lachlan said. “Tender nursemaid sent to care for you and your wee sister.”

  Catherine took a step to the rear and Lachlan turned his attention back to Rhona.

  She took a deep breath, seemed to steady herself, and addressed the child. “Who struck you, lass?”

  “No one,” she whispered.

  “‘Twas Colette, was it not?” Rhona asked. “Nay.”

  A muscle jumped beside Rhona’s full mouth. “Are your legs welted also?”

  No response was forthcoming, but the girl’s eyes were as bright as starlight, her mouth pulled tight in her pale face.

  “So ‘tis difficult to walk,” Rhona said.

  For an eternity, the girl stood absolutely still, but finally she nodded.

  Rhona turned slo
wly toward Lachlan and upon her face was an expression that was beyond defining. An expression that said she had no alternatives.

  He tightened his own hand on the knife’s hilt. Anger broiled eerily in his gut, but he reminded himself with some sternness that, against all odds, he was to be the sensible one here. “You do not know who to blame.”

  Her mouth twitched with anger. She pursed her lip as though to still any outward signs of her struggle, and there in that second she looked so much like the child that he was left speechless. “Then what would you suggest… champion?” she asked, and let the title hang there as though it could not possibly be connected with him.

  He ignored the insult. “Perhaps it as she says,” he suggested. “Perhaps the welts be caused by naught but brambles.”

  “I heard the maid threaten the girls. And yet you would defend her,” Rhona said. “Because she is female and because she is bonny.”

  He tightened his grip on the knife again, then loosened it with an effort. “Ye cannot kill her.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” she asked.

  “We could bring it to the attention of the king.”

  “The king has troubles of his own!” she rasped. “Troubles? What troubles?” he asked, but Rhona had already turned her attention away.

  “Catherine.” Her voice was low and commanding.

  “You must return to your room now, and say naught of this to your father.”

  The girl shook her head and backed slowly away. Rhona frowned. “If you do as I say, I vow to protect you.”

  Catherine narrowed her eyes and took another cautious step to the rear. “Nay, you will not,” she said. “You will but sleep with me father and hope for his fortune as all the others do.”

  “I assure you, I do not want his fortune.”

  “Aye you do. You are the devil,” she said and, pivoting on her heel, leapt for the door. Her night rail billowed behind her like a windblown cape.

  Lachlan bound after her, but in that instant, he felt the knife leave his belt.

  “Nay!” he rasped, but Rhona had already thrown the thing. It flew toward the girl, spinning end over end.

  Catherine stumbled to her knees and Lachlan almost cried out, but ‘twas then that he realized the truth. She was uninjured. Only her gown was pierced, pinned to the wall behind her. She turned in bewilderment toward the reverberating knife.

  “Catherine.” Rhona’s voice was no longer high pitched nor maidenly. Indeed, it was little more than a growl. “I can protect you.”

  The girl glanced back at Rhona and swallowed hard.

  Seconds ticked into forever. Her eyes were as wide as the heavens, and her nod was barely perceptible.

  “But you must do as I say,” Rhona ordered. Another tiny nod.

  “Do you trust me?”

  She did not quite seem up to nodding this time, but remained frozen in place, still on her knees, with her scrawny calves bare and welted beneath her upswept gown.

  Rhona’s eyes snapped as she turned her attention back to the lassie’s face. “You do not fear me, do you?”

  Silence stretched out around them. “Do you?” she asked again.

  “Good Lord!” Lachlan said and pacing forward, ripped his blade from the wall. ‘The girl’s not daft, Rhona Of course she fears you.” Shoving his dirk under his belt, he helped the child to her feet. Beneath the night rail, her bony wrist felt as frail as a swallow’s wing. He clenched his jaw and dropped her arm, lest anger beset his good sense.

  “Catherine,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “‘Tis the truth I need from you now. Can you give me that?”

  She straightened her back. Dark, haunted shadows were etched beneath her enormous eyes. “I am not a liar,” she said.

  He watched her face. There was pride there, so deep it seemed he could drown in it.

  “Nay,” he said. “You are not. Though the truth does not lessen your pain, I think. So I ask you, will you keep our secret hidden?”

  Her face was as solemn as sin. For a moment she shifted her gaze to Rhona, then back. “Why are you here?” she whispered.

  A lie would be handy now, but it seemed like sacrilege to sully her trust. “Is it the truth you want, lass?”

  She nodded.

  “I am here because Lady Rhona is here. I’ve is no other reason.”

  “And why is she here?”

  The truth was becoming painful. “I do not know.” Her gaze flitted to Rhona and back again. “Can you not ask her?”

  “I have asked,” he admitted. “But she can be…” He searched for the proper word. “… stubborn sometimes.”

  The child absorbed that for a moment, then nodded solemnly, as if she understood all that was said and much that was not. “But still you love her.”

  “Lass.” He forced a chuckle and refused to glance at Rhona. “I did not say I love her,” he said, but the girl was already turning toward the warrior maid.

  “If I am silent…” she whispered. A dozen emotions flitted across her elfish face before she shoved her weathered mask back into place. “Will you teach me to use a knife?”

  Her feet and hands were welted. Her forehead was bruised, and her expression tortured. “Why?” Rhona asked.

  Catherine lifted her chin. It was small and pointed and pale. “Will you teach me?”

  Rhona’s answer was slow and cautious, but it came finally. “Aye.”

  The girl nodded and turned away.

  The torn edge of her night rail dragged behind her. “Lass,” said Rhona, still seeming deep in thought. “I am sorry for your gown.”

  Catherine flitted her eyes backward. The trace of fear skittered across her face, but she lifted her chin and pursed her mouth, vanquishing any unwanted emotion with little seeming effort. “You will teach me?” she repeated.

  Rhona frowned. “You have me vow.”

  Not another word was spoken. She slipped from sight as silent as a wraith.

  “She does not trust me own word,” said Rhona.

  “She dare not,” said Lachlan, and found some solace in the grip of his knife before turning to her again. “Why have you come here, Rhona?”

  Quiet settled softly around them. “I cannot tell you,” she murmured finally. It was the closest he had ever come to the truth, the first time she hadn’t maintained that she had come for either the marquis or the children. Which was wise, for he had never seen a woman with less maternal ability. “But I will not let them suffer because of me,” she vowed.

  “I thought we had agreed not to kill anyone this night.” “Do you think that is all I am good at?” she asked. He didn’t answer directly. “You have another plan?” Anger sparked like embers in her eyes. “The maid deserves to die.”

  ”The lass denied Colette’s part in this.” “She lied.”

  “You do not know that, and you cannot kill her even if ‘twere true.”

  She raised one brow. “I do not like being told what to do.”

  “I shall keep that in mind. What are your plans?” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps if I talk to her-”

  “If you threaten her, the marquis will hear of it.

  ‘Twould be better to kill her.”

  “Me own thought exact-”

  “But you cannot.”

  ”Then what do you suggest?” Her tone was rife with frustration, her expression tortured.

  He shook his head. “I?” Perhaps the frustration came through in his own tone. He lowered his voice and began again. “I do not even know why we are here.”

  She drew a deep breath and stared into the distance, past him, toward something he could not determine. Duty, perhaps. But what duty he could not guess.

  “Then ‘tis up to me to find a way,” she said. “What have you in mind?”

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “There will be no blood.”

  “Not poison!”

  “Hell’s saints, MacGowan, I’m not about to poison her!” she hissed.

  He shook his head. “
I can think of nothing else.”

  “That is because you underestimate me.”

  “I doubt that,” he said. “I still have me scars.”

  “And you are strangely obsessed with those little wounds.”

  He snorted, but she was already turning away. He caught her by her arm. “What will you do now, lass?”

  Their gazes met and fused.

  “I am about to return to me own bed,” she said.

  “Alone.”

  He raised a brow. “I hadn’t even considered an alternative,” he said. “Not for several seconds.”

  She was holding her breath, and it seemed foolish to waste that effort, so he kissed her. Desire roared through him, but he stiffened his resolve and forced himself to be casual. “Well?” he asked again and slipped his fingers down her jaw to her throat. If felt as smooth as steel beneath his hand.

  “I cannot,” she whispered.

  He kissed her neck where her pulse throbbed hard and fast. “Cannot what?”

  “Sleep with you,” she sighed, and despite himself he was hopefully flattered for the breathy sigh she made, for it sounded almost like disappointment.

  He kissed her again, then forced himself to be content, to back away, to take no more risks. “I meant about the lassies,” he said.

  “Oh.” She collected herself with some effort and now more than ever he longed to pull her into his arms and take the risks that needed taking. “I knew that,” she said.

  Seeing her uncertain and nervous was like magic.

  “Have you any idea how bonny you are, lass?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes were as solemn and large as the child’s had been.

  “Irresistible,” he said.

  “Then why do you?”

  “What?”

  She cleared her throat. “Why do you resist?” she whispered.

  She wanted him! The truth dawned like sunrise, and there was nothing he could do but pull her back into his arms. Once again, there was fire against fire. Her fingers were in his hair. Her other hand gripped his buttocks.

  But a noise whispered in the hallway. They froze, neither breathing. Footsteps paused, then passed. An eternity followed before she spoke.

  “I must return to me chambers.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “But promise me you will be cautious.”

  “They will not hear me.”