Seize The Dawn

by Drake, Shannon

  Brendan stared at him, startled. Eric grinned. "You're loyal to Wallace, and fighting for an ideal. I think that Robert Bruce sometimes wishes that he didn't have his family fortunes and holdings. He envies men who see a greater good, fight when they see the battle, and earn the loyalty of the people. He would like to be hailed as Wallace, I think. Such devotion appeals to him."

  "Then one day, he'll have to take a stand against the king of England."

  "Maybe one day he will. As you say, men make their own destinies." Eric clapped him on the shoulder and walked on, heading for the stables. Brendan looked up at the walls of the castle. For a long while, he observed the strengths, and assessed the weaknesses.

  Then, thoughtfully, he returned to the hall.

  Eleanor sat by the fire in the room, attempting a letter she could only hope to find a way to get into Alfred's hands. She asked after his health, begged him to take the greatest care, to guard his own health in any way. She tried to remember, step by step and word by word, everything that had occurred with Miles Fitzgerald and his men, and her certainty that he had intended her harm. She assured him she meant to come home, yet knew that he managed all affairs with care and talent. She told him Corbin had been with her, defensive and loyal both to her and to England, through everything. He was concerned to get home. "Send Isobel our deepest regards," she wrote.

  She was sure that Isobel was guilty in some way, but Isobel hadn't been with Fitzgerald. Still, it seemed urgent that she warn Alfred against the woman. She didn't know what words to put on paper, should the letter go astray. She studied the letter.

  There was a knock on the door, then it opened tentatively.

  "My lady."

  "Bridie?"

  "Aye."

  "Come, come."

  Bridie swept in. She seemed oblivious to the late hour of the day. She smiled at Eleanor, said nothing, and began gathering up Eleanor's belongings, plentiful enough since they had packed for the journey to London, knowing it would be long.

  "Bridie, what are you doing?"

  "Why, getting your things, my lady."

  "Why?"

  "To move them to the other room."

  "What other room?"

  "Down the hall, my lady."

  Eleanor sighed with exasperation. "Why am I moving down the hall?"

  Bridie's eyes rolled. "The master of the castle has said so."

  "The master of the castle?"

  "Sir Brendan."

  Eleanor's brow furrowed. "Sir Brendan is master of this caste?"

  "Aye."

  "And when did this occur?"

  "This morning. Haven't you heard, my lady? We are at peace. There's been a truce arranged between the Scots and English, engineered by King Philip of France."

  A truce? She felt shaky. A truce between the two nations...

  Yet, there had been truces called before. They had not ended the conflict.

  "No, I had not heard," Eleanor murmured. "I have not left this room this morning." She hadn't left, nor had anyone approached her, other than the serving girl who had brought her water and food, and she had bobbed frequently, smiled a lot, and spoken very little.

  She had expected that someone might come.

  Someone ...

  Brendan. Corbin, at least.

  She hadn't slept when Brendan left. She had listened to the men below, and contemplated her own position in a tumult of emotion. To be with him again ... she loved him, loved the feel of him, the scent of him, just feeling him at her side. He hadn't remained at her side. He hadn't returned to her, but stayed below. He never would turn his back on his quest; he would die. Yet he had kept her from certain death, so what right did she have to create doom as the destiny for his courage? And still the haunting thought remained that here, in Scotland, she was a refugee, a branded murderess in her homeland.

  And in all her thoughts, she had lain awake. She shouldn't be with him; Alain was scarcely cold in his grave. Yet she ~ listened until the sounds of music and laughter and revelry below faded, wondering if then he would return. He had not done so. When she had finally slept, it had been near dawn.

  "Bridie—"

  But Bridie slipped back out the door, leaving it ajar. Eleanor stood, ready to follow her, but before she could do so, Bridie came back into the room, humming.

  "Bridie—"

  Bridie looked up at her, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, happiness abounding in her. "Oh, my lady! There's going to be a wedding! Can you imagine?"

  And once again, Bridie disappeared.

  Eleanor felt a cold anger steal over her. A wedding. He had planned a wedding, and not said a word to her. Logic argued that she wanted nothing more than to be his wife; she had yearned and ached for him, dreamed that such a thing could be true.

  But the dream was tarnished now; for the life to be good, she had to be innocent, and she could not live with a legend that would grow regarding her as the countess who had lured her lord for money, then slain him to be with a lover.

  The master of the castle! He was not her master.

  "Where is he?" she asked Bridie.

  "Why, in the other room."

  "Where is that?"

  "Just down the hall, the door at the top of the stairs."

  Eleanor went marching down the hall. She raised a hand to the door, then felt another surge of anger.

  He was not given to knock.

  She threw open the door.

  Aye, things had changed. Brendan sat before a desk. Eric and Collum were standing by him, and they all pored over a set of building plans.

  Brendan looked up, annoyed at her loud entry. The others turned to her, stared at her expectantly.

  She hadn't wanted this ... an audience. She had thought that he would be alone.

  But she had come, and she did not intend to slink away. She approached the desk.

  "I'd have a word with you, Sir Brendan."

  He leaned back, studying her. "I'm sure you have several, my lady. But this isn't the appropriate time."

  "Since I've not been informed regarding time, my words seem expedient."

  "Eleanor, as you can see, I am engaged."

  "Then I will speak quickly. There will be no wedding."

  "No?"

  Brendan shoved the chair back, staring at her.

  "No. I will not marry you."

  He was quiet for a moment, watching her. She saw that his color had heightened, his fingers clenched where they lay upon his knees, and a telltale tic against his cheek betrayed his anger.

  "Really, madam?" he said at last. "I don't remember asking you to do so."

  It was her turn to flood with sudden color. "Bridie just said—"

  He turned his attention back to the papers that lay before him. "Bridie will be marrying Lars this afternoon. Father Duff, of the little church down the hill, will join the two of them."

  She felt as if cold air surrounded her; she couldn't have been more humiliated. She wanted to lash out, but she couldn't do so with Eric and Collum watching her, she had to gather up what shreds of her dignity she could find—and retreat.

  "That is—wonderful," she managed to say with great dignity, then she spun around and quickly departed, her head as high as she could keep it.

  In the hall, she once again came upon Bridie, still moving her belongings about. "Bridie, you are to be married."

  "Aye! Can you believe it!" Bride said with such happiness that Eleanor could find no fault with her, nor chide her for not explaining fully.

  "I'm so very happy for you."

  "I knew you would be, Eleanor. If only I could be so happy for you—"

  "What will you wear?" Eleanor asked. "Something very fine. We'll go through my clothing, find what suits you best—"

  "This is the last of it, being moved."

  Eleanor hesitated. She had seen nothing of her own in the room where she found Brendan.

  "Bring it back," she said softly.

  "My lady Eleanor, Sir Brendan said—"

&n
bsp; ' 'Brendan is a strong man, and indeed, a brave hero. But he does not dictate where I sleep."

  "My lady—"

  "Go back for my things."

  "Please, Eleanor—"

  "Bridie, go back for my things."

  Eleanor walked by her, returning to the very fine room that had been prepared for her when she arrived.

  She sat down before the fire. She used a slate for a desk, her ink laid out on the small stool before the fire. She tried to forget Brendan, and the burning humiliation she had brought upon herself.

  Her cheeks still burned. Her heart beat too fast. She had to concentrate on her task. It was true that she couldn't go riding boldly back into England as if she were again an armor-clad figurehead, spurring men into war. Yet she was very afraid for Alfred.

  She started writing again, forgetting for a moment, fighting to keep her thoughts centered. She managed to gather together some of the words she needed. Time passed. The task absorbed her.

  In a while, the door opened. She assumed that Bridie had come back. She did not look up, but said, "Bridie, please, 'tis your day. Look through what you will, take what you will."

  She managed to put down a few words, with Isobel's name in the sentence, along with the warning that someone there was a prisoner, without actually accusing Isobel. The silence in the room at last distracted her.

  She looked up. It was not Bridie.

  Brendan had entered, closed the door. He leaned against it, arms crossed, waiting. Startled, she jumped up, barely saving the pot of ink. Blood rushed to her cheeks. She stared at him, far more alarmed by his sudden appearance than she wished to betray.

  She smoothed back a strand of hair.

  "What is this new game of yours?" he demanded.

  "This accommodations are quite fine. Sir Brendan," she said. "Unless, of course, they are intended for use by someone else. Then, of course, if I am taking up chambers intended for other guests—"

  "The room is not needed for other guests."

  "Then I will remain here."

  "You will not."

  "If I am a guest—"

  "You'll be housed where you are invited to stay."

  "I am not leaving."

  "You are."

  "So you are master of the castle now and would become a tyrant?" she challenged.

  "A tyrant, my lady?"

  "Indeed, giving orders, demanding—"

  "Using force?" he inquired.

  He strode into the room and caught her by the arm. She shrank back, fighting his hold, furious, and still humiliated. "Don't, Brendan, don't! Please, for die love of God, let me be, I am not going—"

  He caught her up, heedless of her words, leaving the room and heading into the hall. She struggled against his hold, her cheeks flaming.

  "Will you put me down! You have humiliated me unto the grave as it is—"

  "Then I suggest you quiet down, else you'll draw attention from below."

  "Aye, and they'll see you behaving like a madman—"

  "The difference is, my lady, I don't care what they see."

  "Brendan, damn you, do you think that this is not wretched enough—"

  He stopped in the hall; she felt his tension. She feared some real violence, but his force was all directed at the door he pushed in with a purposeful kick. The heavy wood gave way, and the hinges opened with a small groan.

  "This, Eleanor," he said firmly, "is where you'll stay."

  Chapter 19

  He strode into the room and kicked the door firmly shut behind him.

  She was sure that the sound of it slamming reverberated throughout the castle. He was heedless of the noise, striding firmly into the room.

  At last he set her down upon a rich woven carpet before a burning fire. She stared at him, then surveyed her surroundings. The room was beautifully appointed; it seemed to be one of the finished places in the castle. The carpet made the room seem small and warm and intimate. The walls were not covered with flat tapestries, but heavy, embroidered draperies. The chairs were carved, highly polished, Norse in origin. The room contained a handsome bathtub, Norse as well, with intricate carving.

  There was water in it; steaming and ready. Heavy linen towels waited by the side. The bath looked incredibly inviting.

  She had no intention of going near it!

  There was an archway to the far rear comer, draped as well. She walked to it, pulled back the curtain, and saw that it led to Brendan's chamber.

  She turned back to face him. "I cannot stay here," she whispered.

  "You can, you will."

  "Your men heard what you said to me—"

  "Aye, and they heard what you said to me. After we rode into England—to procure your freedom."

  "I won't stay here, I can't stay here, I never intended to remain here long; as it is, I must clear my name, and if you don't see that—"

  "Your pride is worth more than your life?"

  She fell silent. "You know—"

  "I know all there is to know, and have taken steps to set the matter straight. And you will stay here. The room has been prepared. It could not be more inviting. I know that you are fond of your comfort. The tub is wonderful. I've already tried it out."

  "I am weary of you mocking me for the life into which I was born," she told him heatedly. "I am not desperate for comfort. You enjoy the bath. A Scot can always use an extra cleaning."

  She started for the door, found herself dragged back.

  "You will enjoy the bath."

  "Brendan—"

  "Clothed, unclothed?" he asked her.

  "Have you gone mad with sudden power!" she exclaimed.

  Perhaps he had; he lifted her, striding for the tub. She was going in, she thought, as she was. "Brendan! My shoes! I haven't so many here—"

  He paused.

  "Let them fall."

  "Brendan, please, we can talk as civilized human beings—"

  "A civilized Scot? I think not. We are far too uncouth and ill mannered!"

  Her shoes fell as she stared at the set of his features. "Brendan, I do not have so very many garments with me that I can afford to destroy them. I—''

  He set her down. She stared at him, frustrated, and fighting tears. She'd been angry that he would make plans without her; yet she was anguished to find that he did not intend to marry her. The child would have his name. He'd said nothing regarding her. She had made assumptions.

  "I cannot do this; you really don't understand."

  He remained before her, both angry and amused.

  "You cannot do—this. What this do you refer to, Eleanor? You cannot take a bath? According to the people in Rome, the English are every bit as filthy as the Scots—we have all forgotten everything those ancient ancestors taught us about water. Ah, but it's easy, my lady, one simply sits and soaks, and the bar there is soap—"

  "Brendan, excuse me, I am leaving. Sir Brendan, master of his domain, if you will—"

  "What this do you mean, my lady? This—as in remain with me? Lie with me? You had no difficulty in Paris. The great lady, chancing an encounter with a heathen rebel for the sheer carnal danger of it, the sensual pleasure? Ah, but in truth, you can't do this so openly, because you are, of course, the great lady?"

  She swung out to strike him, but he caught her arm, spun her around, and found the ties to the fine silk tunic she wore.

  "Brendan—"

  It came free in his hands. She remained in her linen shift and silk hose, but he made no effort to remove those, lifting her as she swore—and found herself seated in the tub, the hot water splashing around her, her hair soaked and in her eyes. He hunkered down by the tub.

  "Feels good, doesn't it?" he inquired.

  She smoothed back a lock of sodden hair. "Why are you doing this to me?"

  "You made a fool of me in there," he told her quietly.

  "You made a fool of me!"

  "I didn't come into your room ranting that I would not marry you."

  "I—I had thought th
at ..."

  "That I'd made arrangements for our marriage without consulting you."

  She didn't need to answer. The rose in her cheeks told him clearly enough.

  "They were thoughts you might have shared when we were alone," he told her.

  "You refused to give me time alone."

  "I had intended to do so, as soon as we finished discussing the fortifications and the surrounding land."

  "So the castle ... is really yours?"

  "The castle is Scotland's. I will man it, aye. Does that make me marriage material in your eyes? Does it provide a home?"

  She doused him angrily with water from the tub. She managed a good strike; one he had not expected. She drenched his hair, his face, his shoulders. He was still a single moment, then moved like lightning, drawing her up to her feet, water pouring from the linen she wore as if she were a human fountain. His force was such that she cried out with alarm, "Brendan, the babe!"

  He held still, and to her amazement, he began laughing. "My lady, you are a crafty opponent indeed." Then suddenly his fingers threaded the dampness of her hair as he cradled her nape and the back of her head, pulling her against him. They were both soaked; she tasted the hot steam of the bath on his lips, tasted the warmth, felt the wet sinking sensation, and trembled as she stood in his arms. When he released her lips at last, she met his eyes.