by Jillian Hart
“How many men keep watch on the walls?”
“But a handful.”
’Twas not good. Malcolm burst onto the battlements, the cool night bringing with it the scent of danger. All was chaos as men raced along the walls toward the gatehouse, where their weapons and armor were stored. “With the cover of dark and the distance involved, we must prepare for the worst. Where is Elin?”
“Do you expect her hand in this?” Ian’s voice turned as cold as the night.
Malcolm could not speak ill of the woman who’d saved his life. Nor could he rightly say he thought her a traitor, not after the courage and the heart she’d shown him. “I only know there are those not pleased I was given this barony.”
“Would she betray you to your enemies?”
Other women in his past certainly had without an ounce of regret. And if he drove them to it, well, he was a man not suited to a woman’s clinging needs, and was not surprised by vengeance when the liaison ended. Elin would not prove different in this. “I am not certain of my wife’s loyalties. She knows this castle well. There may be others who—”
“Fie on you, my lord.” Sarcasm dripped in her words, blended with irrational fury. She marched into sight, every footstep punctuated with anger. “You have no reason to suspect me.”
“Elin, you misunderstand.” He could not tear his gaze from the sight of her. “I’ve much to attend to and have no time to spare. To your chamber—”
“This is my castle.” She circled him, all bewitching female and temper. “I would never allow the enemy to step foot inside, do you hear me? Those servants who waited on your men this night are people I have known my entire life. ’Tis my duty as lady of this castle to keep them safe from violence.”
He was beginning to like her temper. “Easy, dove. I apologize for my words.” The breeze shivered through her curls, and his fingers ached to touch those silken tresses. “Women are treacherous creatures, and—”
“Treacherous?” Her temper flared higher. She took a step toward him with a clenched fist. “Woman do not make war like men, or rape or pillage or hurt whomever they please.”
“Women make their own brand of war.” Was she not aware of her power? Of any woman’s power over a man? She gazed up at him, eyes snapping with outrage. He did not think she knew how vulnerable a woman could make a man. “Are women not capable of great hurt and deceit?”
“I am not.”
Moonlight stroked the length of her locks, transforming gold to platinum and gilding her nightdress with silver. The fabric shivered around her slim form, teasing at her womanly curves beneath. She was enchantment and temptation, like the moon goddess of old, and all alluring beauty.
The sights and tension and sounds of impending battle faded. Malcolm could not resist reaching out to touch the radiant bounty of her curls or feel the light upon her hair. She was real and did not fade when his fingers wound through her tresses.
“Do you still think me a traitor?” He saw the tears in her eyes, stubborn and emotional, as she spoke. “I fought beside your men for this keep. Does that not prove my loyalty?”
“A woman’s nature is fickle, dove.” He heard Ian’s shouted commands as he positioned archers along the walls, Giles’s orders to find a way to secure Elin’s secret door. His men did not trust her. Sad the day when le Farouche gave his own complete trust to a female.
“Fickle! I am not fickle. I’m stalwart and—”
“You are emotional. Emotions are unreliable.”
“What kind of person has no emotions?” Her question lingered, and Elin knew the answer as if the night itself had breathed it. “You must have some amount of feelings? Some regrets?”
“None.” He gazed out at the battlements, where his men now wore armor and swords. He looked as bleak as the night. “The last we spoke, you swore to be my enemy.”
“Aye, but I am not an enemy of Evenbough Castle.” How her throat ached. She turned away before foolish sentiments made her cry like a weakling for this man so hard that he could not feel even the goodness of living. “I’ve come to fight.”
“You wear your nightdress.”
“I did not know what the ruckus was about until I climbed the stairs. I can cause much chaos with a crossbow.”
His face hardened. “I cannot allow a woman to fight.”
“Too fickle?”
He passed a hand over his brow, his rigid jaw. Exhaustion made him pale, and the pain did not relent. “Nay. ’Tis just not done. Women are for—”
“I will send a word of warning to the servants and villagers.” She lifted her chin, not certain if he would have her hauled off and locked in her chamber. “I can be warrior enough, as long as I am not forced to kill anyone.”
He shook his head, scattering dark locks across his broad shoulders. Then he chuckled. “Fine. Go see to the servants and villeins. You may cause enough chaos with your crossbow that it will terrify the enemy into submission.”
“Tease all you wish, but you just never know. I am the wife of the fiercest knight in the realm.”
His loins burned for her. How he hungered to ease his lust and ache and loneliness within her sweet body. To set aside duty for the length of time it took to worship the soft curves of her breasts and hips, and to experience that brief flame of passion. He knew she would burn brightly for him. His blood beat a hard rhythm in his chest and groin as he watched her dash away. Aye, how he wanted to forget a lifetime’s regrets.
“The enemy advances.” Ian’s censure weighed down his words. “They are knights. I doubt they are friendly.”
“Only Edward would send men in peace, no other.” Malcolm strode the remaining few yards to the gatehouse and saw the mass of advancing warriors through the protection of crenellated stone. Chain mail glittered wherever light found it. “Where is my squire? I’ll need my armor. I dare not trust this to end peaceably.”
After he’d pulled on chain mail, he surveyed his defenses. His gaze found Elin in the bailey below, pointing at the walls and speaking to Giles as if she were discussing weak points in their defense. A freeman approached and spoke with her, no doubt worried about the chaos beyond the walls.
As if Elin felt Malcolm’s gaze, she looked up. Her face changed, and his heart stopped beating. In that brief moment before Ian spoke to him and drew his attention, he saw the gleam of respect in her eyes.
No matter how she despised him, she trusted him to keep her people safe.
Malcolm oversaw Ian’s orders and approved the choice of defense. He struggled to hide the pain and weakness from his wound. As the army ahead massed at the moat, Malcolm bid his men to prepare, but hold their fire.
He chose a protected spot behind stone and called out to the forces below. “This is Malcolm le Farouche, baron of this castle. Who approaches in the dead of night?”
“I am called Nels the Hawk,” a harsh voice answered. “If le Farouche lives, then that can only mean the Great One is dead.”
“I killed him. Unless you have plans against this castle or the king, I have no argument with you. Leave peaceably and avoid bloodshed.”
“I cannot.” Below, the mercenary nudged his mount closer, so he stood alone at the edge of the moat with his army behind him. “Are there prisoners?”
“We have but one. My men are well-trained warriors and were victorious against your friends.” Malcolm signaled to Ian to double the watch along the walls. “Nels the Hawk, if I release my prisoner to you, will you go?”
“The prisoner is not my only request.”
“Name it.” A cold prickle scraped down his neck. Malcolm nodded to Ian, ready to give the command to fire.
“I was promised a bride,” came the explanation from below. “I paid for the right to the baron’s daughter, Elinore.”
So it was true. The traitor Philip had traded Elin to pay for his channel crossing. Malcolm glanced toward the bailey, but she’d stepped from his sight. Regret felt heavy upon his heart. “Philip was judged a traitor to the crown
and his possessions seized. Any bargains he made I will honor.”
“Then send down the girl and our man, and we will leave you in peace.”
Silence gathered when Malcolm did not answer. The night grew tense as the men poised for battle awaited their commands.
Elin eased around the door of the gatehouse tower and saw Malcolm shadowed on the battlements. How tall he stood, and how strong he looked. Only she knew he was too injured to fight. He hung his head in debate. Armored knights surrounded him, swords sheathed at their sides, bows ready.
By the saints, he was going to give her to that horrible Nels. Now was his chance to be rid of a difficult wife. Her fingers dug into stone, her fingernails breaking. She pressed against the wall, afraid the guards would seize her upon sight.
She closed her eyes. She should run. She could escape through the bolt-hole, and none would find her. Not even le Farouche. By the time he finished with this battle, her trail would be cold and she would be safe.
Safe from what? Malcolm had not harmed her or forced her to share his bed and endure painful sexual humiliation. The memory of his kiss still burned like a brand upon her lips. She had tasted the man and knew he was not always fierce.
He wouldn’t trade her now, would he? She heard the whisper of a step behind her and the cold steel of an armored hand upon her arm. The knight forced her onto the battlements, where starlight gleamed on the shoulders of a hundred knights.
When Malcolm’s gaze found hers, she no longer saw the man who’d kissed her, who’d retreated when he could have conquered her. She saw the warrior.
“The woman is mine.” His decision boomed along the battlements with a striking force.
A mean snicker echoed from the yard below. “Have you formed a liking for the wench? Will you try to trade your life for this one, too? Send her down, le Farouche. One female is like another and this one has been promised to me.”
“Are you seeking death?”
“Nay.” Nels’s smirk tainted his words. “Just seeking all that is yours. Beginning with the woman. She is mine, and I want her.”
“Never.” The thought of that villain’s hands upon Elin drove rage into Malcolm’s chest.
She moved close to him, a slim reed on these dangerous battlements. “Do you know him?”
“Nels is banished from this land, yet he dares to step foot upon English soil to take you as his.” Malcolm hardened his heart, but the hot protective rage still burned.
She approached the crenellated wall with careful steps, her slim body held stiff with fear. She gazed down on the army below and quickly stepped back. The squire’s clothing she now wore only accented her frailty and how easily crushed she would be in the wrong man’s hands. “I know him.”
“She admits her deceit!” Ian grabbed her hard against his chest, sword drawn and gleaming.
“Ian.” Malcolm caught his commander by the arm. “Hold your sword. She’s but a woman.”
“I am no betrayer.” Elin fought her way out of Ian’s grip. “That man visited with Father several times. I saw him only from a distance, but I know him on sight. This man must have plotted with my father against Edward.”
“Were there others?” Malcolm’s demand rang along rock and stone and in the hollow chambers of his heart. “I would have the truth, dove.”
Only honesty lit her face as she laid her hand upon his mailed fist. “Father had many visitors, and I kept my distance from them. When you locate all of Evenbough’s knights who’ve disappeared, then mayhap they could tell you more.”
Malcolm gently brushed his gauntleted hand across her cheek. She was not so bad a wife.
“Le Farouche, send down the woman. And tell me how fares my man in your dungeons.”
Malcolm heard the mocking in the mercenary’s voice and tasted the danger. He’d defended many a baron’s castle when Edward had ordered it, and experience had taught him well. He spied the silent movement of a few fighters below.
Hadn’t Ian noticed? The enemy was busily snaking around the castle under the cloak of darkness, looking for a way over the walls. “Elin, take Giles and twenty of my men and show them every entrance into the castle, even the ones you don’t wish to show me.”
“I already did.”
But a single shout of alarm from below proved it was too late.
“The bolt-hole!” There was no mistaking the terror in her eyes. She’d not betrayed them.
Malcolm grabbed a bow and quiver from his squire and shouted commands. “Chayne, lead the squires in loading. We’ll take these foul swine with arrows, for we cannot leave the walls unattended. Giles, lead the defense at the postern gate.”
He sighted a mercenary skulking in the bailey below and let an arrow fly. Malcolm watched the enemy tumble to the ground, only to be replaced by another.
“Raymond, they plan to take the gatehouse.” Malcolm felled another fighter with a well-placed arrow, then saw who knelt beside him, struggling with the bow. “Elin, battle is no place for a woman. Run while you can and lock yourself in the keep.”
“I want to make certain you do not hand me over to that Nels.”
“Then aid Chayne in loading my arrows.” Better to have her behind him where he could keep her safe. His squire handed him a ready bow, and he fired. “Lulach, look over the wall and tell me why they’ve not begun a frontal attack.”
“By the rood! Another force approaches.” The seasoned knight lowered his weapon and stared over the ramparts.
Malcolm rose to do the same. The shades of night revealed armed men advancing from the cover of the forest and fanning out to challenge the army at the walls.
He could not believe his eyes. “It must be Philip’s men.”
“Evenbough’s knights have returned.” Elin’s pleasure held the luster of starlight. “I feared they were dead.”
“Look, more men on horseback approach. ’Tis Justus and Orson.” Malcolm set down his bow. “The battle is won. Let us round up our prisoners and prepare to deliver these traitors to Edward.”
Malcolm saw the freemen and knights take the last of the invaders, and peace reigned. Peace. He’d fought long and hard and had never felt this before, the calm and quiet that could fill a man’s soul.
“Tell me, Malcolm. Why did you not give me to Nels?” Elin laid her hand on his arm, and her gentle touch warmed him even through the hard links of steel.
His chest ached looking at her. Her hair rippled with the touch of the night wind, and even the squire’s clothing could not hide her beauty.
“I would not have given you to anyone. You are mine, dove.” He laid his hand along her cheek, just to touch her, and she smiled at him. Truly smiled.
His heart stopped beating, and for once he wished he was not Malcolm the Fierce, but just a man, any man, so that he could give in to the need to hold her.
You are mine, dove. She hated his claim on her life and body. Worse, she hated the unnatural way her blood heated and her heartbeat quickened whenever she saw him.
His words lingered in her mind as she patched up a few minor wounds the knights had sustained. Then, when she aided Florie serving wine and food, she found her husband seated in the great hall. He looked weary and pale as he accepted the oaths of fealty from the displaced knights who had once served her father. By the sound of it, the knights were honored now to fight for the great le Farouche.
“See how he watches you.” Florie unloaded a tray of food left over from the evening’s feast. “See? He just looked away.”
“He fears I’ll betray him. Or try to escape.”
Florie laughed. “’Tis a wicked sense of humor you have, deary. Even with a wound great enough to put a lesser man to his death, our lord commanded the defense of our castle and saved us all. And you hold the honor of being his wife.”
Elin dropped the tray of smoked salmon on the table and watched a handful of hungry squires descend upon it. Aye, she was Malcolm’s wife, and that both frightened her and excited her. He’d appeared so invinci
ble on the battlements, she feared how he could dominate her life. What could she do to protect herself? Her sharp tongue did not frighten him. Her skill with weapons did not alarm him. Only her kiss had driven distance between them.
She caught sight of several of the women her father allowed in the castle, the ones who slept near the knights quarters in the gatehouse. One woman was a great beauty and couldn’t take her gaze from Malcolm, who spoke earnestly to a warrior kneeling before him.
Well, let the wench pleasure him. He could have her, and all the women he wished. Elin didn’t care. He did not look for her in the crowded hall, no matter what Florie said. It was as if he purposefully looked the other way, as if the mere sight of her reminded him of her repulsive kiss.
It didn’t hurt her feelings, she told herself as she headed back down to the kitchen, where Florie’s husband was waiting. She saw how sweetly the old man greeted his wife with a hug and tender words, and her throat ached. It did not matter if Malcolm would never greet her like that. She would never desire such treatment from a man. She did not pine for tenderness from her husband.
When she next entered the hall, Elin’s gaze found Malcolm again. But Florie was wrong. He did not look for her in the crowd.
“Elin.” ’Twas his voice and his limping step in the corridor.
She turned, surprised to see no silk-clad wench clinging to his arm. “’Twas good of you to accept Father’s men.”
“They aided us out of their own free will, without promises already made.” How exhausted he looked, with bruises beneath his eyes and lines dug deep into his rugged face. “It seems only fair to give them a chance to prove their loyalty.”
She avoided his gaze. “Good night.”
“Elin.” He stopped her with a touch to her shoulder, a touch that scorched like flame. “I’m not used to a woman who helps in battle, and then aids the servants with the food.”
“Florie was too old and tired to do it herself.”
“You are attached to the woman.”
Was that tenderness she heard? From Malcolm le Farouche? “Both Alma and Florie looked after me when my mother died. Aside from my brother, there was no one to protect me.”
