British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

Chapter 4

  Ulf ran his tongue over his lips and leered. Even though he wasn’t close enough to touch her, Fayre stepped away from his outstretched arms.

  “What is the matter, my pretty lassie? You should be grateful that a vassal, especially one as close to the laird as I, would even look at you twice.”

  “If ye are of such importance, would you nae be able tae find many willing ladies tae do yer bidding?”

  “Aye, I can have my way with any lady in the king’s court.” Ulf ran his fingers through a few strands of his curly hair. “But you! You are exceptionally fine, exceptionally fair. Fair like the roses you grow.” He took in an exaggerated whiff with such force that his nostrils folded almost shut. “You are honest, of the earth. The smell of God’s soil clings to you, to your hair, tae your frock.”

  He regarded her brown clothing, and then let his gaze travel to her bare feet. “Aye, you are different from the fine ladies I am accustomed to. I am expected to woo them with poetry and words o’ love.” He opened his mouth and patted it three times, feigning a yawn. “But with you, I need not display pretense.” The expression on his face as he watched Fayre reminded her of how a lion must look when surveying his dinner.

  Fayre shook her head and stepped back. Her bare heel made contact with the foot of the bed. Her heart made her aware of its presence by its rapid beating. Since she had nowhere to go, she stood in place, trembling.

  Father in heaven, protect me!

  Ulf swiped his arm toward her waist. She stepped aside, evading him.

  Please, Father, hear my prayer!

  “So you want to put up a fight, eh?” The glint in his eyes grew more evident. “I like a lass with spirit!” His chortle made her squirm.

  Her answer was to make a run for the door. To Fayre’s dismay, her foot caught on the end of the bed covering. She tripped. Although she managed to keep upright, she stumbled long enough for Ulf to catch her in his arms. Red lips puckered and made their way toward hers.

  Nay! My first kiss canna be like this!

  She screamed, her voice high-pitched with urgency.

  Obviously surprised by her resistance, Ulf jerked his head back. “What are you making such a fuss for, lass? ’Tis only a kiss.” An evil smile covered his face as Ulf brought his lips closer to hers.

  Fayre moved her head away from his, but caught up in his grasp as she was, she knew resistance was in vain.

  A welcome sound of footsteps was followed by the door creaking open.

  Ulf stopped in midmotion, cursing under his breath.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Murdag’s face held an expression of curiosity and disbelief.

  “ ’Tis none of your affair,” Ulf answered. Still, he let Fayre go and stepped back. Murdag’s beady eyes shifted so that her gaze bored into Fayre. “Is he here by your leave?”

  “Nay,” she whimpered.

  “She lies!” Ulf protested.

  Murdag’s eyelids sharpened into narrow slits. She said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “Nay, I believe she speaks the truth, sir.”

  “How dare you accept the word of a mere serf over the declaration of a knight! If I werena a gentleman and you were a man rather than a maid, Murdag, I would be forced to draw my sword in my defense.”

  “I beg pardon, Sir Ulf.” She curtsied and withdrew.

  Nay! Now I ha’e no chance at all. Fayre’s uncontrolled trembling resumed.

  “Where were we?” Lust returned to Ulf’s eyes.

  Fayre watched the open door, hoping against hope that Murdag would return.

  Ulf’s gaze followed hers. “Aye. ’Twould be a good idea to shut the door, would it not? We cannot have everyone in the castle knowing our secret.”

  Fayre glanced around the room. Where could she run? Although the room was large, it had no hiding places. The only door was the one Ulf was shutting at this moment. Could she jump out of the nearest window? No. Shaped like keyholes, they were too narrow. And even if she could squeeze through one, surely the jump to the ground would kill her. Perhaps she could pick up an object and throw it upon his head? Nay. That would be too rash. Besides, Murdag had already seen her with Ulf. Her quick exit indicated she accepted Ulf’s story that Fayre had invited him to be in her bedchamber. If she injured Ulf, he would have her thrown out of the castle, and her father was sure to go to prison.

  “Nay!” she shrieked, more at the thought than at her captor.

  “Silence!” Ulf cautioned.

  At that moment, she heard the door fly open with such force that it hit the opposing wall. Fayre gasped when she realized that Laird Kenneth stood in the entryway.

  “Ulf?” Laird Kenneth planted his feet on the floor and stood erect.

  Ulf blanched, then bowed. “Aye, my laird?”

  “So it is as Murdag said.” Laird Kenneth lifted his chin and surveyed his vassal. Tightened lips suggested disapproval. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “She wanted me to be here.”

  Wanted him to be there? How could Sir Ulf, a knight who was sworn to valor, bear false witness in such a blatant manner? The words flew off his lips as though he lied every day. She wouldn’t have believed it possible had she not heard with her own ears.

  “Nay!” Fayre objected. “He entered my bedchamber without my permission or my desire.”

  “The wench lies,” Ulf said.

  “Does she?” Laird Kenneth asked. “Then why is her body shaking?”

  “In fear of your ire, no doubt,” Ulf retorted. “She knows you can never believe the word of a serf over your own devoted vassal.”

  “It is my hope that you would not lie, but I fear you disappoint me.”

  “Why would I lie about a mere serf?” Ulf looked at Fayre as though she were a dead rat, before returning his attention to the laird. “And even if I did, what does it matter? She is but property.”

  Fear gripped Fayre’s torso. Ulf was right. According to the law, she was nothing more than the laird’s possession, to do with as he pleased. In spite of the fact that the laird had ordered the seamstress to sew her a new frock, in spite of the fact that she was ensconced in a guest chamber, she was his servant. The word of a chattel would never override the declaration of a knight.

  Fayre braced herself to be punished. What would the laird decree? Fifty lashes? Banishment to the servants’ quarters, where she was already resented? Or would she be spending her stay in the dungeon, no doubt among rats that would fight her for a piece of molded bread and unclean water—the fate she had tried to spare her father? She struggled not to shake.

  “I shall not have any untoward behavior toward a woman who is in my care, regardless of her station.” Laird Kenneth paused, studying them both. Finally, the laird looked his vassal in the eye and proclaimed, “Ulf, you may return to your home to await my summons.”

  Fayre’s heart beat faster, but this time with victory rather than anguish. The laird believed her over his own knight!

  Ulf’s mouth dropped open in obvious shock and upset. “But my laird—”

  “You heard what I said.” The laird’s tone showed that he would brook no argument. “I am the laird of this manor. You shall obey me.”

  “Very well.” Ulf threw a hate-filled look her way, then bowed to Laird Kenneth and exited.

  Ulf was gone! Fayre clutched her hands to her chest in relief. As soon as she realized she was safe once again, curiosity overcame her. “What will happen tae him now?”

  The laird’s eyebrows shot up and he folded his arms. “Do you really care?”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer. “I–I don’t wish tae be the cause of hardship for anyone.”

  Laird Kenneth’s eyes widened and he shook his head slowly. “How can you be so forgiving?” He paused. “Unless you really did wish his presence—”

  “Nay, my laird. Ne’er.” Fayre felt her face flush at the thought that she would ask a knight into her bedchamber. At the thought of what might have happened, unwelcome tears streamed down her
cheeks.

  “How scared you must have been.” The laird’s eyes were alight with compassion. He closed the gap between them and took her in his arms.

  Nay! Not him, too!

  She looked into his silver eyes, thinking she might protest. Anything she could say would be feeble since she was in his complete control. But when she studied his face, she saw no leer, no untoward lust, no puckering of the lips—just kindness. Truly he sought to comfort her, not to take advantage. At that moment, she realized she liked the feeling of his arms around her. Never had she felt more protected, more safe.

  How can that be? I was once afraid of Laird Kenneth. Now he is my redeemer?

  Gently she broke the embrace. “I praise my heavenly Father that ye entered when ye did.”

  “Only because Murdag told me.”

  “I praise God that she believed me.”

  “How could she not? Honesty exudes from you.”

  The compliment would have pleased Fayre any other time, but Laird Kenneth’s words were too close to Ulf’s earlier observation to give her solace.

  “I only regret,” he said, “that my vassal is not as chaste as you are. And he is not likely to be as forgiving either.”

  Fayre shivered.

  “I assure you, he will not be permitted near you again as long as you remain here.” A light of kindness entered his eyes. “You are righteous to forgive him.”

  “The Lord said for us tae forgive offenses, no matter how often they occur.”

  “You know much,” the laird said. “You must listen to the priest rather than daydreaming during worship as many young girls do.”

  “My favorite uncle was a cleric. He taught me at his knee.” Fayre felt her eyes mist. “He is gone now. Gone tae a better place, where the Lord has built many mansions.” She bowed her head. “Perhaps even one for Sir Ulf.”

  The laird thought for a moment. “He seems to repent not. Remember, we are not required to forgive unless we are asked.” The laird’s voice was soft.

  “Nay, but I choose tae forgive him nonetheless.”

  Laird Kenneth shook his head. “You are a stronger person than many who reside in the king’s court.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them. A young woman stood in the entryway and curtsied.

  “Brona,” Laird Kenneth said. “Good. I want you to begin on Fayre’s frock immediately. Her garment should be fine but sturdy enough for every day.”

  “Aye, my laird. In what fabric?” Brona inquired. “Is the gold cloth we already have suitable for your pleasure, my laird?”

  “More than suitable. Perfect.” With his broad smile, Fayre had never seen him look so happy. She realized how handsome he appeared when his expression was touched by glee. “But we have no fabric for the second garment, I am sure.”

  “Second garment?” Brona gasped.

  “Of course. What colors do you prefer, Fayre?”

  Fayre didn’t know how to answer. In the past, her only decision regarding the color of the wool she spun herself had been whether to dye it with vegetable juices or to leave it in its natural state. “I–I canna imagine, my laird.”

  His mouth twisted into a sympathetic line. “Nay. Nay, I suppose not. Very well, then. You and I shall travel to the marketplace on the morrow.”

  Fayre was struck speechless. Travel to the marketplace with the laird? She couldn’t imagine such a privilege!

  “Brona,” he was saying, “discuss with Fayre what type of frocks she would prefer and determine how much fabric I should purchase.” The laird turned his attention back to Fayre. “Once you begin to dress in a more suitable manner, you shall be treated in a more suitable way. With respect. The type of respect a godly woman merits.”

  Respect? Could he think of her as more than mere property? His words seemed to indicate that he did.

  “Brona,” he said, “consider what you will need for three sets of clothing.”

  “Three!” the women exclaimed in unison.

  For an instant, Fayre thought she might faint with joy. Never in her wildest fantasy did she think she would ever own one fine garment. But three? Had she heard the laird correctly?

  “Aye,” said Laird Kenneth. “Two shall be for every day and one for the king’s ball.”

  Fayre gasped. “The king’s ball?”

  He nodded. “The event will be held two weeks from today. You, Fayre Rose—and your wonderful blooms—shall be present.”

  Later that day, Kenneth felt a pang of guilt as he left the castle with his falcon to meet his hunting party. Because of his actions, a serf maiden had been whisked away from the only home she had ever known and taken to an imposing castle that must have seemed strange and forbidding. His decision, made in a fit of tough compassion, had placed her in jeopardy from one of his vassals.

  Father, forgive me!

  Fayre was the only woman ever to inspire him to experience such an extraordinary number of emotions in such a short time. Certainly, her outward beauty showed through her mean garment. Yet he didn’t fully see her inner spirit until she forgave Ulf so quickly after he displayed himself to be a beast. Had his vassal, a man he had trusted for years, always treated women as such? Or was Fayre subjected to his disdain just because of her low status?

  Kenneth knew that his own father would chastise him if he had been present. A man given more to the material world than the spiritual one, his father would have found Ulf’s pursuit of Fayre a source of amusement. What was a pretty serf if not a diversion?

  The idea of following in his deceased father’s footsteps repulsed Kenneth. He could not look at any woman and think she was something to be trifled with. The Lord Jesus Christ had made plain in His teachings that women were valuable in His Father’s sight. Kenneth couldn’t bring himself to treat any woman as chattel, no matter what the laws of the land said he could do.

  Especially not Fayre. Fair as the roses she grew, she had caught more than his fancy. In the briefest of times, she had captured his heart.

  The following day, Fayre ventured out into the garden to check on her roses. Yesterday she wished they would live to assure her father’s survival. Today she wanted them to bloom into mature beauty to please her laird.

  Her laird. He had rescued her, had believed her word over a trusted vassal. Her word! She never thought she would be of any value to a laird, but Laird Kenneth treated her as a prize. And to think, he wanted her to enjoy respect, so much that he was willing to buy her pieces of fabric at the marketplace. The thought was so lovely that it pained her to imagine it, to dream of such privilege.

  She touched a green leaf of a surviving rosebush with a gentleness she reserved for her flowers. Of the four that had made the arduous journey, only one looked as though it had any hope of survival. Yet that one remaining plant looked hardy. Hard green balls on the tips of several branches promised flowers for the future.

  Father in heaven, please allow my flowers tae bloom and for Laird Kenneth tae be pleased.

  “Prayin’ won’t get ye anywheres with the flowers,” Norman’s sharp voice interrupted. “Only good soil and fair weather will get you good blooms.”

  She opened her eyes. “Prayer always helps, even if the Lord dinna see fit tae answer as we might wish.”

  “If He dinna answer as we like, then I dinna see how it helps much. That’s how I see it.”

  “I am certain that God will change your mind one day. At least, I hope He will.”

  Norman shrugged. “I doubt that. Nae with this awful plague. It has struck the castle now. All of us are doomed.”

  “The plague? Nay, please say ye speak in jest.” Fayre clutched her throat in shock and despair.

  “I would never speak in jest aboot such a thing.”

  Fayre could tell from his monotone that he spoke the truth. She ran down a mental list of those she knew in the castle. The list was short. Since the laird had decided for reasons unknown to her to treat her as a guest, Fayre wasn’t permitted to socialize with the servants. Yet Ulf an
d Walter, the vassals who had been with the laird the day he brought her here, told all they knew of her lowly status. As a result, the laird’s friends treated her with civility, but no warmth. Her only real companion was her maid, Murdag. Even she had been unsympathetic to Fayre until the incident with Ulf. Contemplating what could have occurred was still enough to make her shudder. “Then who among us is sick? The dairy maid? Or one of the squires?”

  “Nay. Much worse.” He leaned toward her and whispered. “ ’Tis the laird himself.”

  Her stomach lurched in distress. She took in an audible breath. “The laird himself?”

  “Aye. He was feeling ill last night. This morning, he dinna rise from his bed.” Norman shook his head. “ ’Tis a shame. No one will go near him. Nae e’en his most devoted servants.”

  “They mustn’t be devoted enough if they refuse tae help him in his time of need.” Fayre remembered a time, not so long ago, when the laird had come to her rescue.

  “The servants love him very much,” Norman argued. “But tae go near him the noo is t’ write one’s ain death sentence.”

  Fayre imagined the laird, so strong, so bold, now lying helpless against a dreaded disease. “I maun see him!”

  “See him?” Norman laid his hand on her shoulder. “Dinna be more foolish than the court jester, lass. If ye go near tae him, ye are sure to die.”

  “Perhaps I shan’t die.”

  “Men of God have died while nursing plague victims. What makes ye believe ye are stronger than they?”

  “I make no such claim. But if I die, so be it. I will go and see tae him now.”

  Chapter 5

  Ye canna go in the laird’s bedchamber,” Murdag cautioned Fayre. “Not e’en his most loyal servants dare enter except tae get food tae him with the greatest of haste.”

  “They hurry in and out without a word? Does he nae deserve better?”

  “He has been the image o’ kindness tae me,” Murdag admitted. “No finer example save the Lord Jesus Himself, I expect.”

  “Aye. Ye have witnessed his compassion toward me as well,” Fayre said.

  “I know. And I ken ye want tae repay him,” Murdag said. “But the laird is already sick, and ye arenna. Maun ye make a deliberate effort t’ place yourself in danger, thereby further endangering everyone else in the castle? Did I save ye from Sir Ulf only tae have ye die of the plague?”