by Tarah Scott
“I wondered if there was a hiding place where more coin was hidden,” said a male voice behind her.
Rhoslyn shot to her feet and whirled. The beast who had kidnapped her stood, shoulder leaning against the cupboard. Where had he come from? She had closed the door behind her. He couldn’t have entered without her knowledge. She cut her gaze to the corner behind him. It was the only place he could have possibly hidden. How had he wedged his broad shoulders between the cupboard and wall? How had she missed him there?
His eyes dropped to the chest. “Is that money entered into the accounts?”
“Ask your laird,” she retorted.
His gaze jerked up to meet hers, surprise in his dark eyes, and Rhoslyn realized her mistake. Her eyes flew to his right arm, covered with a linen shirt and chainmail, where was rumored to be painted a picture of St. Claire’s sister who had died as a young girl.
Rhoslyn lifted her gaze to his face. “You.”
He didn’t reply, only stared at her with intense brown eyes. A strange flush of heat reached her cheeks. She startled upon realizing his attention lingered on her mouth.
“You murdered my grandfather’s men—then kidnapped a defenseless woman,” she said.
His gaze lifted to hers. “Defenseless? You stabbed me.”
“Ye are a common thief.”
“Have you counted the coin?” he asked.
She frowned. “What?”
“I wonder that you can call me thief when you have yet to confirm that a single silver coin is gone.”
“It matters not if every piece is here. Ye will spend it when and how you please—despite the fact the money is mine.”
“It was your husband’s, I wager,” he replied.
“As much mine as his,” she shot back, remembering the countless hours spent buying and selling goods, saving, counting, hording money and valuables against the storm that had brewed in Scotland. But her efforts had been in vain. The storm had come to her. She suddenly remembered the dagger she’d come for—and her grandfather. “What has happened with my grandfather?”
“Aodh Roberts intends to settle a score.”
“Aodh is a bitter man, who takes what he wants rather than work for it.”
“I have yet to meet him,” St. Claire replied in an even voice, but Rhoslyn was certain she detected a hint of amusement.
“You will meet him tonight at Longford Castle.”
“Who said I was going to Longford Castle?”
“I overheard your men say so, and your chainmail tells me ye plan for battle.”
He nodded, but said nothing. Rhoslyn realized he didn’t appear surprised that she had escaped from his bedchamber, and he had clearly known where to look for her.
“You have made yourself comfortable in my home,” she said.
“My home,” he replied.
Anger knotted her stomach. “King Edward is not a priest, and our marriage has no’ been officiated or consummated.” Sweet Jesu, she must sound like a madwoman.
He straightened. “You are right.” He reached her side in three steps. She was forced to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. He grasped her arm, but she pulled free and retreated a step.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you plan to stay here the night?” he asked.
She glanced at the chest.
“Never mind the chest,” he said. “We will lock the door when we leave.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but grasped her arm again and drew her toward the door. She wanted to protest, wanted to return the small chest to its hiding place—more than anything, she wanted to grab the dagger from the larger chest—but wants would not help her at this moment.
He stepped into the hallway, then pulled the door shut and waited.
She lifted her chin. “You must have a key. Lock the door yourself.”
He shrugged.
Rhoslyn cried out when he pulled her against his side. “What are ye doing?”
“I have no wish to be conked over the head or stabbed in the back while I lock the door.” His tone was mild as he opened his palm to reveal the key he’d been holding.
“For pity’s sake, release me,” she said. “I dinna’ plan to kill you by stabbing ye in the back.”
His arm tightened around her waist as he inserted the key and she was suddenly aware of his fingers pressing into her stomach and her arm wedged against the hard muscle of his chest. Her heart picked up speed. He turned the key in the lock and his fingers flexed when he withdrew the key and straightened.
“So you intend to look me in the eye when you kill me?” he asked.
“Aye,” she replied.
He drew her down the short corridor without loosening his hold. “I am gratified my wife has some honor.”
“I am no’ your wife.”
“Aye, you are.”
They reached the stairs and he urged her up ahead of him. In the kitchen, he grasped her arm and led her into the great hall. Men stood in half a dozen clusters about the room. Rhoslyn caught sight of a priest sitting with his back to them at the table nearest the hearth.
“Why is Father Crey here?” she demanded, but knew the answer. Her head whirled. What was she going to do? How could she stop this? Could she stop this? “Were ye no’ on your way to help my grandfather?”
“Aye.”
“Then how can we have a wedding?”
He looked down at her. “Even by your Scottish law we are already wed. I am willing to say the vows simply to please you.”
Rhoslyn understood. “Ye will help my grandfather only if I say the vows. Along with being a murderer and kidnapper, you are an extortionist.”
“You forgot thief,” he said.
“I have forgotten nothing.”
They neared the priest and he rose.
“I will help Seward because he is your grandfather. Is that not enough?” St. Claire asked.
“And if I do no’ say the vows?”
He shrugged and she wanted to scream.
“Then you can await me in my bedchambers until I return—or your bedchambers. I imagine there is no secret passageway in the lady’s room as there is in my chambers. I will bring your grandfather back with me and then come to you.”
Rhoslyn stared openmouthed.
“Fear not, lady. I am not so uncouth as to come to your bed straight from the battlefield. I promise to bathe first.”
“If ye dare come to my bed I will cut off your bollocks,” she snapped.
His brows rose. “I see you have been talking with Mistress Muira.”
* * *
Lady Rhoslyn was not what Talbot had expected. She was beautiful. A fact that might be more pitfall than windfall. Auburn hair hung to her waist in a thick braid that begged to be unraveled and spread in a halo atop white sheets. He would never wonder what this woman thought. Every emotion appeared in her dark eyes like a rolling tide. And in this instant her eyes conveyed distrust. But he didn’t read in them that she would refuse the vows.
“I will not repeat the vows,” she said.
Leave it to a woman to prove him wrong.
Talbot shrugged.
“Sweet Jesu, shrug one more time, St. Claire, and I will drive a blade through your heart.”
He started to shrug again—a habit he had to confess his father’s wife disliked as much as Lady Rhoslyn seemed to—but he managed to check the action.
Talbot looked at the priest. “You have read the contract, Priest?”
“I have.”
“It is binding?”
The man’s mouth thinned. “Aye, it is binding.”
Talbot looked at Lady Rhoslyn. “As far as the law is concerned, we are man and wife. If you care nothing for holy blessings, then you may go to bed.”
She cast a helpless appeal to the priest.
“I am sorry, Lady Rhoslyn. It is true, you are legally married. King Edward has decreed it.”
She cut her eyes to Talbot. Anger had darkened them. “Then I ima
gine we have no need of a priest.”
“But ye do,” Father Crey interjected. “For when the bairns come.”
Her cheeks reddened, but it was the anguish in her eyes that caught Talbot’s attention. He recalled the newest headstone in the family cemetery. Dougal Harper. The child had been two months old when he died.
“There is always the chance your husband will not survive the battle tonight,” Father Crey said. “If you have my blessing, should he die, then no one can dispute that his lands are yours.”
Lady Rhoslyn glanced at Talbot.
“Beware what you wish for,” he said. “The next man Edward marries you to might not be as generous as I.”
“Generous?” she retorted. “Ye have taken over my home, your men eat my food, burn my wood.”
“I have paid for my men out of the money I brought with me. I will spend none of Castle Glenbarr’s money until I have studied the household rolls.”
“Ye will deal with me and my grandfather if you take anything that doesna’ belong to you. And lest you wonder, he will deal with you concerning the slaughter of his men.”
“That he will, for he is responsible for the death of one of my men.”
“One of your men? By God, you have bollocks. Ye slaughter his men, yet have the audacity to be affronted when one of your men dies in the battle?”
“There was no slaughter,” St. Claire said. “Only three of Seward’s men were lost. The rest are on their way here.”
“What? I do not believe ye. I heard the fighting.”
“When they arrive, Lady Rhoslyn, you may see for yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Three were killed?”
“Aye.”
She pursed her lips. “You feel no’ one wit of regret for killing those men.”
“You may speak with your grandfather concerning their deaths. It is he who chose to defy law and secret you away in order to perform an illegal marriage. I merely protected what is mine.”
Surprise flitted across her face, quickly replaced by ire.
“Do no’ delay,” the priest urged. “If Sir Talbot dies and your union hasna’ been sanctioned by the church, Edward can seize Sir Talbot’s land, as well as yours.”
The truth of what he said flared in the lady’s eyes. She looked at Talbot. “I will no’ marry ye unless you bring my grandfather back safe.”
Talbot canted his head. “I vow to deliver him tonight. Until then, you will await me in your chambers.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I will wait where I please.”
“Nay, lady. My men are well trained, but I will no’ risk your safety while I am gone.” Talbot shifted his attention to Father Crey. “We will need your services tomorrow.”
“The wedding is a month hence,” Lady Rhoslyn said.
He shrugged. “As you wish. We can repeat the vows now or a month from now, but when I return, we will live as man and wife.”
Chapter Four
Rhoslyn ascended the stairs ahead of St. Claire. He kept two steps behind, but she could still feel the heat from his large body. They reached the second floor and she glanced left. A blanket-covered figure slept in the shadows of the balcony overlooking the great hall. Movement and a guttural groan emanated from the blanket. She slowed and squinted into the shadowy corner, then veered toward the balcony. Rhoslyn yanked the blanket from the figure. She gasped. A man lay atop a woman. Her legs wrapped his waist. St. Claire muttered something and brushed past Rhoslyn. He grabbed the man by the arm and yanked him up and off the woman. Rhoslyn caught sight of the man’s sculpted body and healthy erection.
“Do no’ hurt him, laird,” the woman cried.
“Alana?” Rhoslyn took a step closer and the woman shrank deeper into the corner, covering herself with the blanket. “Alana, have ye lost your mind?” Rhoslyn demanded. She whirled on the two men. “You let your men abuse my women, St. Claire?”
“She does not look abused,” he replied.
“Daniel wouldna’ harm me,” Alana interjected.
“I do not want a brood of bastards running about Castle Glenbarr,” Rhoslyn snapped.
“Bastards have their uses, my lady,” St. Claire replied.
She rolled her eyes. “You are too sensitive. I meant that these women will be left with fatherless children to raise.”
“You cannot stop human nature,” he said.
“I can enforce rules. Your men must understand that their actions carry consequences.”
“You mean marriage?”
“Or prison.”
“Sir Talbot,” Daniel began.
“Beware, Daniel,” St. Claire warned, “you might find yourself in prison this very night, or worse—” Rhoslyn thought she detected a hint of amusement when he ended with, “married.”
“Get up, Alana,” Rhoslyn ordered. “As for ye,” she said to Daniel, “be gone.”
“Nay, my lady,” Alana cried, but the man made no such protestations. He grabbed his clothes and rushed down the stairs.
Alana leapt to her feet. “Nay,” she wailed.
“The man sported with you, nothing more,” Rhoslyn said in exasperation.
“He might have wanted more if ye hadna’ interfered.”
Rhoslyn pinned her with a hard stare. “You forget yourself, Alana. I am mistress here.”
The girl’s eyes dropped. “I havena’ forgotten.”
“Put on your clothes and go to bed,” Rhoslyn ordered.
Alana grabbed her dress from the floor and with the blanket around her shoulders, hurried down the hallway ahead of them.
“Keep your men away from my women,” Rhoslyn told St. Claire as they started forward.
“As you wish, my lady.”
Something in his voice caused Rhoslyn to look up at him. He lifted a brow, but she read nothing more in his expression than curiosity. But this time she was sure she had heard it: Amusement.
Rhoslyn tossed in bed, stomach churning. Sheila stirred in her sleep beside her and Rhoslyn stilled. The maid quieted. Rhoslyn stared up at the canopy in the near darkness, willing her mind not to picture her son’s crib beside her bed. How long had she lain in bed? Two hours? Longer? Try as she might, she still heard only Dougal’s ragged breathing in those moments before he breathed his last while cradled in her arms. The weight of his small form pressed against her arms. She’d told herself a thousand times it was her imagination, but he’d seemed lighter in that instant after he’d died. Did the soul have substance?
Rhoslyn forced back a sob. Fourteen months in the convent and the pain still cut like a knife. She was so certain it would lessen by the time she returned. Lies! She fled to the convent with the intention of never returning. Wasn’t that why she planned to dower her stepdaughter with Castle Glenbarr? A rustling caused her to start before she realized that their guard merely shifted on the bench near the hearth.
Oh Dougal! Dearest Alec. You left without seeing your son buried.
Neither had Rhoslyn seen him buried. She’d simply left him to be lowered into the cold ground without the comfort of a mother.
She fisted her hands. Why, God, did I not die instead?
Curse King Edward for interfering in her life and curse St. Claire for bringing her to Castle Glenbarr.
A knock sounded on the door and Rhoslyn bolted upright in bed. Had St. Claire returned? Her stomach turned a somersault before she realized he wouldn’t knock. He would enter unbidden through the door that connected to the solar. She drew back the bed curtain and watched her guard as he reach the door.
Hand on sword hilt, he called, “Who goes there?”
“Mistress Muira,” the housekeeper replied.
The guard opened the door. Rhoslyn slipped from bed, fully dressed, and hurried toward the housekeeper.
“Mistress Muira.” Rhoslyn embraced her.
The old woman gave her a hug, then drew back.
“Ye are looking well,” Muira said.
“And you,” Rhoslyn said. “All is well? You have not been ill-tre
ated?”
“St. Claire has been fair. You have a visitor, my lady.”
“A visitor, so early? Who?”
“Dayton St. Claire.”
“Dayton St. Claire is here?” the warrior said. “What business has Sir Talbot’s brother with Lady Rhoslyn at this time of morning?”
Rhoslyn wondered the same thing. “Show him into our private solar,” she said. “You may join us there, Knight.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “With you and Sheila present, Sir Talbot canna’ take issue with his brother visiting me. Go, Mistress Muira. ‘Tis early, but if ye would send up mead, I would be grateful.”
Rhoslyn and Sheila sat in the solar with the guard standing near their bench when the door opened and Mistress Muira entered. The man who followed was as different from Sir Talbot as the sun was from the moon. Where Talbot was fair, this man was dark. Talbot’s hair hung to his shoulders, but his brother’s hair covered only his ears. His dark beard gave him the look of the pagan god of Mars, though softer, gentler. More than the physical differences, was the warm demeanor and cordial light in this man’s eyes. Sir Talbot struck her as hard, distant.
Sheila hurried to the table as Muira set down the mead and goblets. Dayton St. Claire reached the bench where Rhoslyn sat and grasped her hand, then fell to one knee, and she recalled Sir Ascot’s actions at the convent. Her heart twisted to think of the knight dead, then she remembered St. Claire saying only three men had perished in the fight. Was Sir Ascot one?
“Lady Rhoslyn,” Dayton St. Claire murmured against her hand.
Rhoslyn glimpsed the distrust that narrowed their guard’s eyes. “Rise, sir, and sit with me.”
He obeyed and Sheila offered them goblets filled with wine. She gave the third goblet to their guard, then hurried back to the table as Mistress Muira left.
“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” Rhoslyn asked.
“I have come to celebrate my brother’s marriage.” He took a drink of mead.
She laughed. “The wedding is a month away. You are early, sir.” Not to mention, he need not have asked for an audience in the early morning in order to celebrate his brother’s marriage. Clearly, their guard agreed, for he stiffened.
