"The bishop paid us a call yesterday. Someone inside the castle had disclosed Violet's presence." He hesitated before adding, "He asked after you."
She startled. "I've never met the man, but the abbess did caution me about him."
"What was her caution?"
"She warned me to be cautious around him. To never let Lady Violet near him."
Lord Lockhart frowned. "Why would she warn you of such a thing?"
"I don't know." Rhiannon lowered her gaze to the snowflakes gathering on the red velvet of her cloak. "She seemed very distraught that day."
A finger beneath her chin brought her gaze back to his. "The abbess trusted you."
"I am trustworthy." She held his gaze, refusing to buckle beneath his punishing appraisal.
"Time will reveal whether that is truth or falsehood." He straightened and signaled the horse to walk through the heavy drifts of snow leading away from the castle.
The snow came halfway up their horse's legs, but their mount seemed undeterred by the lightweight powder. Rhiannon allowed her gaze to travel across the pristine blanket of white. It was then that she noticed the two sets of footprints partially filled by the newly fallen snow.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"We're following a villain's trail."
"A villain? Anyone could have made those tracks. Maybe someone at the castle took an early morning walk."
"Someone who needed a rope to climb the castle walls? Nay, it has been made clear to me we have a spy."
"You assume I am that spy?"
"Aye."
"Then for Lady Violet's sake I won't hold your assumptions against you."
He leaned close to her ear, his lips brushing her temple. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver right to her core. "That's kind of you."
"I'll prove my innocence."
"I look forward to that," he said in a low, inviting tone that brought a catch to her breath. She shifted away, trying to escape the intimacy the moment had wrapped them in.
They rode well over six miles as the snow continued to fall all around them, fast and furious. "I can hardly see the tracks." Rhiannon ducked her head to keep the flakes from gathering on her face.
"The storm is picking up." His frustration was evident in the tone of his voice. He reined the horse to a halt and scanned the sky. "I was so certain the snowstorm had ended. But the weather has only gotten worse."
As though in response to his words, the wind kicked up. Where it had been sighing through the trees, it now whipped the branches about.
"We should head back," Rhiannon called over the rising howl of the wind.
Camden frowned. "I've left it too late. It will take us more than an hour to return. We need shelter. I remember from my youth an abandoned cottage around here somewhere that was once used by my father's gamekeeper." He tightened his arms around her and dug his heels into the horse's side, sending them all forward into the storm. We can find shelter there."
Snow covered them entirely and they could barely see in front of them. Rhiannon no longer knew the way back to the castle. She shivered, wondering which would lead to her demise — the man behind her, or the storm overhead.
Chapter Nine
Camden steadfastly spurred their horse forward. "I see something ahead," Rhiannon called out between the chattering of her teeth .
A short time later, she realized it was a small cottage, set deep into the woods. Rhiannon strained her eyes through the falling snow for signs of habitation. She smelled before she saw the smoke curling from the chimney. Warmth. She nestled deeper into her cloak. She could almost feel the heat now.
They came up to the cottage and Lord Lockhart slid from the horse before he reached up and plucked her off as though she weighed nothing at all.
"I thought you said the cottage was abandoned?" Rhiannon said, pulling the edges of her cloak more tightly around her as the chill air seeped inside her, chilling her to the bone.
"It was." He gathered the horse's reins, moving toward the lean-to that would provide shelter for the animal. "Let's find out who might be here, shall we?"
Rhiannon hurried after him. She didn't care who might be inside as long as there was a space near the fire. She darted ahead of Camden to knock on the door. When no one answered, she tried the latch. The door opened easily and she stepped inside.
One open room made up the entirety of the cottage. She peered inside, finding no one there. When her gaze lit on the cheery little fire that crackled in the hearth, she smiled. Warmth wrapped itself around Rhiannon, drawing her into the room.
Camden entered the small cottage a moment later. "I never would have taken you away from the castle had I known a storm was coming."
She turned away, toward the flames, rubbing her cold hands together. Pinpricks of sensation danced along her chilled flesh. "Not much deters you. Why would a storm be any different?"
He set the wood near the fire, then stood beside her. "It must seem that way to you," he said almost as an aside. He sighed as he bent his dark head to peer into the flames. "I am only trying to keep my people safe."
"Which is why you risked following those tracks despite the threat of a storm," she responded more to herself than to him.
"Aye."
"Do you still believe I made those footsteps?"
"I am finding it harder to believe. By the look of the fire, whoever inhabited the cottage left only a short time ago."
He lifted his gaze to hers. "It appears as though we will be here for a while." He put out his hand. "Give me your cloak."
"Nay." She took yet another step away from him as all the dark warnings she'd heard from her father about being alone with a man filled her head. She was alone. And stranded in the snow. Oh, why had she been such a fool to get on that horse with him?
"Rhiannon." He spoke her name softly, gently, with reassuring calm. "You are quite safe here with me."
She narrowed her gaze on him. "I will trust you, if you will trust me for once."
He smiled, and she saw the tension in his shoulders relax. "Agreed." He signaled with his hand. "Your cloak. It's wet. There are pegs by the fire to dry it."
She unfastened the heavy cloak and handed it to him. He placed it on one of the pegs, then removed his own cloak, hanging it beside hers. The soft linen of his shirt molded to him, revealing wide shoulders, a lean torso that led to a narrow waist and muscular thighs. "Do you think this is where your spies have been meeting?"
"Since no one else is around, I'd say it's a safe assumption." He turned back toward her and she hurriedly dropped her gaze, although she could not hide the heat that rose to her cheeks. "Want to help me find some clue as to who might have been here?"
She nodded, grateful to do anything that would distract her from the sheer maleness of his body. The cottage was small, with a rickety wooden table and two chairs tucked in the corner near the hearth, a wooden bench placed near the fire. A straw-filled mattress with a dark woolen coverlet took up the far side of the cottage. A small iron stove made up the kitchen.
"There isn't much here to identify anyone," she said, exploring the area near the hearth. Aside from a few candle stubs on the floor near the hearth, she found nothing.
He explored the table, and the three shelves above the iron stove. "The stove is cool, and the shelves look as though they haven't been stocked in ages." He moved a pottery jar aside, as if to prove his point, and a tiny mouse scurried from behind the crock, down the shelf, onto the stove. It leaped for the floor, before scurrying into a small hole at the base of the wallboards.
"Whoever our spy is, he's careful." Camden tossed another log onto the embers of the fire, then reaching for the saddle bag he'd brought in with him from the horse, he sat on the settee.
Rhiannon moved to the shutters at the front of the cottage. Ice clung to the bottom of the casement. She moved to the door and peered outside. Heavy snow continued to fall. Restless, she watched as the delicate flakes hit the accumulating mass on the ground.
The storm showed no signs of letting up anytime soon.
She closed the door and glanced toward Camden. Something in his expression made her look away. Yet she could still feel the warmth of his gaze as though it were something physical, almost possessive. She began to quake inside at the intimacy of the moment, once again realizing how truly alone they were.
"Come," he said, his tone as inviting as his gaze had been. "It's much warmer over here by the fire."
She hesitated.
"Can I interest you in a bite to eat?" He held up a small plank of wood that contained a wedge of yellow-gold cheese and a loaf of dark bread.
"Where did you find food? Not here, I hope," she commented as the image of that tiny mouse came to mind.
He smiled, a warm, friendly smile. "I made it a rule that the men are never to ride out anywhere without at least minimal provisions. The grooms are very conscientious about executing those orders. Sit," he patted the seat beside him. "You must be hungry."
"A little." She sat down as far from him as the wooden bench allowed and curled her feet up under her skirt.
His eyes glinted with amusement. He withdrew two mugs and a bladder from his saddle bag, unfastened the closure, then poured each of them an amber-colored beverage from within. He handed her a mug. "This should help to warm you."
She took a sip, then sputtered at the richness of the liquid as it flowed over her tongue. "What is this?" she asked in a raw voice.
"Ale. Using my own special blend of grains." He raised his mug to his lips and took a long, slow sip. "Last year's batch is the best yet."
Rhiannon frowned down into her cup. The bitter liquid would take some getting used to. But in the absence of anything else to drink, and so as not to seem rude, she took another sip. "Interesting."
He offered her a smile that lit up his eyes. Their depths became suddenly mysterious and inviting. She swallowed roughly. When had he stopped treating her as yesterday's pottage?
"Bread?" he asked offering her the tray of bread and cheese.
She accepted the tray and sliced a wedge of bread, then cheese, taking the opportunity to look away from him to gather her composure. She hadn't spent much time around men other than her father and his friends. Over the years, she'd convinced herself that all men were rough and brutish. But in this moment, Camden seemed very distant from her earlier assumptions.
Brutish men did not demand their men leave the stable with some sort of provisions in case something went wrong. They did not care about anyone's comfort but their own. And they certainly didn't risk their own lives for the sake of their people's safety. Suddenly nervous, Rhiannon drank liberally from her mug. The flavor of the brew seemed less bitter now. It was smoother, with hints of spice. "What is the spice in this? Cinnamon?"
"Nutmeg." His gaze became warm, sensual. "You are the first to ever observe that note."
"I've never heard of that spice," she confessed. "Where did you learn of such a thing?"
"A long time ago." Some of the warmth in his voice faded. He took a bite of his bread and cheese. "My father taught me what he knew about ale-making. He's the one who started growing the mixture of grains in our fields at Lee Castle. I think my love of the land and the castle itself is what prompted my brother James to build Lockhart Castle farther north. He didn't want to take the memories of our family from me."
She nibbled on her bread. "It sounds as though James loved you very much."
"He did."
She grew silent as she thought about her own youth. Memories of her mother filled her mind, and she smiled.
"What are you thinking about?"
"You reminded me of a pleasant time from my childhood."
He nestled back against the settee. "Tell me."
"Well," she hesitated.
"Your best memory."
She tucked her feet more firmly beneath her. "There was a time when my father and brothers were away hunting." She frowned at the sudden realization that they hadn't been hunting at all. That's when the raiding had begun, when they'd come home not with game, but with coins, salted pork, and gems — the spoils of their raid.
"Are you unwell?" he asked, his face filled with concern.
"Just remembering." She shook off the horror the memory brought. "I was Violet's age, maybe a little younger. There was snow on the ground, much like there is today. My mother and I were baking oatcakes, but I was bored. I kept asking her if we could do something special, like Father and the boys were doing. I kept after her until she finally relented and tossed her apron aside. She told me to go to my bedchamber and not to come out before she called me."
Rhiannon smiled at the memory of hiding under the bedcovers, shivering with anticipation. "It seemed like forever until she came for me. But I'll never forget the glint in her eyes when she did. She tied a sash over my eyes, put my cloak and my pattens on me, then led me outside."
She drew a shaky breath as tears came to her eyes. "She took the sash off my eyes and all I could see were a hundred candles, casting a rich golden glow over the snowbanks that lined the ice on our pond. She pulled me onto the ice, and we both skated in circles for hours and hours, laughing until our sides hurt. She looked down at me that day with such love in her eyes and I knew true joy."
Rhiannon swiped at one of the tears that trailed down her cheek. "Three days later she died."
"How?" His voice was soft, lulling.
A counter raid, she realized now. Her mother had paid for their raiding with her life. New tears joined the others on her cheeks. She turned her head away, embarrassed by the emotions that she could not control. "She died. That's all I know."
"I'm sorry," he said, sounding sincere. "You really do know how Violet feels, don't you?"
"My apologies," she batted at her tears with the back of her hands. "You asked for a memory and I give you waterworks instead. You must think me terribly ill-bred."
"Quite the contrary. I find you fascinating. I want to know more." The husky sincerity in his deep voice brought a hitch to her breathing. "What is your worst memory?"
She shook her head. "Nay, I can't go there."
A shadow darkened his face. "I'll tell you mine, in exchange for yours."
Tempting. She pressed her lips together. She wanted to learn more about this man, but was what he asked too high a debt to pay? She'd tried to keep her past a secret for fear of him hating her family even more. Or worse yet, feeling sorry for her. But she truly wanted to understand him. Even as confusion wracked her, she nodded her head.
"My worst memory." He squinted his eyes and mouth as though searching his thoughts. A moment later, his face cleared, and resignation reflected in his gaze. "I will have to back track a bit, and tell you how this situation came to be first."
She nodded, listening eagerly.
"When Orrin and I were twelve, we were kidnapped by your father from the shores of Scotland and taken as slaves to the Holy Lands."
Rhiannon gasped. She couldn't hold it back. Her fingers pressed against her chest. "My father?" His hatred suddenly made sense.
He drew a slow, deep breath. "Our Saracen master bound us in service to him for seven years. We had to do whatever he asked, or we would be severely punished."
Rhiannon couldn't speak, just listened as he continued.
"The worst day for me was when Orrin, who had been ordered to kill a woman and her children, refused. He absolutely refused to pick up the sword and cut them down. So one of the other men with us did, right in front of the two of us. Then he and another man took Orrin's arms, and held tight while a third man took a whip to Orrin's back. I could not stand by and let them abuse him. But when I ran to help, two other men stopped me, and forced me to witness Orrin's pain."
Camden's voice sounded distanced, raw. She could imagine how horrifying that would have been for him to stand by helplessly and watch when he could do nothing to help.
Rhiannon nodded to herself. It explained a bit about why he seemed to obsess about protecting his clan.
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He shook his head, as though forcing away the memory. "That was mine. Now what of yours?"
He would hate her and her family all the more if she told him a particular time where her family had abused her, so she generalized instead. "I have no particular memory I can site as the worst," she confessed. "My entire youth was filled with moments like that.
His light eyes flared. "The watching or the lashing?"
"The lashing, I'm afraid." She flinched. "Even remembering brings back the pain."
"Who did this to you?" His voice sounded anguished. Because of her?
She shrugged. "My father until my mother died. Then my brothers also took out their aggressions upon me."
"Why?" His eyes grew dark, restless.
"Mostly because I was not born a son. My father had no need for a daughter."
"Daughters have their place."
She shook her head. "Not in his world."
He continued to stare at her with dark, angry eyes. She looked down at the hands she clenched in her lap. "I did not mean to upset you. I felt you wanted honesty..." She trailed off, suddenly wishing she'd concocted a lie instead.
"Rhiannon," he said her name with a note of familiarity. "Look at me."
"Please, don't ask me to," she implored helplessly, knowing that if she saw the compassion she heard in his voice, she would dissolve in a puddle of tears.
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it, forcing her to meet his steady gaze.
Compassion registered in the depths of his eyes, and something more. Tears did not come as she'd expected. Instead, her entire body tensed as his lips descended toward hers.
His lips covered hers, tender, almost hesitant at first, then bolder, as he wrapped his arms about her.
Sad memories faded as shivering waves of pleasure took their place. He left her lips to trail a hot path over her cheeks, brushing away the tears with his lips, to her ear. Slowly, he feathered his lips back and forth across her lobe, before he dipped lower, tracing each curve of her neck, her jawline.
The tension drained from her as his arms tightened around her, supporting her while his tongue explored her ear. His hand curled around her nape, sensually stroking it, and he began trailing scorching kisses down her neck, to her shoulder.
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