Catch & Hold-Legend (Legend series)

by Conn, Claudy

  She looked away and said on a hushed note, “I am a married woman …”

  “Are you? And who has the honor of calling you wife? Tell me at once so that I may put him in the ground and eliminate my competition.” The tease was there, and it made her giggle. Breslyn understood, in spite of her marriage, how very young and innocent she still was.

  “I am wife to Francis Bouthe, Laird Dumfries,” she said on a quiet, resigned note.

  “Never say so! Upon my word … but that is not possible …” In truth, of course, Breslyn knew about her husband—perhaps more than she herself did. Breslyn’s stance with the Scots was loyal, and his service to Robert the Bruce was from a genuine belief that the Scots were in the right of it. Therefore, he had not been above spying in his endeavor to produce beneficial information to aid that cause. That spying had brought Dumfries to notice, and he was a weasel of a traitor to Scotland. Breslyn had already developed a hatred of the man. That she could be married to such a wart both distressed his sense of honor and fermented his resolve to have her—steal her away from the villain!

  She appeared startled by his remark, and she asked hesitantly, “Do you know him?”

  “Of him, my lady …” Breslyn frowned darkly and then looked about. “But you are not near enough to have walked from Dumfries?” He knew better but meant to lead her where he wanted to go.

  She smiled, and it was genuine. “No, I am visiting with my family. My father is Laird of Belfor and has been ill. We—I was clan MacClean.”

  Breslyn grinned. “I am sorry to hear about your da, but this is quite wonderful for I do know your brother Storm MacClean. Met him only a few weeks past, and we struck up a quick friendship. Odd name—Storm.”

  She laughed. “Yes, he was born in the midst of a raging gale, and his name suits him, I think.”

  Breslyn looked up at the dark clouds moving in and offered, “My lady, I fear we are about to have a shower. Let me give you a ride home … and keep you dry.” Breslyn watched her flitting thoughts cross her beauteous face and made a decision. He picked her up before she could answer, set her side saddle on his horse, and jumped nimbly up behind her to whisper in her ear, “It is upon us.” So saying he urged his horse forward and worked him into a gentle canter across the open field.

  All at once she laughed right out loud and accepted her situation to ask, “But who are you?”

  “I am Breslyn, Pri—” He corrected himself. “Lord of Dagda.”

  * * *

  He is like a god—this Laird of Dagda. Where did he come from? His accent soothing as it is sounds arcane in tone, and it is mesmerizing and seductive. He isn’t a Scot, of that I am certain. Chartelle’s thoughts slammed into one another as she leaned against him in the soft leather saddle.

  His height—oh my—is exceptional, his body muscular and scarcely concealed in his leather tunic and trews. His trews … unusual … form fitting his long strong legs …

  He is so handsome … so very unusually handsome, and his eyes of silver sparkle and make me forget …

  He radiates intelligence. He emits sensuality … he seems somehow ‘otherworldly’, and he causes my body to tremble … with … no … I am a married woman, and yet …

  His eyes make me burn … and the color of his long, dark blonde hair seems streaked with gold. I like the manner in which he ties it at the back of his neck. His smile charms me and makes me feel young and free again—and his arms around me make me feel more than safe. They make me feel like the woman my husband has never made me feel—and I must be a wanton creature to endure these thoughts!

  But—my husband? It is a lie—the life we lead. He has his boys—children really—the serving boy I saw him take into his room the other day could not have been more than ten! He is disgusting! At least he no longer touches me now that we have a son. I can’t bear that my son is his … John, beautiful John, named for my father. He is the only thing that makes my life bearable at Dumfries …

  My home has always been Belfor. In my heart, it is still. It is magical … it has been home to Druid priests for centuries. It whispers tales of our history with its turrets and its balustrade that looms high in the distance against the dark, misty sky and craggy landscape. I love it so.

  I have accepted many things from a husband who will never love me and who I will never love, but there is one thing I cannot accept—he might be a traitor. And I must never leave him alone with our son … it worries me to distraction. And, if he has as I fear betrayed Robert the Bruce … if he is a traitor … what then shall I do?

  She felt Breslyn gently slow his horse to a complete halt, and she turned to look up at his handsome face. What she saw there sent a flurry of desire through her body. “Why have you stopped …?”

  “Because I must—forgive me, beauty, but I cannot proceed without taking a liberty …” Breslyn’s hold on her tightened as he bent and leaned in to put his lips softly against hers.

  His tongue sweetly parted her lips and teased her for an introduction. Chartelle immediately surrendered to him. She was young and had been yearning for more, and Breslyn was everything she had dreamt of …

  His kiss sent tremors rushing through her body, and she pressed into him, wanting more. Chartelle had never been kissed like that before.

  Burning! Her body sizzled and crackled and demanded more of the same. She didn’t, couldn’t chastise herself. She couldn’t, didn’t make excuses for caving to temptation. She was too lost in the ‘wanting’ and ready to forgive herself for taking.

  When Breslyn gently pulled away and rested his chin on her lovely head, she felt a wave of yearning for more until she heard his husky voice utter, “Chartelle, I promise I will never harm you, but I tell you here and now—you are mine, and I make my declaration to you. There will no longer be any other for you—only me! There is no husband … there is no other … only me.”

  Oddly enough, it was what she had been wishing for, only him. She had felt from the moment she saw him a connection, as though she was meant for this laird who had arrived out of nowhere. However, the realist in her knew she was still stuck in a loveless marriage, and she had a son she had to protect. She hesitated and then offered worriedly, “My son … I have a son …”

  “He is part of who you are, and I will protect you both. Mark me in this, Chartelle.”

  “It is so strange … you here now … I wish we had met three years ago … I wish … but then, I don’t know how you even know my name.”

  “Your brother spoke of you.”

  “I … I am a shameful creature … a married woman …” She avoided his eye.

  He took her chin and forced her to look up at him. “You could never wear the mantle of shame. You are perfection in my eyes, and that is all that will matter, but I promise you, Chartelle, you will not be married for long.”

  “What mean you?”

  “I mean to make a widow of you,” Breslyn snapped irritably.

  She pulled back and looked sharply at him as though looking for the truth on his face. Breslyn sighed and cupped her cheek with his open hand. “No, my lady, as much as I wish it, and am capable of it, I shall not kill the father of your son. I wouldn’t do that—because I mean to be in his life as well as yours. And even so, you shall be mine.”

  “You must not say anymore. Take me home … please, Laird of Dagda,” she said softly, turning away from him; however, his touch, his hold, the memory of the feel of his mouth on hers still made her body tremble.

  He turned her back to face him. “Do not fear me—do not fear this. It is what it is, and I shall protect you from all others. Do you believe me, Chartelle? Tell me that you believe me.”

  “This moves too fast …”

  “Your lives move too fast, and they are over too fast. I don’t mean to allow you to waste it …” Breslyn said nearly under his breath.

  “What mean you? Our lives? You speak in riddles as though you are not a part of …” Chartelle looked deeply into his eyes, and a whisper made its
way through her brain, but she swooshed it away. “This is all nonsense … you must not make of me a fallen woman.”

  “I will not. I will raise you up and make you mine. You are above all other women. No man will challenge me when I take you for my own.”

  “Stop this foolish talk … please—you frighten me. You present me with a future that is uncertain at a time when so much of my life is falling apart. ”

  * * *

  Nothing could have silenced him faster. The prince realized he had moved in too quickly. His need to savor every moment with her because human life was over so swiftly had led him to rush her.

  What he wanted was to make her feel safe and comforted. He wanted to reassure her but all the while set a stage where he could openly take her for his own and make her happy. He would not allow her to return to Francis Bouthe of Dumfries. That simply was not an option. Chartelle would be his before the night came and went, the consequences be damned!

  He looked up at that moment and saw Castle Belfor at the ridge of the craggy hill. He smiled. The feudal structure was stunning in the mist with its turrets, pinnacles, and carved walkways between the balustrades. He could see that the MacClean clan was a wealthy one from the flurry of military activity, the marching and jousting outside the oversized and open arched gateway. Just inside were the outbuildings that housed a huge garrison of soldiers, all busy, some of whom were patrolling the buildings’ surrounding rooftop walkways.

  He smiled as he urged his horse forward, excited at the prospect of mingling and interacting with the men he was about to help lead against Edward II of England.

  He saw the look of surprise on some of the soldiers’ faces as he rode by with the laird’s daughter in the saddle before him and grinned to himself.

  He slowed his horse to a walk inside and past the outbuildings that garrisoned the soldiers. An enormous courtyard full with servants and soldiers alike, all going about their chores of the day, met them as he weaved his horse through the crowd towards the feudal stables.

  Just outside one of the stone-built barns, Breslyn jumped nimbly down and reached for Chartelle, taking her small waist into his hands and allowing her to slide down against his body. He whispered in her ear and had the satisfaction of hearing her breathe harder.

  A young groom came rushing forward to take his horse, and Breslyn hesitated only a moment as he whispered to his stallion in ancient Danu and turned to the groom. “He’ll want the open field after he has been fed. Let him have it. He’ll come to me when I want him, fear not.”

  The boy’s eyes opened wide, but he wasn’t arguing with anyone the size and statue of the man who stood before him. Breslyn laughed and slipped the boy a few hefty coins. “Feed yourself and your family well tonight. Now off with you.”

  Chartelle had been staring at the prince with admiration, and she said on a quiet note, “You are generous and kind … thank you.”

  Breslyn took her hand and kissed it long and lovingly. “Now lead me … wither thou goest …”

  She laughed and tried to take her hand away from his, but he would not let go. Finally she scrunched up her beauteous face and pleaded, “Please, my laird, people will see.”

  “Breslyn … I am Breslyn to you, for always, and I care not for what people see or don’t see.”

  “For me then, Breslyn … everyone will look askance …”

  He shrugged. “’Tis of no consequence. I mean to make my claim.”

  “You cannot … I am married. I have never heard of anything—”

  “And still I shall make my claim.”

  They reached the two ornately embossed oak doors that were flung open before they could bang the knocker. Chartelle smiled impishly. “They must have been watching from the windows. You … your horse and the manner in which we arrived has made quite a stir.”

  They were met at the arched double doors by an elderly, plump woman in a dark gray fustian smock with a wimple held to her brow with a simple fillet. The light cotton wimple hid most of her gray curls although some peeped out. She stood smiling warmly just off the doorway while making affectionate baby sounds to the boy she jiggled in her ample arms.

  The child saw his mother and reached out with his arms as he giggled a welcome. Chartelle took him at once and made strange cooing words as she kissed his face until the child screamed with delight.

  “Now, young John … ’tis time you spoke a word, and that word, my big boy, should be mama!” With that she tickled the lad’s tummy, eliciting a peal of laughter from him.

  Breslyn watched her in fascination. He felt a stirring inside him to have this—have her and her babe.

  They stood a long moment like that, in the large Great Hall, and Breslyn was aware he had not enjoyed a domestic scene like this since his parents were killed in the Great Battle …

  All at once, the sweetness of the moment was exploded as a shout filled the air. From seemingly out of nowhere a charging imp of a filthy urchin nearly slammed into them in his rush to get outdoors.

  Breslyn’s hand had gone automatically to his sword at the sound of a man’s shout from behind the urchin, but he removed his fingers from the hilt and with speed and agility reached out and scooped up the lad, who took to kicking and screaming. Breslyn held him up dangling off the stone floor and ordered, “Quiet, child. That’s it … be at ease, lad. No one shall hurt you—trust me in this.” Breslyn had the satisfaction of observing the lad calm down, and he allowed him to stand but retained his hold on him.

  “Don’t promise what you canna give, my friend!” roared a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome devil. He shook his head of long black waves as he closed the distance between them.

  “Since when did you take to terrorizing urchins?” Breslyn laughed and with one arm shifted the struggling boy while extending the other to the heir of Belfor.

  “It is what I do to eavesdropping, filthy little …” Storm MacClean grinned broadly as he took Breslyn’s hand. “My Laird of Dagda … we are well met! Welcome, and if you give over the brat, I shall attend to him.”

  Breslyn eyed the lad he held by his filthy collar and looked him over. The boy was frightened, and his eyes pleaded for help. There was something about the child, but what it was eluded him. He frowned as a notion entered his head, and a slow smile would have curved his sensuous lips had he not stopped himself in time. He believed he knew something that at the moment no one else did, something the youth was desperately attempting to keep secret. He decided to keep quiet and watch it play out. He said to the dirty lad, “There now … no more running … we will sort this out.”

  Storm was an excellent depiction of his unusual given name. He stood looking like a veritable whirlwind, scarcely contained, with his raging blue eyes and his agile, muscular warrior body tense with annoyance. He moved in closer to have a better look at the dirty-faced boy and demanded, “Well? Speak you? Why were you listening in at the library door?”

  “You misunderstand, my laird … I was simply bent over … trying to repair my shoes …” The boy lifted a leg covered by worn fustian cotton and wiggled his poorly covered foot. “… ’tis when you opened the door and startled me.” The boy’s voice was young and shaky. Breslyn and Storm exchanged glances. Breslyn kept his peace and waited to see how his friend would handle it.

  Storm shook his head. “What think you, Breslyn—have we one of Edward’s spies here at Belfor?”

  The boy put up a fist and shook it at Storm MacClean. “Do not say it! I would die before ever I would spy for Edward and the Brits!

  Both Breslyn and Storm MacClean heard the sincerity behind the words, and Breslyn said softly, “I believe him—do you not?”

  “You believe this rag of a child. He no doubt has lived on nothing but lies,” Storm said ruefully. He sighed heavily and looked away from the youth to ask, “So, but tell me, my laird, what brings you here to Belfor?”

  “I have news … of a sort. I thought we could plan a stratagem and then ride to Robert the Bruce together later in
the week.”

  They slapped one another’s shoulders, evidently both well pleased with this before Breslyn added, “Aye … it will be soon, Storm.”

  Chartelle had been only half listening to them as she sent her son off with his nanny. Her immediate concern was for the urchin. She went near him and touched his cheek, whispering, “Fear not, child.”

  She then turned to her brother and Breslyn. “You big oafs!” She wagged a finger at them. “This is but a poor lad. I have seen him in the stables, helping the grooms for mere table scraps of food. His name is Alex, and he is an orphan. I have asked Cook to make certain he was bathed and fed, but apparently, getting him into a bath today was more than she could manage. I, however, shall manage very well.”

  “Yes, but, sister—” Storm began his objections.

  “An orphan, Storm.” Chartelle interrupted him on a firm note. “It is our duty to help him.”

  Storm’s frown softened as he regarded his younger sister. Eight years her senior, he was fond of her, enough that he had taken a position against his father when his father had decided to marry her to Francis Bouthe of Dumfries. Storm had never liked the match, and his instincts had proven correct. Chartelle had confided in him, and it was his deep desire to run the bastard down and return him to dust.

  “So you say …” Her brother frowned as he regarded the lad. “My gut tells me otherwise. Something is not quite right here, Chartelle … and we must tread warily.” He shook his head. “I tell you, this child—here suddenly and just now—doesn’t fit. I am concerned that he is a spy for the English king. Lord knows the Brits have them everywhere.”

  “Impossible,” Chartelle softly said and shook her head. “He is not a spy, but a poor and hungry lad.”

  “Chartelle, I caught him eavesdropping.”

  “I don’t believe it, and if he was eavesdropping than it was idle curiosity … naughty, but not evil. Come, Alex. What you need is a bath and a trip to our kitchens.”