“There is another road that leads to the village and the keep,” he explained. Raising his hand, he pointed to the east. “Through this field and the other side of this wood. We will go that way.”
“They said this is the road,” his friend replied, nodding in the direction they had been heading. Then Gautier stared at him. “You think there is danger in following them?”
“I think—I know—there is danger in Yester for us. Following them or not, it will find us.”
And know it, he did. To the marrow of his bones, he was certain with every step along this path, they were in grievous danger. When the cover thrown over the back of the wagon had shifted, he’d seen the swords and axes there. A cache of weapons for Lord Hugh’s purposes, whatever they may be. His men, his friends, deserved to know the truth of it.
“We will camp in the woods there and bide our time before we venture into Yester. I would not enter a battle unarmed and will not enter this fray unprepared. Come,” William said to all of them. “We should not remain here in the open.”
They rode through the farmland in silence as William led them along a path only he could see. The road would curve up along the stream and then come to a small clearing. He shook his head, still not believing that he could visualize almost as though he flew above it all. They set up a small camp inside the woods near that clearing. Once night had fallen, William shared the fantastical tale of what the king had told him. He would not put their lives at risk without them knowing why. Asking them to think on his words, he gave them the night to decide their willingness to join in his mission.
As dawn’s light crept into the thickly clouded sky, William’s three companions remained with him.
By the time the morning’s fog burned away, he was making his way, alone, into the small village to discover the whereabouts of the lord of Yester.
And mayhap a chance to observe the intriguing and puzzling young woman whose face and voice and eyes now filled his thoughts. With only that thought, he could see exactly where she stood now, sweeping in the small cottage in which she lived.
William shuddered as he realized the impossibility of such knowledge even while it flowed into his mind with a certainty difficult to ignore.
* * *
Brienne tugged the woolen shawl tighter around herself to ward off the chill of the morning as she walked through the village. Another errand for her father kept her busy for now. Though this was the kind of day when the cold and fog would have made her wish to remain under her blankets for a while longer, the excitement of meeting the four strangers on the road had kept her awake all night long. The anticipation of them arriving in the village and seeing their leader pulsed through her veins.
She met very few strangers here in the village. She traveled outside Lord Hugh’s lands and control infrequently. But even living such a sheltered life, Brienne understood to her core that this man, this William as she had heard him called, was someone very important.
And important to her in some yet unknown way. The way his gaze caught hers and made her blood heat had shocked her. But it was more than a man lusting for a woman. Oh, that she’d seen before in men’s eyes enough to recognize it. Though most men here would never dare anything, even young James’s eyes had flashed with wanting when he’d wooed her gently.
No, this William’s gaze felt like a thousand suns, and something within her answered with a heat unlike any of the fires in her father’s smithy. The area on her arm yet burned, the pattern rising once more and becoming clearer to her—two flames moving on her skin, swirling and dancing and burning as they did. Brienne lifted her arm, allowing the woolen shawl and the sleeve of her shift and gown to slide up, revealing the strange patch.
She heard some villagers nearby, so she dropped her arm and let the clothing fall back in place. Continuing on her path, she considered her reactions to this stranger. For a moment, everything else had faded away but him. And he’d seemed to grow in size and fierceness as he stared at her. Yet, instead of the fear she should have felt and should be feeling now, she felt protected and safe.
The fog thinned and the sun’s light tried to pierce the dullness of the misty morning as she brought water from the well, carried bread to the baker’s ovens, and made her way from task to task as she did on a usual day. But this day was different from all that had passed before. Brienne knew that but would never have been able to explain her certainty. As she spoke to the miller’s wife, her body changed.
As though a strong storm’s wind had blown over her, something moved over her body, awakening the heat within her. The fire within her pushed at its bounds, strengthening and filling her in a way she’d never known before. For a moment she wanted to hold out her hand and let it escape. Turning to see if the change within her was noticeable by anyone, she saw that she’d walked away from the miller’s cottage and down the path without even noticing where her steps had been taking her.
She’d controlled the flames with her power, but she’d never created it. Yet from the strong urge within her, she thought she could. Shivering against such a thing, Brienne glanced around to see if anyone was near.
And that was when she spied him.
William.
Brienne stepped back into the shadows of the cottages and watched him, for from his demeanor and gait, it was clear he did not wish to be recognized or seen. He’d taken only a few strides toward the village when he lifted his head and met her gaze.
The fire pulsed in her now, not just heat or something indefinite as before. The flames urged their release from her. She closed her hands into tight fists to keep them within.
“Brienne.” His whispered voice spoke her name. He took one step toward her and then another and again until he stood before her.
Power flowed from him, much as hers had in the presence of her fath— of Lord Hugh. But his was different and didn’t seem to come from fire. Strength. Loyalty. A man of war. A defender.
Brienne shook her head and realized where she was. She stood barely a pace away from a complete stranger, a man, a noble perhaps, but at least a knight, capable of all manner of things. Her parents had warned her of the danger in such situations as this, and yet she did not feel threatened.
Intrigued. Curious. Drawn. But not threatened.
When his gaze moved to her mouth and then down her body, a shiver passed through her. Those eyes, like the icy surface of the loch when it froze, seemed to look right through her.
What would his touch be like?
“Aye, how would it feel, lass?” he asked, lifting his hand toward her face. As he turned it so that he could skim down her cheek, she closed her eyes and waited for . . . for . . . The moment before his hand touched her, she shook her head and stepped back.
“Can you hear my thoughts?” she asked, putting a short distance between them. “Who are you?” In truth, she should be showing him respect and not nay-saying him, but she wanted to know. He was unlike any man she’d ever met.
“I am William, the king’s man.” He bowed slightly to her as though she was worthy of such regard. “I come to meet with your lord.”
“He is not yet returned,” she blurted out.
In spite of her father’s warnings not to speak of Lord Hugh to outsiders, she just had. Did he hear her thoughts and control her speech? His mouth curved into a smile then, easing the masculine sharpness of his features.
“I suspected as much,” he said. “Where is your father?”
Brienne glanced over her shoulder and in the direction of their cottage and the smithy. “He is working in the smithy now.”
“Ah, so he made the weapons you brought in your wagon?”
Finally gathering her scattered wits about her, she did not let the words leave her mouth. It would be unwise to be caught speaking to a stranger, let alone giving him information about anything that involved Lord Hugh. He was not tolerant of those who sp
illed his secrets or spoke unwisely about him.
“My father is there, if you wish to speak to him.”
The warrior, for that was what he was, turned and looked back toward the woods and then at the village as though deciding which path to take. When his foot took a step away from the village, her heart ached.
She needed to ask him . . . She wanted to speak to him. . . . She wanted to know . . . everything. If he left now, Brienne knew she would never discover why his presence seemed to strengthen her powers when no one else’s ever had.
Except for Lord Hugh, her true father.
“Will you return?” she asked.
“I have business with your lord,” he said, nodding. Then, with a quick glance over her shoulder, he disappeared into the thick copse of trees faster than she thought a man could move.
The crunching and crackling of leaves behind her told her of another’s approach. Now she understood William’s hasty leave-taking—he did not wish to be seen here. Puzzling over it, Brienne turned and watched as James made his way to her.
“Are you well, Brienne?” he asked. “My mother said you left hastily when she spoke to you.”
“I am well. I will apologize for my rudeness,” she said.
He took a step closer and towered over her. Taller but thinner and not as muscular as the warrior who’d stood with her, James did not upset her feelings or cause the heat to blossom within her.
“She did not speak of rudeness, she but worried over you.” He lifted his hand and lightly placed it on her arm. “As I do, Brienne.”
A fortnight ago, even earlier this day, she would have welcomed his touch and his company. Now, though, everything in her world had tilted and changed. She had changed. Now . . .
“I spoke to your father, Brienne. He said I may court you.” The hope she heard in his voice, full of promise and a shared future, made her stomach tighten. “If you consent, we could be married in the spring.”
James tilted his head down and touched his mouth to hers. It was a warm and gentle kiss. He canted his head, and his lips pressed against hers until she opened to him. A slow, tentative slide of his tongue into her mouth startled her. He drew back in response.
“So, will you, Brienne? Will you take me as your husband?”
As his brown eyes searched hers for an answer, she considered that only a fortnight ago, he would have been the perfect husband for her—the son of the miller marrying the daughter of the blacksmith. They would live in the village with their families, as generations had before them.
A perfect match.
Except that she was not the blacksmith’s daughter. She was the get of one of the most powerful and terrifying lords in Scotland, who’d recently taken notice of her. She held some power within her that allowed—nay, pressed—her to control fire. The burning place on her arm flared then, reminding her of the unknown and that this possible future as the wife of James, Dougal’s son, was simply not possible. As she tried to choose the right words that would kindly dash his hopes, he shook his head.
“I am not pressing for your answer now. I know you would speak to your mother and father now that the offer is made to you. Take some time to consider how good a marriage we would make.” James took a full pace back and smiled at her.
All she could do was return it in silence.
“I must return to my father now that I know you are safe,” he said, leaning in for a quick kiss. “I will seek you out later.”
With those brief words of farewell, he was gone, striding back along the path toward his family’s cottage.
Brienne stood in the dappled shadows, watching the wind move the branches above and around her. So much had happened this morning, and she was no closer to answers than she had been when she’d opened her eyes on this new day. All she had now were more questions and more doubts . . . and a marriage proposal. She shook her head at that, for her answer to James was the only thing of which she was certain.
Glancing around the clearing, she shook off the confusion and decided she must return to her errands. Mayhap by doing those tasks and daily chores that were part of her everyday life, she would begin to find her path in all the uncertainty. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, she put one foot in front of the other and forced herself back to the path.
The skin on her arm, two flames dancing and burning without destroying, reminded her that, regardless of her wishes on the matter, nothing would ever be the same again.
Chapter 5
He stood in the shadows, planning the death that would visit the man who’d touched her. Who’d kissed her. Who’d whispered to her. His sword drawn and ready, William blew hard against the urge to walk into the clearing and kill the one who dared so much.
She was his.
His to touch.
His to kiss.
His . . . to claim.
His vision narrowed, and red ringed the edges of it. His body strengthened and broadened, his muscles elongating and tightening until his garments felt too small. He breathed hard and deep, preparing for battle, and the hand that clutched the sword appeared larger, as though it were not his own. Then the sword became as one with him and his focus sharpened onto only one thing—making certain that no man left his scent or mark on the woman destined for him.
His.
He’d taken one step back out of the thick copse that hid him before his control overruled the possessive compulsion that nearly forced his hand. Shaking off the stranglehold of pure fury that raced in his veins and pumped his heart hard and fast, he watched as the young man escaped the death he did not know was coming for him.
Then she left, walking back along the path that led to the center of the village.
Though the skin on his arm ached and burned, his gaze and his head began to clear. Then a wave of shudders racked him as whatever had fueled his rage dissipated and left him. His own body returned and the red tinge left his vision, allowing him to notice the cool breeze rustling through the trees around him. Now, when he lifted his arm, the sword appeared to be a separate thing, the weapon he’d always known it to be.
Not an appendage to his body.
His knees buckled and he landed hard, shaking and trembling, as though he’d not eaten in days. Sweat poured down from his brow, trickling over his face and neck and under his garments, as it did after a battle or a strenuous training session with his men.
But he’d done none of that. Had he?
Rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, William wondered if he was getting ill. A fever? Some contagion that caused the strange changes in his body and mind? He must return to his men. There must be an explanation. One that made sense. One that did not seem too close to the king’s peculiar claims.
Oh God! Was the same madness that claimed his father’s reason now taking his?
Pushing to his feet, William retraced his path back through the darkest part of the forest to their camp. When he broke through the trees, his men stared at him in silence.
“What happened?” Roger asked as he approached. Glancing behind William, he stared into the forest. “Were you attacked? Are you being followed?”
As William expected, the three formed a line and drew their swords, expecting an attack at any moment. They’d fought many times before, and he welcomed their presence in any battle. But this was not one.
“Nay.” He waved them off, walked directly to the stream just at the edge of their camp, and drank the cold, fresh water. He even splashed some of it on his face and neck. He hoped it would cool whatever fever controlled him, but the shaking would not desist. “No one comes. I was not attacked,” he said, standing before them. “If I did not call out to you, why would you think that?”
The three looked at one another and then back at him, disbelief etched on their faces.
“Did you see the girl?” Gautier’s gaze narrowed. He stood more at e
ase now. “Or did her father see you?”
“The girl,” he replied, choosing not to lie about it. Pushing his hair out of his face, he shrugged.
Gautier nodded to Herve then; for them this was a simple thing—if they lusted for a woman, they sought her and eased the itch. Roger motioned the two of them off and walked up to William.
“You look like bloody hell, Will. What happened?” he asked in a low voice. “You look as though you’ve seen the devil himself.”
“I am beginning to understand the king’s strange behavior and suspicions.” That admission eased something within him. “Something is going on here, something I have never encountered, Roger. I am part of it, as the king said, but now you and the others are as well.”
“I do not understand,” Roger said. He walked a few paces back to the camp and brought back a skin of wine. After taking a long drink from it, he offered it to William. “Something like treason? Or”—he paused and glanced around before whispering—“some madness? Surely not witchcraft or deviltry?” Roger made the sign of the cross over himself after saying the words. “And the girl is part of it?”
“I am part of it. And, aye, the girl. I could see something was different about her when I first looked upon her. Just now, while speaking to her . . .” He shrugged, not knowing what to say or how to explain the change that had happened. “When someone approached, I left. Then I watched, and I . . . lost control of myself somehow,” he admitted.
That’s how it had felt to him—as though someone else had taken over his body, changing it, changing him. Only at that last moment had he regained control and stopped the young man’s death. He shivered against the heat that yet filled him.
“Sweet Jesu, man! Did you take her? Did you kill her or someone?”
“Nay,” he answered. Shaking his head, he knew that whatever had happened had occurred so he could protect her, not threaten her.
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