“Have you lost faith in me?” he asked softly.
“Never. But there must be another way to resolve this matter. Take me to Roden. If I can—”
“Nay.” The ferocity of Bram’s tone, the smoldering possession in his stare, sent a fiery thrill whipping through her. “You will stay here, where you will be safe. As I told you before, you are mine, Miranda.”
“If that is so, Bram,” she said with quiet purpose, “then you must let me speak to your brother.”
***
His broadsword at the ready, Bram walked with Miranda toward the road, to the meeting Roden had agreed upon through an exchange of missives a short while ago. Twenty of Bram’s most loyal warriors encircled them, added defense in case Roden planned a surprise attack. Rustling undergrowth either side of the deer trail alerted Bram to more armed outlaws, following in the forest shadows as he’d commanded.
Bram stole a glance at Miranda, hair smoothed, strides elegant, as expected of a well-bred lady. Yet her hands were fisted at her sides, and she stared straight ahead, as though determined to get the confrontation with Roden over with.
Studying the trees ahead, Bram tightened his hold on his sword. Lust for her still hummed like fire in his blood and heightened the battle fever pulsing through him.
He’d die before he let Roden take her from this forest. No other man—especially not Roden—would ever know her sweet passion.
The chime of horses’ bridles carried from the road now directly ahead. Through the thinning trees, he glimpsed armed men, some on destriers. Tension gripped his gut, a sensation he’d experienced often before plunging into a bloody fight.
“Milord!” one of Roden’s men shouted. Warriors streamed down into the forest toward Bram and his men.
Thrusting up a hand, Bram signaled his men to remain ready to retaliate, but, as agreed, they’d not fire the first arrow. That same instant, Bram’s gaze locked with Roden’s. Seated astride a brown destrier, sword drawn, Roden smiled as his lackeys surrounded Bram and his men and herded them to the road.
“Miranda,” Roden called. “Beloved.”
His beloved. Never! Rage further tightened Bram’s grip on his sword. How he’d love to haul Roden down from his horse and slit his treacherous throat.
Now, more than ever, though, Bram’s actions must be guided by honor. He must prove himself the nobleman he truly was.
Upon reaching the crowded road, Bram motioned for his men to halt. They kept their tight circle around him and Miranda. His senses attuned for any sign of attack, Bram held Roden’s challenging stare across the crowd of fighters between them.
Heedless of the warriors who had to step out of the way, Roden spurred his destrier toward Miranda. He extended his hand, gemstone rings glinting on his fingers. “Come, beloved. Let us get you to safety.”
Not moving from Bram’s side, she smiled at Roden, and Bram clenched his teeth, jealousy leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d promised to trust her, though. He’d never betray a promise to her.
“Thank you for coming to find me, my love,” she said.
“I could not leave you in the clutches of criminals.” Roden smiled back. He halted his horse a safe distance from the outlaws, a line of his men-at-arms still between him and Bram’s men. “Now, come to me.”
“I cannot. Not until the truth of this situation is made clear to all those who are here to bear witness.”
“Truth?” Roden—the deceitful bastard—looked astonished. “What truth is there, but that you were taken hostage by traitors, one of whom tries to claim he is me? The outlaws will die in this forest. They will be slaughtered like mongrels for the distress forced upon you, along with their other crimes.”
Angry mutters spread through the outlaws. With a flick of his hand, Bram urged them to be patient.
“What I want made clear, my love, is the truth of two brothers who say they are the same man. Only one of you”—she gestured to Bram, then Roden—“is Bram Hawksley, rightful lord of Dreyswell Castle. The other is his younger brother, Roden.”
“Miranda, surely you do not believe this outlaw’s lies?” Eyes narrowing, Roden demanded, “Did he touch you? Seduce you? By God, is that why—?”
Not even the hint of a blush stained her features. “Please, my love,” she went on, dappled sunlight playing over her as she took several steps toward him. “We must end the rumors today. We must prove you are Bram. Otherwise, the rumors will persist and destroy our happy marriage.”
Roden’s lips curled. “The rumors will cease once I have slain this whoreson who says he is me.”
“This man”—she gestured to Bram—“insists he is the rightful lord of Dreyswell. He says he was attacked and badly wounded while riding to claim the castle. His armor and possessions were taken, leaving him no means to prove his true identity.”
“A ridiculous story.”
“Not so,” Bram said, focusing all his loathing into his stare. “You hired those men, Roden. You are wearing my stolen armor, repaired at the hip and shoulder after being damaged in battles I fought against the Saracens on crusade. You also wear my scabbard”—he lifted his sword—“made for this blade.”
As mutters spread through the gathered warriors, Roden laughed. “I have owned this chain mail and scabbard for months. I bought them from a knight, who was eager to sell his old armor and scabbard to buy new. He was a remarkable swordsman, and thus had fought many skirmishes for his lord. His armor was damaged during fierce fighting. That explains the repairs.”
As the grumbles faded, Miranda said, “This man also said we knew each other when we were younger, but that cannot be. You and I are the ones who met years ago.”
“I told you, he is a liar.”
As Roden’s hand rose to order his men to battle, Miranda hurried forward. “Wait. Please. Fighting now will not end the rumors. My love, tell all who are here about the afternoon we left the keep to be alone.” She glanced past Roden to the grizzled knight who’d ridden alongside her into the woods. “He will recall. He fetched me from my chamber the next morning, to face my father’s questioning.”
Hope wove into the angry hammering of Bram’s pulse. Oh, clever, clever Miranda.
“Do you remember, my love?” she asked.
“Of course I do.” A hint of unease darkened Roden’s gaze.
Clasping her hands, her expression dreamy as though she recalled a treasured memory, Miranda said, “We snuck out the postern gate in the far wall of the keep. Hand in hand, we ran to a meadow filled with wildflowers. I let down my hair, and gave you the ribbon. Green silk—”
“Beloved, I do not see how this tale—”
“Is that how you remember our first afternoon together? I must know.”
Roden waved an impatient hand. “’Tis as you said.”
“Not so.” Bram moved to Miranda’s side. “She and I met in the castle’s stable, at night. The ribbon she gave me was blue.”
Smiling at him, Miranda nodded. “That is the truth.” Her gaze shifted to his brother. “That means you are Roden.”
Mutters rose from the onlookers.
“Enough,” Roden shouted. “I am Bram Hawksley!”
“I remember maidservants whispering of the straw clinging to your gown.” The older knight’s gaze shifted from Miranda to Bram. “Straw from the stable.”
“I kept that ribbon for years,” Bram said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “Even when it frayed. Even when it got dirty. ’Tis in my scabbard—the one you wear. Show us, if you dare. Show all who are here the color of that ribbon.”
“Please,” Miranda said, brushing past men-at-arms to reach Roden’s side and look up at him.
“Aye, show us,” outlaws shouted.
Sweat shone on Roden’s face. Anticipation buzzed in Bram’s blood, for with so many onlookers, Roden had no choice but to respond to the challenge and upend the scabbard . . .
Unless he’d already found the ri
bbon. He might have destroyed it, and then, emptying the scabbard would be for naught.
With stiff movements, Roden removed the scabbard and turned it upside down.
A bit of silk drifted toward the ground.
“Blue!” a man-at-arms yelled.
As shocked roars erupted, Bram strode toward his brother. The men-at-arms, looking stunned, didn’t try to stop him. “I am Bram Hawksley,” Bram bellowed, “lord of Dreyswell Castle. All warriors from the castle’s garrison owe allegiance to me. Disobey me, and I will consider you a traitor.”
“’Tis a trick! Do not listen to him,” Roden shouted.
Bram held his brother’s glower. “I swear, upon my soul, that I am Bram. I swear it as a loyal subject of King Richard. Can you vow the same, Brother? I think not, for that would betray your loyalty to John Lackland.”
Roden’s furious stare shifted to Miranda, holding up the ribbon for all to see.
Fear locked in Bram’s chest. “Miranda—”
Before he could warn her, Roden thrust his sword downward. The tip of his blade touched her shoulder.
She froze, terror etching her features.
Roden smirked. “Lackland will be king of England. You, Brother, will yield all to me. Or Miranda will die.”
***
The cold bite of Roden’s sword pressed against Miranda’s shoulder blade. How easily he could cut her. Kill her. Keep her, forever, from being with Bram. The thrill of revealing the blue ribbon vanished on a rush of fear.
“Please, Roden,” she called. She couldn’t turn her head to look at him, because the blade would slice through her garments to her skin. “Let me go.”
Bram halted near her, facing his brother. Bram stood close enough to touch if she extended her arm. A sob rose inside her. How desperately she wanted to touch him, but she didn’t dare move.
“You cannot win this fight, Roden.” Bram’s words shook with rage. “You are a traitor. You are outnumbered. As lord of these lands, I arrest you for treachery.”
“You shall never capture me. Attack me, and I will shove this blade into Miranda’s pretty flesh. Are you willing to risk her life, Brother?”
Bile rose in her throat. Judging by Roden’s nasty tone, he would not hesitate to do as he threatened.
“If you refuse to surrender,” Bram said, “I will kill you. You and your fellow traitors will not escape this forest. You cannot, for my men control the road. If you care for Miranda, if you have any honor left in your damned heart, you shall not harm her. Release her.”
Tears slipped along her lashes. How brave Bram looked, flanked by his colleagues and the men-at-arms who no longer saw him as their enemy, but as their leader. How proud she was of the lord he’d become. Her Bram. The man she loved.
As she blinked away tears, the clatter of horses’ hooves receded in the distance. A rough laugh broke from Bram, and he tipped his head toward the noise. “’Tis your allies, fleeing. How quickly they desert you, now that you are beaten. However, they will not get far.”
“Cease,” Roden snapped. “Miranda, listen carefully. You will step backward to my horse. Slowly.”
The crackle of branches sounded. “More of your friends are running away. You are on your own, Roden,” Bram said with a laugh. “Look, if you do not believe me. See them—”
The bite of the sword eased the barest fraction as Roden’s attention shifted.
Before Miranda dared to move, Bram lunged sideways. He shoved her to the ground, away from the point of the sword.
As Roden bellowed with fury, Bram rose. Weapon raised, he strode toward his brother, followed by warriors.
Shouts carried. Swords clanged and clashed. As she snatched up the ribbon that had fallen on the dirt, brushed off her gown, and stood, the shrill whinny of a horse carried above the din.
Roden’s destrier, now without a rider, was being brought under control by outlaws. Surrounded, teeth bared in a sneer, Roden lashed out with his sword at the men closing in on him, including Bram.
Several outlaws grabbed for Roden’s arms. Pulling free, he lunged.
Straight for Bram.
Horror froze Miranda where she stood. Sunlight glinted on steel as, with lethal grace, Bram swung his blade to meet Roden’s strike. Darting back, Bram slashed the tip of his sword across his brother’s right leg, unprotected by his chain mail.
Blood spurted down Roden’s hose. With an agonized scream, he fell to one knee.
“Yield,” Bram yelled, his blade at his brother’s neck.
“I would rather die.” Hand shaking, Roden swung his sword.
Bram thrust his blade forward, severing flesh and bone. Closing her eyes, she shivered at the grisly thud of Roden’s corpse falling to the ground.
“Miranda.”
Opening her eyes, she found Bram standing before her, his eyes wide with concern.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. Joy that he was safe welled up inside her.
“I am sorry you had to witness Roden’s death.” Touching her arm, Bram whispered, “Did he cut you with his sword? Did he hurt you?”
“Nay.”
His breath expelling on a whoosh, Bram slid his arm around her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her, hard and deep. Rowdy whistling broke out around them and, laughing, he eased her away.
“There are matters I must finish here,” he said. “Once the rest of the traitors are captured, we will ride to my castle.”
She smiled. “Your castle. As you deserve.”
He grinned. “I have sent a messenger to your father’s keep, asking that your sire meet us at Dreyswell. When he arrives, we will tell him all that has happened.”
“A wise plan.”
Bram glanced toward his warriors, who were binding the men they had already caught fleeing. “There is one matter, though, that cannot wait a moment longer.” Catching her hand holding the ribbon, he raised it to his lips and kissed it, very gently. “Will you marry me, Miranda?”
A shocked laugh burst from her. “I am betrothed to you.”
“To a man you believed was Bram Hawksley. To a lie. I want you to want me.” His tone roughened. “Only me.”
She smiled, love for him soaring inside her. “I do want you, Bram, to be my husband. Only you.”
“Good.” His grin turned sly. “I cannot wait until our wedding night. Then, finally, I can prove to you just how very much I want you.”
Chapter Five
“Away with you,” Bram called in a good-natured tone to the boisterous wedding guests crowded outside the doorway of Dreyswell Castle’s solar.
Held in his arms several yards inside the chamber, her hands linked at his nape, Miranda chuckled along with him. How giddy she felt, from the wine she’d drunk at the feast celebrating their nuptials, several rounds of dancing, and sheer happiness. As her gaze locked with Bram’s, he smiled and pressed a tender kiss upon her lips.
The onlookers cheered. None of them seemed willing to leave. The crowd had gathered after he’d said a formal goodnight to all the revelers in the great hall, lifted Miranda into his arms, and started up the wooden staircase that led to the solar. Laughing and cheering, the guests had followed, right to the threshold of the chamber that Miranda and Bram would share from this day onward.
“We cannot leave yet,” a man cried over the music rising from the hall. “We must help undress you and get you into the marriage bed.”
Bawdy whistling erupted, and Miranda groaned. She’d hoped to avoid that embarrassing tradition.
“We need no help. Away!” Bram repeated with a mock growl, then winked at Miranda. “I want to be alone with my wife.”
Bram shoved the door shut with his booted foot, and the cacophony outside dimmed. After loud cheers and hearty thumps upon the door, the crowd began to move away.
“Thank you,” she said, exhaling with relief.
“My pleasure.” A smoldering heat filled Bram’s gaze. “I co
nfess, though, I sent them away out of selfishness. No man shall see you undressed but me.”
As his bold gaze traveled from her mouth to her bosom, enhanced by the bodice of her finest gown of silver-gray silk, anticipation tingled low in Miranda’s belly.
Soon, they’d lie naked together.
Soon, they’d join their bodies.
Soon, in the most intimate way, they’d become husband and wife.
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