by Cathy MacRae
“In battle nearly a year ago,” he replied. His hooded gaze offered no further explanation.
Marsaili took a breath and spoke slowly, as to a dullard. “Why does it still pain ye?”
Geoffrey heaved a sigh and conceded to her question. “Because a piece of metal lingers in a spot no physician cares to prod.”
She sat upright, interest piqued. “Because ye still enjoy the lasses and do not wish to lose yer function?”
His gaze narrowed. “Because it lies against the bone and next to a very large vessel in my thigh, impertinent wench.”
Marsaili winked at him. “I thought as much, though ’twas worth the question to hear yer reply. The injury will one day pain ye so that the operation and its outcome will matter little to ye and ye will have it done.”
“You sound certain, Milady. How come you by such knowledge?”
Her mood soured. “I once watched a young man endure a similar procedure. ’Twasnae something I would wish to see again.” She dropped her gaze to her lap. “I am no healer.”
Geoffrey regarded her for a moment longer. “’Tis the hope of a learned physician that my body will build thick tissue around it and it will cease to be a nuisance to me.” He grimaced. “Though the actuality of it has yet to happen, I prefer waiting for healing to a surgical alternative.”
Marsaili shrugged. “Surgery is a risky proposition. ’Tis possible he merely placated ye ’til such a time as ye would seek another’s advice. What man would wish to be the careless physician who maimed or killed The Saint?”
“Many, I would suppose,” he returned with a wry look.
She nodded. “Verily. For a man of your consequence, ’twould not surprise me to find those who would be happy to lay claim to such an honor.”
Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. “Honor? Though I have killed my share of men, I assure you they have been in battle and would have been most eager to kill me first. I think you overstate the issue.”
Marsaili tilted her head back and forth. “Mayhap. But yer reputation is that of a violent man who took to the cloisters in pursuit of his soul.”
“I will not be a fighting man again, Milady, as you can see from my enfeebled state. As a younger son, the priesthood was a likely place for me to spend the remainder of my life. Mayhap atoning for some of my earlier deeds, though I tend to think the Lord sees a warrior’s duty and aligns Himself with those who closely follow the Chivalric Code.”
Marsaili eyed his broad shoulders, his large, muscular body, finding nothing beyond his wound to lend itself to an ‘enfeebled state’. Another incongruity struck her. “But ye are Lord de Wylde,” she puzzled.
“Yes. My two older brothers were killed a month past. One in a joust, the other in a battle on the Border.”
Marsaili caught the warning glint in his eye. “I had nothing to do with the border battle, Milord. In fact, I abhor violence and would see the English retire to their side of the Border and cease all hostilities.”
“For a woman who carries a small arsenal on her person, I find that rather amusing.”
“I dinnae stir up violence, Milord, but I willnae be a willing victim of it, either.” She quirked a brow. “Edmund taught me that.”
The wagon lurched over the road, tossing Marsaili up and down on the seat. Though the furs Lord de Wylde had accorded her might be warm, they did little to soften the blow of the wooden bench on her behind. An area already sorely abused by her mad dash northward astride her horse two days earlier. She grimaced.
“Would you care to join me?” Geoffrey asked from the smug comfort of his cushions.
Scald his watchful eyes. And blast, but I wish to take him up on his offer.
“Why do we continue to travel when night is close?” she countered. “Shouldn’t we prepare for a stop?”
“I thought you wished to escape Edmund.”
She gave a nod. “Ye would push through the night on my behalf?”
“I have considered it.”
She leveled him a speculative stare. “I thought ye found it dishonorable I would be driven from my rightful home. To which home are ye taking me? I wish to go home to Scotland, not back to Bellevue. Tell me, Milord. What is the price to see me home?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cold crept into her bones as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Marsaili ate the hurried supper of bread, cheese and dried meat, washing it down with warmed wine. Lord de Wylde had kept the party moving long past time to seek shelter, and no matter her preference, a make-shift lean-to of thick evergreen branches braced against a rock outcrop and covered with a heavy blanket would be her bower for the night. ’Twas a far cry from the comforts she was accustomed to, but she’d sleep naked on a bed of thorns to avoid Edmund’s grasp.
At least we've put more distance between me and Edmund’s rabble. She hoped. Marsaili peered over her shoulder at Lord de Wylde and his men as they crouched beside the fire, weapons at the ready.
And it appears they take me seriously.
Though it pains me to repeat myself, Milady, upon my honor, we will not exchange you for money. The memory of Geoffrey’s earnest words pierced the mistrust that had shielded her heart for so long. Too much had happened in the past few months to allow her to give her trust freely. Especially to a man.
Damn Edmund!
Her breath caught in her throat as dismay rushed over her. Why did Edmund have to fix his sights on me? There were lasses aplenty at the castle who cared naught for his brutish behavior and welcomed him into their beds.
To think one of the besoms could rule the home she’d cared for these past five years sent a stabbing pain through her chest. There’d been little comfort in her marriage beside those she created. With a fine stitching hand and an eye for comfortable luxury, she’d formed a beautiful setting for herself and her ladies. Andrew had cared little for her details, but left her much to her own devices.
As Lord de Wylde said,’tis my right to retire with dignity to the dower house. But damned if I want to sit by and see my home ruined by one of Edmund’s lazy sluts. To her surprise, a wave of homesickness swept over her. She fought the sensation, reminding herself what awaited if she returned to Bellevue.
“If you leave the covering pulled aside, the heat from the fire will keep you warm. One of us will keep the logs burning throughout the night.” Geoffrey stood beside her.
Marsaili nodded. “Just as the curtains on my bed hold in the warmth from the hearth at home.” She tilted her head. “A bit less privacy than I am used to, but ’twill suffice.”
He gave her a wry look, an actual twinkle in his eyes. “I vow ’twill be a bit more than you lying disrobed in my arms before the fire while we breathed life into your gray skin.”
Something inside Marsaili shattered at the image of him blowing on her skin. The thought of his lips close to her body sent chills summersaulting through her limbs and she quickly closed her jaw that had gone slack.
“Care to come a bit closer to the fire, Milady?” he asked, his voice courteous as though he hadn’t just sent all intelligent notions tumbling out of her brain. He patted his thigh. “I can attest to the benefits of its warmth.”
She reined in her wayward thoughts and sought for something, anything to say. “Can ye attest to Wythevede’s approval if I leave my seclusion here?” She hated to harp on the old man, but he was the easiest target in her current befuddled condition.
Geoffrey snorted. “After sixty years in my family’s service, Wythevede should know his place. It is occasionally unfortunate he believes himself above such notions. But he is very loyal and means well.”
“Scant comfort for me,” Marsaili noted. She accepted Geoffrey’s offer and allowed him to pull her to her feet, trying not to snatch her hand away from the unexpectedly warm, soothing, and utterly powerful sensation of being enveloped in his grasp.
“He will get to know you and direct his loyalty to you, as well.” Geoffrey placed a palm at her back in gentle guidance.
“As long
as he curbs his bluttering,” she murmured.
Simon and Walter rose to their feet as Marsaili approached the fire. Wythevede gave a startled glance at the knights’ actions and scrambled to his feet, muttering under his breath.
“Keeping yer insults behind yer butter-teeth, Wythevede?” Marsaili breezed as she alighted to the spot indicated on a large log one of the men had dragged before the fire earlier. Lord de Wylde cast a withering look in her direction and seated himself next to her.
Wythevede shoved the knitted cap over his brow and plopped back to his seat, raising his steaming mug to his lips.
“Saint tells us you are returning to your home north of the border, Milady,” Walter interjected before Wythevede could muster an answer to Marsaili’s question. “I have not been there in many years. What is your home like?”
Marsaili forgot Lord de Wylde’s nearness as Walter’s question brought back her wariness. “’Tis a small town founded by the Norse almost two centuries ago. ’Twas once called Loc-hard’s by, but we simply say Lockardebi now.”
“I was there once,” Simon offered with a grin. “Mayhap the tale is not for a lady’s ears, but I remember it as a beautiful place, with two rivers.”
Marsaili’s cheeks heated from more than the crackling blaze, wondering what lass had enticed the angelic-looking knight across the border. “Aye. ’Tis a verra beautiful place. The town’s charter was given to Adam de Carlyle by Robert de Brus, Lord of Annandale, almost a hundred years ago.”
“And King Henry III considered confiscating the lands several years back, did he not?” Walter asked, leaning toward Marsaili, a curious light in his soft brown eyes.
Simon waved him back. “’Tis no way to talk to a lady, you dolt.” He shook his head, turning his attention to Marsaili with excessive courtesy. “How has your family fared, Milady?”
“Well, thank ye,” she replied in a prim manner. “Though we could do with less war with the English.”
“How long have you lived in England?” Geoffrey asked, turning the conversation smoothly away from Walter’s blunder.
“I married Andrew, Lord de Ville, five years ago,” she answered. “And if ye wonder if my allegiance is to Scotland or England, my answer is Scotland.”
“Sounds as if your years on English soil weren’t good ones,” Simon interjected.
Marsaili gifted him a brief smile. “My life was as ye could expect, Sir. Though my da meant well, my marriage to an English lord did little to create peace on the border. My husband was also a good many years older than I, and though he wished mightily for an heir, none resulted.” She spread her hands before her, warming them at the camp fire’s flames. “As neither of his two previous wives produced an heir, either, when he passed, the title went to his brother, Edmund.”
Geoffrey rested his forearms on his thighs. “Tell me of Edmund.”
* * *
Marsaili dropped her gaze to stare into the fire. Geoffrey wondered what she would say. From her earlier actions, it was easy to believe she’d had enough of abuse at Edmund’s hands and decided to abandon the life she’d created at Bellevue, returning to Scotland to start anew. But he hadn’t been a warrior this long by believing every fadoodle he was told. Following Simon’s earlier question, he needed to believe her.
And he needed all the information he could gather about the man who may—or may not—be on their trail at this moment.
“Edmund is younger than his brother—my late husband—by several years,” she began. “In recent months Andrew’s health took a . . . turn for the worse, and Edmund became bolder in his disregard for his brother’s wishes, more forceful in his desire to take over the lordship.”
Geoffrey studied the woman next to him. Her skin, pale by nature and made lighter by the cold, took on a deadened hue, hiding the normal, healthy glow. Even her cheeks, rosy from the wind, faded.
Marsaili sat in silence and he could only wonder at her thoughts. She curled her fingers into fists and hid them in the folds of her cloak.
“Since he is most insistent I wed him—something I most assuredly dinnae wish to do—I decided to go home.” She turned a brilliant smile on the group, indicating her story was at an end. Geoffrey ignored the hint.
“You stated he chased you and would kill you if given the chance. Do you still believe this is true?”
“I doubt Edmund would bother coming after me himself. He isnae likely to risk personal discomfort when he can have another do his bidding whilst he keeps a warm bed and a willing wench in it,” she snipped.
That was the Marsaili he knew. Geoffrey almost grinned as he saw color flood her cheeks, then sobered. There was much she did not tell him. How did her late husband’s health decline? Disease? Old age? Why did she not petition the king to punish or at least moderate Edmund’s behavior? King Henry wasn’t likely to force her to wed her brother-by-marriage, no matter the political impact. Indeed, there was every likelihood he would grant her dower lands and monies from Edmund until she married again. What hold did Edmund have over her that forced her from her home without protection, in the dead of winter?
“Simon, refill her mug,” he ordered, handing him the vessel. Simon poured it full of wine, thrusting a red-hot poker into the liquid to warm it. The corners of her lips lifted in thanks, and she wrapped her fingers around the toasty mug.
“Did you consider petitioning the king for your rights as Lord de Ville’s widow?” Geoffrey asked casually.
Marsaili gave a slow nod. “Aye.”
“Your being a Scot should in no way influence his decision. You were married to an English lord,” he added when Marsaili halted with the single word.
“I dinnae believe it would matter where I was born.”
“Edmund has that much influence with the king? I have not heard of the man, and I was close to the king for more than a year before my injury.”
“Edmund doesnae have to curry favor with the king. He is the new lord at Bellevue, and I am merely a woman.”
“Milady, ’tis your right to live your life at Bellevue—”
“So ye’ve said, Milord,” she interrupted, her color now high despite the cold. “As I’ve said, Edmund lives by his own rules.”
“How is it he can control you?”
She gave him a piercing stare. “Because he threatened to tell the king I killed my husband.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The campfire erupted into a thousand sparks of light. Burning wood scattered outward, away from the crossbow bolt quivering upright in the center of the blaze. Simon and Walter sprang to their feet, weapons drawn.
Geoffrey’s hand gripped Marsaili’s cloak and the gown beneath it at the neck. He shoved her backward, pushing her to the ground behind the log she’d just been seated on. Her feet flew up in the air and she clawed frantically for balance, her nails splintering the rough bark of the old log. The odor of partially rotted wood and snow clogged her nostrils. She hit the ground with a soft umph and immediately scrambled into a crouch, peering over the log at the melee.
“Stay.” Geoffrey’s single word rumbled low.
Men and shadows darted in and out of the firelight. The scattered brands gave off little light, making it difficult to tell how many men attacked their group or who they were. Walter kicked the burning logs back together and the small clearing burst into golden light. He and Simon stood shoulder-to-shoulder, swords swinging, forming a formidable barrier between Marsaili and their attackers. Geoffrey took his stance next to Walter, legs braced apart, giving no evidence of the strain on his injured leg.
Horses whinnied and thrashed in the brush behind them. Wythevede darted past, the light of battle in his eyes as he took charge of the crazed beasts. Marsaili slid her hand into a slit at the side of her skirt and pulled a dagger from the sheath at her thigh. Slipping to her feet, she followed Wythevede into the darkness.
Walter’s and Simon’s destriers plunged about, secured by their tethers to the picket line. Seeing no one foolish enough to place them
selves within striking distance of the enormous hooves, Marsaili glanced further down the line at the other horses. Hew and one of the team strained as far in her direction as their ropes would allow, but the horse on the end danced on his hind feet, his lead clasped in the fist of a man Marsaili did not recognize.
Wythevede clung to the man’s back, both skinny legs wrapped around the mail-clad waist. The man spun about in an attempt to dislodge the burden, causing the horse to rear up in panic. Wythevede pounded the man’s head with his fists, raining both curses and blows on the unprotected pate. A flat-brimmed metal helmet lay on the ground some feet away and Marsaili grinned.
Good for ye, auld man!
Movement caught her eye. She leaned forward, peering into the shadows, dagger at the ready, clenched in her hand. A second man, dressed much like the first, ducked beneath the picket line, creeping rapidly toward Wythevede. Quickly judging her distance to the man, Marsaili took a step back, placing one foot behind the other and to her left, blading her body toward the man. She flipped the handle-heavy dagger over in her hand and drew her arm back, sending the blade singing past her ear. The dagger slipped from her fingertips at the end of her throw and she stepped forward, adding power to her cast.
The dagger slammed into the man’s shoulder at the base of his neck, blood spurting darkly from the wound. He clutched at the blade with a cry as he crumpled to his knees. Wythevede and his soldier startled, glancing backward, pausing almost comically at the sight of the dead man. The warrior recovered first and waved his arms wildly, brushing Wythevede off his back. Stumbling forward, he disappeared into the night, leaving the horse behind.
At the camp, the attacking party faded into the darkness. Bodies lay scattered on the ground, tumbled into awkward positions like piles of children’s toys, their strings suddenly severed. Marsaili viewed the carnage with an uncertain eye as she stepped near the fire, her stomach churning at the odor of blood and something more foul.
