by Tarah Scott
“How does my grandfather expect an old man to sire a child?”
Sir Ascot shook his head. “Ye are to marry Jacobus Auenel. The old earl is dead.”
“Dead?” She was to marry Lord Melrose’s son?
Her pulse sped up. Was it possible to become wife and future mother in a few days’ time? Disgust displaced the hope that surged through her. Jacobus Melrose was but twenty-one. A pup. A pup would have no trouble siring a child. It was Rhoslyn who might not conceive. Rhoslyn twisted the wedding ring she still wore. She wanted neither child nor husband.
Damn the sovereign to hell. He interfered where he had no business. And her grandfather was still trying to protect her. In the process, he would get himself and young Melrose killed. This she could not allow.
Rhoslyn faced Hildegard and gave her a fierce hug. “Thank ye.”
The prioress’ gnarled fingers tightened on her shoulders. “May God keep ye safe, lady.”
They drew apart.
“Beatrice...” Rhoslyn began, a lump in her throat.
Hildegard smiled gently. “You will see the abbess again in God’s time.”
Rhoslyn gave the nun’s hand a final squeeze and turned to Sir Ascot. He helped her mount one of the horses and she kept her gaze straight when they passed through the gates. In the dark mist beyond the convent Rhoslyn saw only Edward’s bold script commanding that she marry Sir Talbot St. Claire.
* * *
Talbot opened the door to the bower and took in the slim figure seated on the bench in front of the fire. Beautiful dark hair hung unbound about slim shoulders. Canny blue eyes met his stare. Beside her stood a tall warrior at least ten years Talbot’s senior, but fit as any man Talbot’s age. Firelight glistened off the polished hilt of the well-used broadsword at the man’s hip.
Talbot paused inside the doorway and returned his gaze to the woman. “Lady Finlay, I am honored to meet you. I understand you wanted to see me.”
She rose. “Will ye enter and close the door?”
Talbot flicked a glance at her protector.
She said, “So long as ye do no’ harm me, he will not harm you.”
“So long as he stays at his side of the room, there will be no misunderstandings,” Talbot replied.
“He will do as I bid. Please, Sir Talbot, time is short.” She nodded toward the door. “I canna’ risk prying ears.”
Talbot closed the door, crossed his arms, and waited.
“I have news concerning your betrothed.”
He tensed, but kept his expression cool. “What news could you possibly have concerning my wife?”
Her mouth twitched in indulgent amusement. “Calling Lady Rhoslyn your wife will be meaningless if a priest blesses her union with another man.”
“Are you saying an illegal marriage has been performed?”
The amusement reached her eyes. “Until Lady Rhoslyn is in your home—and your bed—there is some doubt as to your claim.”
“I make no claim, madam. She is my wife by order of King Edward.”
“Then let King Edward come here and enforce the decree. But that would be doing things the hard way. As Abbess of St. Mary’s convent, I can simplify things.”
“Abbess of St. Mary’s?” he repeated.
“Abbes Beatrice,” she said. “Forgive the deception. I could no’ risk anyone here knowing my true identity. It is best that Rhoslyn—and everyone else—never know I was here.” She paused. “I am a good woman to have as friend. Do ye wish me to be your friend?”
Talbot had found the church befriend no one but the church.
He canted his head. “I am always at the disposal of the church.”
“A wise man. I expect something in return for the favor I am about to bestow. This is no small matter, Sir Talbot. I am ensuring that your marriage to Lady Rhoslyn does not go awry.”
“That sounds like nothing short of a miracle.” And he didn’t believe in miracles.
“God works in mysterious ways,” the abbess said. “Are we agreed? A favor for a favor?”
“I give no favors that betray my king.”
She nodded. “Good. I do no’ like traitors and I trust them even less. Lady Rhoslyn has spent the last fourteen months at St. Mary’s mourning the death of her husband and son. Tonight, her grandfather’s men arrived to take her to Longford Castle where she will marry the new Earl of Melrose.”
Talbot feared something like this. Upon his arrival at Castle Glenbarr a week ago, he’d visited her grandfather with the betrothal contract. The old baron read the decree, then promised to bring Lady Rhoslyn from her convent. No blustering, no rejection of the marriage terms, not so much as a cross word. Aside from the fact he refused to name the convent, the whole affair had been too easy.
“Seward cannot be fool enough to think I will not take her by force,” Talbot said.
“Dinna’ be dense,” she replied. “He plans to hold up in Longford Castle until she bears Jacobus a child.”
“Castles can be razed to the ground.”
“More easily said than done,” she said, “and at what cost? The castle is a veritable fortress. Lady Rhoslyn’s grandfather can wait you out.”
“Where is she now?” Talbot demanded.
“We are agreed?” the abbess pressed.
“Aye. We are agreed. But beware, Sister. I honor my word, but I will not commit murder any quicker than I will betray Edward.”
Her brows rose. “Murder is your way of life, Knight. But fear no’, murder is not God’s way. I will not ask anything he would not ask.”
That frightened Talbot more than anything man could ask. But he had no more intention of allowing God to force him into anything than he did man or woman.
“By now Rhoslyn is on her way to Longford Castle,” Beatrice said. “I had the prioress delay her departure. I pray we had an hour head start, and Rhoslyn and her grandfather’s men willna’ have been able to ride as fast as we did.”
“You will not countenance betrayal in me, but have no compunction about betraying Lady Rhoslyn,” Talbot said.
She lifted her brows as if surprised. “It is no betrayal to carry out God’s will.”
* * *
A warning shout at the rear of the company caused Rhoslyn to snap her head toward the murky form of Sir Ascot, who rode beside her in the thickening fog.
The knight drew his sword. “Ride, my lady.”
After they’d left the convent, Sir Ascot had given her a dagger and instructed her to flee with two of his strongest men should they be discovered. She hadn’t thought there any great possibility that would happen, so hadn’t voiced the thought that she wouldn’t leave her father’s men at the mercy of Sir Talbot.
“Do not lose your head,” she ordered. “It is far more likely we have encountered robbers than St Claire. He cannot possibly know I have left the convent.”
Ascot lifted his sword and Rhoslyn realized his intention. She turned her horse’s head, but not quickly enough to avoid the flat side of his sword smacking her steed’s rump. The beast leapt forward and the men parted before her as her horse shot through their ranks. As planned, Aland and David broke into a gallop alongside her.
She pulled on the reins, but her horse gave a cry and sped up when Aland slapped his reins against the beast’s neck. David drew closer on the other side, hemming her in. The fools were in league against her.
“I shall strip you both of your knighthood,” she shouted.
“Aye, my lady,” Aland replied. “But your grandfather will hang us if we do not deliver ye to him safely.”
Another, more distant shout went up amongst the men, this one followed by a clash of steel. Was it truly St. Claire who accosted them? Anger whipped through Rhoslyn. The death of her grandfather’s knights would be on Edward’s head. He would pay. Oh, how he would pay.
The sounds of fighting faded. She could make out the murky shadows of trees alongside the road, but didn’t know where they were. The pounding of her protectors’ horses’ hoove
s beside her should have given comfort. Instead, she knew the sound would haunt her forever. It was the sound of cowardice. The sound of defeat.
A large silhouette abruptly appeared in front of them.
“My lady!” Aland cried.
He tore to the right and Rhoslyn followed while David galloped left. She heard a thwack, but couldn’t guess the source, and forced her horse back onto the road. She pulled on the reins. A man’s grunt sounded and a horse gave a shrill cry. Rhoslyn turned her mount toward the sound and one of the knights appeared nearby.
“Aland, is that you?” Or was it David?
He brought his horse up beside hers. Something struck her as odd, but before she could understand what, an arm snaked out and around her waist. She yanked the dagger from its sheath and drove the blade downward toward the arm gripping her as she was dragged from her horse. The blade snagged on her attacker’s armor and he muttered a curse as she slammed into a wall of muscle protected by chainmail.
Fear sent a wave of dizziness through her. She raised the knife for another blow, but iron fingers clamped around her wrist. She cried out in pain and her grip faltered. He shook her wrist hard and she dropped the dagger.
Her legs dangled against the horse’s flanks and she gave a vicious kick to its ribs. The beast started forward, then the arm around her tightened as its owner pulled back on the reins. She kicked again—harder—and the horse reared. Her attacker crushed Rhoslyn between his chest and arms as he leaned forward in an effort to force the animal’s front hooves back onto the ground.
She gasped for breath through crushed lungs. The horse’s hooves hit the ground so hard her teeth jarred. Rhoslyn clawed at the arm that pinned her. Her fingers slipped on a warm, slick substance, and satisfaction surged through her at the realization that it was his blood. She must have cut him below his chainmail. His hold, however, did not weaken, despite the wound.
With a grunt, he seized her arms and trapped them against her body. He threw a leg over her thighs, pinning them against the horse’s side, before the horse shot forward. Tears of rage stung her eyes even as she arched and twisted. Her grandfather’s men had died for nothing. Aland...David, had died without ever seeing their executioner.
Rhoslyn’s legs cramped and she struggled harder. She would plunge the first knife she found into the heart of Talbot St Claire. He was a fool to have acted so rashly. He would not have her, her lands, or the goodwill of his king. Nay. He would die.
Minutes passed in growing agony before her captor at last slowed his horse’s pace. Rhoslyn couldn’t deny her relief when he released the pressure on her legs. He shifted her bottom across his hard thighs, and she straightened, stretching her legs. One large hand pressed her thigh in what she knew was a warning not to incite the beast again.
Pinpricks of light dotted the foggy darkness ahead. Was this Dunfrey Castle? She hadn’t seen lights to indicate they had passed Castle Glenbarr. So her captor had wisely circled around her home to avoid detection. Once they reached Dunfrey Castle she would become a prisoner. Dunfrey Castle, nicknamed ‘Dragon’s Lair’ by the Highlanders who had competed against St. Claire in the tainchel, the Great Hunt, was smaller than Castle Glenbarr, but no less fortified. St. Claire would defeat any who attacked him, just as he had his competitors in the games. Truly, the castle was appropriately nicknamed Dragon’s Lair, for the knight, like the mythical dragon, decimated his enemies.
They drew closer, and an eerie yellow glow haloed the torches in the fog up on the battlements. Despite her resolve, her belly clenched with fear. She mouthed a silent prayer to Saint George for strength to bind her dragon as St. George had his a millennia ago.
The keep loomed, a shadow in the fog that became a visible wall when they stopped. Something familiar niggled at her.
“’Tis I,” her captor shouted, in a cultured English accent.
No simple man-at-arms had been sent to collect her. Only a knight of the first order would do to kidnap Sir Talbot St. Claire’s wife.
“Open in the name of peace,” he called.
Peace? St. Claire represented anything but peace.
Fury swept through Rhoslyn. “Ye speak of peace when you kidnap innocent women and slay men in the dark? Neither you nor your master shall know peace the remainder of your days.”
Her captor gave a low laugh that sent a chill down her spine.
“What man knows peace when he takes a wife?” he said.
Rhoslyn stiffened. The man was a dog. How fitting that a dog should serve a dragon.
Wood creaked as the gates began a slow swing inward. He spurred his horse forward when the opening was barely wide enough to accommodate entrance. The fog obscured their surroundings. He stopped and hugged her close as he swung his leg around the pommel. She threw her arms around his neck for fear of falling as he slid from the saddle. Rhoslyn jolted when his feet hit solid ground. Another warrior appeared beside the horse as her captor strode away from the animal.
“Put me down,” Rhoslyn demanded.
He lengthened his stride in response.
“Did ye hear me, Knight? I am Lady Rhoslyn Harper—”
“St. Claire,” he cut in.
“What?”
“Lady Rhoslyn St. Claire.”
“How dare you?” She slapped him.
They reached the castle. He stopped short and she tensed. Would he strike her back? Did his master countenance the abuse of women?
Her heart pounded. “Have ye something to say, Knight?”
“What should I say, my lady?”
“Put me down,” she ordered.
He pushed through the door and Rhoslyn drew a sharp breath upon realizing why she had experienced the sense of recognition. They weren’t at Dunfrey Castle. This was Castle Glenbarr.
“What thievery is this?” she demanded. “Your master has no right to claim my property. We are not yet wed.” But she knew the vows—and consummation—were a mere formality. Edward’s decree held as much power as did the priest’s benediction. Still, that gave him no right to occupy her home before even meeting her.
The monster carrying her gave no answer. She had expected none. He was an Englishman, and Englishmen considered their women chattel. St. Claire would soon learn that Lady Rhoslyn Harper, granddaughter of Sir Hugo Seward, Baron Kinsley, daughter of Ihon Seward, was no man’s property.
At the far end of the room burned a low fire in a large hearth. Flickering tongues of flame cast light across the room, revealing the forms of warriors sleeping on the floor. English men-at-arms, she would wager. Where were her men? Had there been a battle? Rhoslyn thanked God she had sent her stepdaughter to stay with her grandfather while she resided at the convent. The girl would have been terrified if she’d been at Castle Glenbarr when St. Claire took possession.
Her captor crossed left, to a narrow staircase. Rhoslyn expected to be put down on her feet, but he threw her over his shoulder and took the stairs two at a time.
“Beast,” she muttered, but kept still for fear of hitting her head in the narrow space.
He reached the second level and ascended another set of stairs to the third floor where lay the too-familiar private quarters. He took several paces, then pushed through a door that opened upon her late husband’s bedchambers. Rhoslyn was abruptly tossed from his shoulder. She cried out and tensed for impact with the stone floor, but bounced on a mattress.
The bed’s thick canopy curtain closed behind her. Surprise immobilized her for an instant, then the tread of boots on stone penetrated her stupor. Rhoslyn scrambled to the edge of the bed and threw back the curtain. She drew a sharp breath at sight of her abductor’s broad shoulders. His large body had nearly crushed her, but seeing him, she now understood how he had dispatched her protectors so easily—and why St. Claire sent him. He was even larger than the Dragon was rumored to be. That didn’t mean she would allow him to leave her in the bed where her husband died.
Rhoslyn leapt from the bed and stumbled before catching herself, then lunge
d toward the door. The knight reached it several long strides ahead of her and passed into the hall. He slammed the door shut behind him and she collided with the wood.
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About the Authors
April Holthaus
April is an Award-Winning Author for her Scottish Historical Romances. For more than ten years, she has worked full time in the direct marketing business, but developed a passion of historical romances through her love of reading, history and genealogy. When she is not working or writing, April loves to spend time with her family and traveling.
Tarah Scott
Best-selling author Tarah Scott cut her teeth on authors such as Georgette Heyer, Zane Grey, and Amanda Quick. Her favorite book is a Tale of Two Cities, with Gone With the Wind as a close second. She writes modern classical romance, and paranormal and romantic suspense. Tarah grew up in Texas and currently resides in Westchester County, New York with her daughter.
