Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Lìli lifted her chin. “Yes, sir… she is my sister.”

  Padruig guffawed. And then he laughed some more—clearly amused. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, now… ’tis too bad for you, my dear, as I feared to leave you aught, lest you give it all to that hill Scot beside you. Now, it seems I dinna have to.” He smiled grotesquely. “Perhaps your little sister will be a bit more… malleable? And if she’s as fiery as her lady mother… mayhap she will fetch a lovely price?”

  Aidan’s face burned. “You will not find my sister malleable,” he said through clenched teeth. “And if ye dinna hold her, we are finished and we will take our leave.”

  Padruig’s eyes narrowed. “You know, whelp, I should have killed you when you were but a scrawny lad. Alas, I didna.”

  Aidan squeezed Lìli’s hand. “You may try me now.”

  Once again, Padruig laughed. “Bold words from an unarmed guest. Tell me, king of the hill Scots, what would prevent me from cutting you down, right where you stand? I would be well within my rights to do so.” He waved a hand to indicate the entirety of his court, all his guards. “After all, I would say you threatened me here today, and no man present would deny it.”

  Aidan grit his teeth. “I doubt you could extricate yourself from that chair in time to save your life.”

  “Why you—” Padruig rose from his seat, far more quickly than Aidan would have supposed.

  He’d best not goad the man while he had Lìli beside him, but it was all he could do to control his temper. “To answer your question,” Aidan interrupted, “I should warn you I’ve not come alone.”

  “So, I have seen, miscreant. And yet, while you may have David’s accompaniment here, today, tell me, dún Scoti, who is out there guarding my little Sorcha?” He waved a hand so to signify the firmament above. “She is my own bright star. And if anything should happen to my daughter I would hold you personally responsible.”

  Aidan clenched his teeth, unwilling to show the man how much the question troubled him. It was true. He’d come with an army, but Sorcha was still out there, alone, undefended. And now, the worst was true; her da, the devil, also knew.

  “Away with ye now,” Padruig said, seating himself once again, and waving his hand in dismissal. “Please rest assured I will spare no expense in searching for my child. I will turn every stone…” He affected an air of concern. “And I will find and reunite with my dearest darling, and—”

  “Father,” Lìli begged.

  “Shut your gob, wench!” Padruig exploded, standing once again. “You forfeited my name—and all I possess—on the day you bed that filthy hill Scot. Mark me, Daughter, I willna make the same mistake with your new sister. God has seen fit to bless me with a new opportunity and I will find my daughter, and I will make sure she brings me heirs—even if I have to bed the girl myself!”

  Infuriated by the threat, Aidan lunged at the dais. He was blocked at once by the lances of Padruig’s men. They crisscrossed before him, effectively restraining him, and Lìli refused to release his hand, reminding him of her presence. Neither would he do Sorcha any favors if he martyred himself on Padruig’s gold-tip lances.

  “Aidan!” Lìli cried.

  Padruig laughed hideously.

  “Let us go,” Lìli whispered. “Now! He is merely taunting you.” But then, when Aidan made to leave, she cast a longing glance back, toward the woman who was seated beside her father, and when that woman turned away, she made a terrible choking sound. Aidan’s heart broke for his sweet wife. And, lest she give her father the satisfaction of seeing her tears, he led her out the door. Alas, though, he would have lingered to soothe her feelings, but in the short time since the portcullis was lowered, it rose again and six men on horseback flew out, through the gates.

  “They’re going after Sorcha,” Aidan said, and he knew it in his bones.

  With all that he’d won, Padruig Caimbeul’s legacy was lost without an heir. Aidan realized he must find Sorcha before Padruig’s men did. He gave his wife a swift kiss on the lips, he told her he loved her, and then sent her home with guards. He then took the remainder of his men, and those Jaime Steorling and David mac Mhaoil Chaluim had provided, and turned his eyes to the west.

  4

  Sorcha awoke to a dry mouth.

  It felt as though she had swallowed wads of cloth. Her head hurt and she feared opening her eyes to the bright sunlight—at least she believed it must be sunlight.

  The very last thing she recalled was climbing aboard that vessel. From the instant they’d set sail, they’d encountered a tempest. The ship rocked and rolled, rocked and rolled…

  But, nay… it must be the uisge.

  Her eyes flew open with the sudden realization that it was her head spinning, not the cot she lay upon.

  She was in a strange room, sparsely furnished, like a gaol cell, with nothing but cobwebs adorning the walls, and little to provide warmth. The bed itself was large enough for three grown men, and one glance about the room revealed a naked stranger—a man as burly as the ship’s captain, with hair as golden. He looked like a bear, seated in his chair across the room, arms crossed and his eyes closed, resting his bare shoulders against the wall. Even in slumber, his face was set in hard lines, and Sorcha thought for a moment he must be her gaoler, but then it took her a groggy moment to put the two together: strange, naked man, rumpled bed—and she gasped and scrambled out from the bed. Straightaway, she plucked up the covers to see if she could spy blood, but found only clean bedding.

  She did not feel abused. Surely, if a man that size had dared to violate her, she was certain she would know it. Confused, Sorcha dropped the covers, and turned to face the naked stranger with her hands on her hips. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  The behemoth opened his eyes—brilliant blue eyes that peered in her direction, only slightly askance. Sorcha had the immediate urge to wave a hand before his nose.

  “Who are you?” he countered. “And, more to the point, what are you doing in my bed?”

  But, of course, Sorcha wasn’t in his bed any longer, but she didn’t feel the immediate need to point that out. Surely, he could see for himself. “What do you mean who am I?”

  “I dinna mince words, lass.”

  “Where is Alec?” Sorcha demanded. It was Alec she most wanted to see right now—the one who’d duped her.

  “It figures,” he said, disgusted.

  “What figures?” Sorcha remained confused. What was more, she had the feeling she was nowhere near the Isle of Skye. “Where am I?” she asked, this time with far more pique. Someone must answer for Alec’s duplicity.

  “In my chamber,” he said, as though Sorcha must be an eegit.

  She glared back at him. “And, where, pray tell, would that be?”

  “Dunrònaigh Keep.”

  As though she had any clue where that was! Breathe, Sorcha commanded herself. Breathe. It was entirely possible there was a reasonable explanation for everything. Simply because her kinsmen had betrayed her didn’t mean every person she met was so predisposed. “Verra well, then, tell me… perchance, is Dunrònaigh Keep on the Isle of Skye?”

  “Nay,” the man said, as he stood abruptly, naked as the day he was born, unabashed to show the world his todger. “And if’n ye’re done with my bed, perhaps ye’ll leave me to rest?”

  As though she could! But if he wasn’t her gaoler, then they must be locked in together.

  He made his way unerringly across the room, toward the bed he’d claimed was his own, and Sorcha dashed out of his way, surprised when he didn’t turn to ogle her as she fled. In her narrow escape, she nearly tripped over her sleeve. Forsooth—what in Cailleach’s name was she was wearing?

  A bride’s gown? Long and flowing, with long, wide sleeves that dragged the ground, it was ice blue, and intricately sewn. Who had changed her? And more importantly, why had they dressed her in such an elaborate vestment? And, by the by, if she wasn’t on the Isle of Skye, where was she? “You’re going to sl
eep?” Sorcha asked, incensed, once he settled himself beneath the covers.

  He turned over on one shoulder to face the wall. “Unless ye’ve something better to propose?” But he nevertheless made no move to act upon his veiled threat.

  “I would scratch out your eyes,” Sorcha warned.

  “It would be a moot point,” he replied.

  Because he didn’t want her? Or because he’d already had her? Either way, Sorcha found herself growing enraged. What bollocks is this? Where had Alec brought her?

  Trading places with the stranger, Sorcha sat upon his chair, trying to make sense of what was happening. After a long moment, the nude man began to snore, and loudly at that.

  Her brother Aidan would have told her to never trust strangers, but she had been so determined to pursue Una she hadn’t even considered the possibility of foul play. Did she think herself unsusceptible to the perils that might befall a woman alone? Had she been so arrogant to believe no harm would ever find her?

  She was a Guardian—a chosen one—but that did not mean she could not bleed. Nevertheless, given all her faculties, Sorcha was no hapless maiden. She had not been raised to cow to fear.

  She tried to recall as much as she could, but she couldn’t get past the uisge. The man called Alec had given her the jug, and of course, Sorcha had accepted it, having little cause to believe it was aught more than what he’d claimed it to be. After all, why would he lie? Sorcha was already giving him everything she had of value. And she hadn’t for an instant intended to drink more than she should.

  There was no other explanation. The uisge must have been drogued.

  Come to think of it, he’d given her passage all-too-easily…

  Had this “Alec” dropped her off at some undisclosed location and then made off with her horse? Had he sold her to some greasy, lonely laird? Or worse… did the boat go down at sea, and mayhap Sorcha had been borne ashore, a lone survivor on some forgotten isle?

  Forsooth. She experienced her first true moment of fear as she remembered Liusaidh. But nay! She must pray her mare was alive and well.

  Alas, she would have asked all these questions and more, but the sleeping giant’s snores filled the room, clearly having so easily dismissed her.

  The longer Sorcha sat, waiting for him to awake, the angrier she became. How dare they lock her away in a tower like some prisoner! And if, in truth, she was a prisoner, who was this man? A prisoner, as well? Certainly, someone had absconded with his clothes, because, there was no sign of any anywhere in the room—nor even her own. And, by the by, neither did she see her keek stane or the grimoire—the only two things she could never bear to part with—not if she ever meant to reunite with Una.

  To anyone else, that keek stane would appear to be no more than a common crystal, but, in fact, it was an ancient scrying stone that had the power to reveal all things past and present. The last vision Sorcha had spied in its depth was the one revealing her relation to Padruig, and now that it had set her on this wretched path, it meant to fail her. And the grimoire, for all the good it did her, was filled with potions and medicinals. Both these items were far too precious to lose. Yet here she was, sitting on her rump, waiting for someone to enlighten her!

  Anger made her restless. Determined to have her answers, once and for all, Sorcha arose from the chair and marched over to the bed, shaking the rude man by his shoulder.

  Without a bit of shame, he turned about, flinging one bare leg outside his covers, and laying a foot on the floor. He flung one arm over his eyes, as though to shield them from the light, but he didn’t bother to cover his todger—impressive, by the by. “Who are you?” Sorcha snapped. When he didn’t answer, she shook him again by the shoulder. “Halloo?”

  “Ach, lass. Ha’e ye no pity? I sat in that bluidy chair all night long, waiting for my turn. Now, the least ye can do is show a bit o’ gratitude and allow me to rest.”

  Gratitude?

  Sorcha was only grateful he’d had enough couth to leave her be, but that didn’t explain what she was doing in his bed, or who he was. And neither did it explain why she was locked away in a tower, dressed in some short woman’s gown. “I didna ken,” Sorcha said.

  “That makes two of us,” the man replied. “However, if you’re done now, please shut your gob and let me rest.”

  How rude!

  Sorcha backed away from the bed, never in her life having been spoken to so impolitely, and she sat again in the room’s only chair, next to the only door.

  Should she bang on it?

  Who would come?

  Nay, first she must determine what had happened, so she could better know what to expect. If she roused the entire household from their slumber, what then?

  She’d heard of tribesmen stealing women to subjugate as wives. But this buffoon didn’t seem the least bit interested in her. Clearly, he hadn’t touched her, nor did he find her the least bit appealing. For some odd reason, that left her feeling cantankerous—only what sense did that make? She would pluck out his eyes if he dared to touch her without permission. And yet, men adored her sister Lìli. Lìli’s beauty was the muse for troubadours. They’d made an ode to her as well as a curse. So, then, was Sorcha so ill-conceived that she could be so unappealing—even to this rude barbarian?

  The man’s snores reverberated like thunder, echoing off the walls—she looked about—stone walls full of cracks and crevices. And now she inspected the gown she wore, finding it threadbare. Forsooth. Hers had been a perfectly fine gown. Dull perhaps, and sewn of Glenna’s soft brown wool, but perfectly suitable nonetheless.

  Crossing her arms against a morning chill, Sorcha rose from the chair to survey her prison. From what she could tell, she was in a tower.

  She dragged her chair over to the chamber’s only window—a long, narrow slit that could barely fit a finger, much less a person. It scarcely allowed in enough sunlight to stab a sleeper in the face, and by the by, it fell across the sleeper’s face, but he hardly seemed fazed.

  Careful not to wake the sour-tempered miscreant, Sorcha climbed atop the chair, obscuring the light from his face, although he didn’t seem to notice. He kept on snoring.

  So, then, he must have awakened to find Sorcha in his bed and he fled to his chair? Did he always sleep so heavily? Or was he drogued, as well? Certainly, Sorcha had slept through the act of being deposited there.

  Nettled over the very thought, she plucked a bit of faded red cloth that had gotten stuck in a crack. It was long and ragged, and caked with something…

  She placed it to her nose and screwed her face over the scent of soured food. Disgusted, she pushed the material back out the window and let the wind catch it and fly away.

  From her vantage on the chair, she could see the entire isle from end to end. Verdant fields—all save for the precipitous coastline, formed of dark cliffs—like that stone her ancestors had hidden away for more than two centuries. The Stone from Scone that was cursed, though now it was gone. The stone her people had secreted away, and guarded to the detriment of their own well-being, only to have it swallowed by the earth. How much sense did that make? None at all. But that was neither here nor there at the instant, for clearly, she wasn’t on the Isle of Skye. Though, perhaps she was somewhere else along the way?

  Once again, she contemplated the possibility of a wreck at sea.

  Forsooth, back on the mainland, none of those other boatmen had seemed the least bit inclined to press their fortunes, though of course, Sorcha would be the one to ignore Cailleach’s warnings. She had been so intent upon following Una. And now… look what she’d gone and done.

  High, up in the sky, at such an odd angle that she could barely spy it—she had to tip her head back, and nearly toppled off the chair—that strange star she’d been following seemed to hover over the isle.

  Meanwhile, all about the tower, she could spy little people running about, happy as you please, seemingly unaware that Sorcha languished in their gaol.

  Or, perhaps they did kno
w, and, like her own brethren, simply had no compunction. Disconcerted by what she’d discovered, Sorcha sank back into the chair.

  What was the point in screaming?

  What were the chances anyone would care?

  She was clearly a ward of this isle’s laird, and she and… this miscreant—the man, who cared more about his beauty sleep than he did his own freedom—were being held against their will. So, what did he do? Was he a murderer? A thief?

  One thing was certain: He wasn’t a defiler of women—thank the gods. Cailleach only knew, he was rude and ornery, and, for the first time since leaving the Vale, Sorcha sorely missed her brother. Aidan would have mopped the floor with his pretty big head. Only now, she wished she hadn’t taken so much care to cover her tracks, because no one would ever find her… unless they thought, as she had, to follow that stupid star.

  Angry and defiant, she shook her fist at the bright point of light. “I know you’re out there,” she whispered. “Why have you forsaken me, Una?”

  But the last thing Una had ever said to her suddenly popped into her head. “Seek the ones you love with all your heart,” she’d said. “Not with your head.”

  5

  “Psst … you … sleeping beauty …”

  Sleeping beauty?

  Caden nearly choked on startled laughter. Of course, he didn’t answer, though he wasn’t sleeping. Who could sleep with that woman yammering?

  For months on end, he’d preferred a useless stupor to the truth, that he slew his own brother. He took Wee Davie’s head. And now, he couldn’t even find his own mouth with a spoon. Stinking and covered with sour victuals, he’d torn his tunic to shreds and hurled it out the window. He was a waste of human flesh—a sorry bag of bones, destined to live out his life on his back, lest he bruise himself simply attempting to walk through a door. Yesterday alone, he’d smacked his forehead on the doorframe half a dozen times and he’d taken his anger out on the door. For two long months, he’d suffered a fever of his wounds, never sure he would wake to see another day. Five months later, he was no less a burden to his clan.