For the first time since they met, the priestess smiled. As did Marion.
She had meant every word.
2
“Lady Marion?”
Though the leader of her guard, Kenneth, had been more receptive to her orders since the pool, he clearly found it difficult to accept the idea that she was in charge. Marion liked to think it was because he’d known her since she was a young girl and not because she happened to be a woman. She’d tried hard to remain patient, but her patience was running out.
“We must not stop,” she repeated, looking around in horror as the men set up camp. “My mother—”
“Is not here,” he muttered.
Marion often wondered why, if she could sense malintent, the gruff captain did not give her the familiar sensation of cold washing over her body. The strange bouts of cold chills had scared her as a child until she’d discovered the pattern to them. Since then, she’d been revered—by her parents, their people, by everyone who mattered—for her unique ability. The captain, however, did not seem to share their respect. Perhaps the reason she didn’t feel any malintent was that he believed he was serving her best interests. Even so . . .
Mustering her best imitation of her father, the powerful Scottish border lord whom none would think to question, Marion approached the overly large captain. “Either we continue riding or we risk losing him. And once he reaches Camburg Castle—”
“We have no way of knowing how far ahead—”
“If we continue through the night, we will catch him by morning,” she said forcefully.
Even though he’d been told to follow her orders, and he’d now seen the priestess and the pools with his own eyes, Kenneth frowned. He was going to deny her once again.
“You don’t know that.”
Marion could argue. She could attempt to convince him. But how could she possibly make the stubborn, overly practical Scotsman understand she could sense the stone? As soon as she left the glen, its pull had tugged her in a new direction—the feeling as undeniable as the fact that this conversation was not getting them any closer to their destination.
Instead, she yawned. A fake yawn that turned very real—they’d set a brutal pace since leaving Skye. And still, the Englishman eluded them.
Well, no longer. “Perhaps you are right,” she lied.
And without further discussion, Marion pulled the bedroll from her mount and followed the guard’s lead. If Kenneth looked at her strangely, it was because he was unused to her acquiescence. And, may the saints forgive her, she was so driven by desperation, she was about to do the very thing she’d promised her parents never to do.
The guards would be furious when they realized she’d ridden off alone.
As would her parents, but luckily they were back home, safe in their beds, while she battled her fear of the dark. When she finally untied her mount and made her way to the edge of camp, Marion stopped one last time. This close to the border, many dangers lay ahead. But none terrified her as much as human predators, namely reivers. Scottish, English . . . it mattered not. Either might do her harm.
“Truly, lass? You would travel across the border, at night, alone?”
Consarn it. “I’m not sure what you mean?”
The captain was not amused.
“Kenneth, please listen to me. Do you not believe I . . . know things . . . even though I wish it were not so?”
“My lady—”
“I’ve no wish to navigate this land alone, but you refuse to heed me,” she said. She needed to make him understand. The pull toward the stone became stronger with every step, and somehow she just knew if they kept going—
“Very well.”
Kenneth managed to surprise her.
“You will get yourself killed if you ride off alone,” he mumbled. Then he shouted to the others, most of whom were apparently already awake. “We leave, now.”
Marion smiled, grateful she would not be forced to extreme measures. And although their path was only lit by moonlight and their pace was slow, their efforts were rewarded.
Just beyond a thicket of trees, barely discernible but growing larger as she approached, stood a lone figure beside a horse. Without a word to Kenneth or the others, Marion spurred her mount forward, for she knew at once this was William Thornhurst, the Englishman who’d stolen the Stone of Scotland. Her stone. Or rather, her countrymen’s stone and the one that would bring peace and prosperity to them. She felt it pulling her closer.
When she was nearly upon the thief, he pulled out his sword.
Would he kill a woman?
When she halted in front of him and dismounted, Marion thought two things at once.
The cold had not gripped her as she’d expected it would.
And the priestess had been right . . . he was quite handsome.
It was only when the riders behind her came into view that William drew his sword. Four men following a woman.
Though not just any woman.
A redheaded, green-eyed beauty who appeared as if she’d like nothing better than to murder him.
“Give me the stone,” she demanded in a seething voice. He couldn’t reconcile her voice, so commanding and low for a woman, with the smattering of freckles across her nose. Had the priestess sent this group after him?
Her guards were getting too close. Four. I need an advantage.
Without hesitating, he reached out and grabbed the Scotswoman—her accent left no doubt that she was one—and spun her around. Just as her men approached, he lifted his sword until it hovered just beneath her chin.
“That’s close enough,” he shouted. Not surprisingly, her men stopped far enough away to give him a few moments to consider his next move.
“Let go of me!” The way she twisted in his arms and brushed her bottom against him made William suddenly wish he wore a hauberk. This was not a convenient time for an arousal, though he could certainly understand his body’s response.
“Stop moving,” he whispered in her ear. “Or I will kill every one of your men.”
She complied. Perhaps she assumed he meant those words, though in truth he did not. Though he did need the stone, even if he did not understand why.
Rather than cower, however, as a woman in her position should do, the woman lifted her chin and continued to issue orders.
“Give me the stone,” she demanded.
“A bad idea, old man,” William shouted to the apparent leader of the guards, who had begun to dismount. He tightened his grip against the redheaded woman.
“You have two choices,” he tried to reason with her. “Forget the stone, and ride off with your men when I release my grip. Otherwise, you’re coming with me.” It was the only way he’d maintain any kind of advantage.
She apparently did not care for either choice.
Turning to her men, she shouted, “He’s not going to—”
He moved his hand swiftly from her shoulder to cover her mouth. When she tried to bite him, his gloves prevented any damage.
Moving toward his horse, William thought of how best to get them mounted and away from her guards. He envisioned each possible maneuver—and its follow-through—and decided in a trice. Once again, he did not hesitate. With his sword arm, he grabbed the horse’s reins, and he swung himself up with his other hand, never releasing his grip on the woman. Blocking out the sounds of her guards’ advance, he sheathed his sword and pulled her up and in front of him.
“Continue to squirm and you’ll fall. Sit still . . . you may survive the day.”
Thankfully, it was enough to stop her. For now. But the others were nearly upon them. And though William had crossed the border into England earlier that day, this was not a familiar path to him. Looking for an escape, he relied on speed to put distance between himself and his would-be attackers.
There!
The old Roman road split just ahead. As soon as the others rode over the ridge behind them, her men would see which path they took . . . unless they were already long gone. But which pat
h should he take? The main road? Aye. They would likely think he’d take the one less traveled.
His eye judged that he’d taken the turn just in time to lose them.
But he kept going at a gallop, working under the assumption the pursuers were just behind him. He only slowed after riding for what seemed like hours, though he knew from the sun’s position it had not been so long.
“They’ll kill you when they find us.”
“They are welcome to try.”
For the first time since he whisked her onto his horse, the Scotswoman turned to look at him. A pert nose. Full lips. Her outfit and demeanor told him she was a lady, and a brave one at that.
“Why did you take the stone?”
“Why do you want it back?”
She turned back around, the unladylike huff prompting his next impertinent question.
“You the daughter of . . . whom exactly? A great border lord? Perhaps the king of Scotland himself?”
“My father,” she spat out, “is an earl.”
“Ahh,” he mocked. “An earl. Of course.”
“He is no castellan.” Her taunt hit too close to the mark. His relatively lowly position had made it impossible for him to marry another earl’s daughter . . .
“You never answered my question,” she said. “What does the Lord of Camburg want—”
“How do you know who I am?” Her words surprised him for a moment, but hadn’t he guessed she had some connection to the priestess? “The priestess sent you.” He didn’t expect a response, but as the road narrowed and wound its way through a thicket of trees, she answered anyway.
“She did not send me. The stone you carry is rightfully mine. It belongs to Scotland. It belongs—”
“You know what it is?”
“You don’t?” She turned around again, and by God, if she kept doing that, he’d be near crippled with desire by the time they made it back to Camburg. He’d obviously been too long without a woman. “Then why did you take it?”
When she blinked, her dark lashes kissed the creamy skin beneath. William had never kidnapped a woman before, but he found it was an exceedingly difficult task. The last time he’d been this distracted by a woman . . . in fact, he had never experienced anything like this.
His only answer was not much of one at all. “It . . . called to me.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s it? You really don’t know?” Then something changed in her expression. Whereas it had been angry before, it softened. And then, unfortunately, she turned back around.
“Will you tell me?” he heard himself asking.
“Aye,” she said. “I will. But you must promise to give it back—”
“I cannot tell you why, only that I know that I need it.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Then I tell you nothing.”
He’d expected as much. “Will you at least tell me your name?”
She folded her arms in front of her, forcing him to tighten his grip lest she fall off the horse.
“You know mine. At least—”
“Lady Marion, daughter of Archibald Rosehaugh, 3rd Earl of Ormonde.”
Right. An earl’s daughter. And an only child like Sara, no doubt.
“Court,” he responded.
She turned again. “Pardon?”
“Court. My given name is indeed William, but I’ve gone by the name of Court since coming to Camburg.”
“Court,” she repeated. “As in—”
“Aye, the king’s court,” he said, preparing for her laughter, which surprisingly never came.
“I’d give you leave to call me Marion,” she said. “But since I am your captive—”
“Marion.” He said it as much to infuriate her as to test the name on his lips. He was not disappointed.
“Lady Marion. Or better—”
“Marion,” he repeated. “You are not my captive for long. When we return to Camburg and your men arrive, I will happily give you over to them.”
“Lady Marion,” she corrected. “And how are you so confident my men will not find us before then?”
Court leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Because, Marion, I’ve no wish to be found. And when I want something, I get it.”
3
He obviously thought highly of himself.
Marion was not accomplishing anything by demanding he relinquish the stone. He’d refused to give it to her more than once, not that she’d really expected he would simply hand it over. But it was clearly time for a new plan.
“Court,” she said sweetly, imitating her flirtatious cousin and trying not to laugh at the poor effort, “do you perhaps have anything to eat?”
Though they’d stopped once to see to their needs, she and her captor had spent the remainder of the day on horseback. And though she no longer feared for her life, Marion was hungry, tired, and more than a little annoyed.
“When we camp for the night, I’ll catch something for us. And Marion?”
“Yes, Court?” She found she rather liked the sound of his common name on her lips.
“It won’t work.”
She could have feigned ignorance, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Frustrated, she silently railed against her “special ability.” For something so unique and special, it was really of no use to her at all. Not when she hadn’t felt the slightest chill since meeting her nemesis, who was surely the most dangerous person alive at the moment.
Giving up, she tried for a more practical approach. “What are your intentions?”
“With you,” he said, shifting behind her, “or the stone?”
She shifted as well, trying to find a comfortable position.
“Stop,” he growled out.
Marion turned, trying to understand what she’d done wrong now. “I didn’t do—”
His expression forced her mouth closed. She swallowed, knowing that look. Too many suitors had sought her favor over the years for her not to understand desire when she saw it. Refusing to look away, Marion stared into a set of hazel eyes that looked more blue than green or brown. With a square jaw and short, blondish-brown hair, her Englishman was no less handsome than when they’d met earlier that day. And the way he looked at her . . .
Marion spun back around.
“Your intentions with me,” she said finally.
“I already told you, I intend—”
“But we are not near Camburg,” she pointed out. “It will take—”
“Just one more full day of riding. We are closer than you think.”
Marion knew enough of England to know Camburg was just below the border, but she’d lost track of where they were exactly. Now that the stone was within her reach, nothing guided her forward except . . . well, him.
“As for the stone, I have no intentions toward it. I know only that it belongs to me. It pulled me toward it, and I had no choice but to listen.”
Marion did not bother arguing with him. She knew exactly what he meant by that, even if he did not. They had ridden past the thicket of trees and now made their way through a wide-open field. She watched as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
“Why are there no other travelers? Where are we?”
“We’ve ventured off the main road.” Court pointed to their right. “Your companions are likely west of us, but they’ll eventually circle back as they approach Camburg.”
“We’re off the main road?”
“Aye, we have been for some time now.”
She looked down, and while there were few hoof marks beneath them, it appeared very much as if the road was well traveled.
“Have you ever left Ormonde?”
“Of course.” In fact, she had not, with the exception of this journey. She’d begged to visit Edinburgh many times, of course, but her parents had claimed it was much too dangerous given the possibility she was “Scotland’s chosen one.” Heaven and the saints above forbid anything should happen to her.
Then, when the mark appeared, they finally trusted her to know where to go and wh
at to do . . . and here she was, the prisoner of some English knight intent on— “You’re planning an attack?”
If he was the opposing force, according to the priestess, he would be the one to throw Scotland into chaos if he kept the stone. Which meant Scotland would suffer so long as it remained in his hands. And according to the priestess, the suffering would begin within two moons of his possession of the stone.
His silence was all the answer she needed.
“Where?” she demanded. “When?”
Court stopped the horse and dismounted, reaching up for her. She pushed away his hand and followed him down without any assistance despite the size of his destrier. She followed Court and his massive black warhorse toward the sound of rushing water.
“Are we stopping for the night?” Since she sensed Court had no wish to harm her, Marion was not in a hurry to return to Camburg. Once there, they would part ways, and the stone would be locked away inside an English holding and lost to her. Until they arrived, she still had a chance.
“Aye,” he said, tying his mount to a nearby tree. Though not as thick as the forest they’d passed earlier in the day, this stretch of land would provide cover.
Finished with his task, Court walked toward her. “If you run,” he said, watching her intently, “you will only get yourself hurt. On the morrow—”
“I won’t run,” she said. “That stone you’re carrying is mine. And until I have it—”
He laughed, dimples forming on both cheeks. Though he must be at least twenty and eight, Court’s smile made him appear younger.
“You are laughing now, but I doubt I will amuse you later.”
“You are a tenacious little lass, aren’t you?”
“And you are a stubborn, arrogant boar.”
He took a step closer. “You know me well, it seems.”
“Your kind, aye.”
Taunting her captor would not help her accomplish her goal, but it seemed she couldn’t help it. Every time Marion opened her mouth, she was surprised at what came out of it. She’d never speak to her father this way, let alone any other man of rank. And yet . . . Court seemed almost pleased by her behavior.
The Protector's Promise (Border Series Book 7) Page 2
