Nighthawk: Sons of de Wolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 7)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  This was the last line of defense between England and the threat from the north.

  It was into the bailey of this massive structure that Patrick took the postulate from Coldingham. The men that had ridden in with them knew their duties so Patrick didn’t bother to say anything to them as he dismounted his steed and pulled the woman off behind him. The keep was directly in front of them, the largest structure in the entire fortress.

  Four stories in height, the uniquely-shaped keep soared over the countryside, a beacon that could be seen for miles. Forming an odd “U” shape, it had many chambers in it as well as storage vaults on the lower floor. As Patrick approached, he could see two small figures standing in the doorway. He knew the shapes were his sisters, Katheryn and Evelyn, before he ever saw their faces. They were the chatelaines of his keep, married to his knights as they were, and they were very astute. They would know when their husbands and brother would be returning. As soon as his boot hit the bottom step of the flight that led up to the second floor entry, the women came down to greet him.

  “Well?” Katheryn said. “Was anyone hurt? Where is my husband?”

  Patrick glanced up at the woman who looked a good deal like his mother; lovely, with honey-colored hair and big green eyes. “No one was hurt,” he said. “Your husband is back with the men, somewhere. He will be here shortly.”

  While Katheryn was satisfied, Evelyn still had questions. “Where is Hector?” she asked, but she was mostly focused on the lady in her brother’s grip. Interest in her husband’s location faded for the moment as she inspected the disheveled woman. “Atty, who is this?”

  Patrick stopped to look at the source of his sister’s interest and when he did, he was in for a surprise. He’d not seen the lady in the light. When his gaze fell on her, he felt a bolt of shock run through him – illuminated in the torches was a woman of unearthly beauty. She had brown hair, but it wasn’t just any shade of brown; he could see highlights of red and gold reflected in the torchlight. Her face was sweetly oval, as he’d noticed in the darkness, and she had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen in a shade of blue that was reflecting pale in the weak light. Her nose was pert, her skin like cream, and her rosy lips shaped like Cupid’s bow.

  He’d never seen anything like her in his entire life.

  “This… this is Lady Brighton de Favereux,” he told his sisters, sounding like an idiot because he was so caught off guard by the woman’s beauty. “We saved her from a raiding party.”

  “Is she a prisoner?”

  “Nay. But….”

  Before he could continue his sentence, his sisters rushed forward and pushed him out of the way, taking hold of the disheveled, frightened lady. Patrick found himself overwhelmed by small women, trying to keep hold of the postulate but being summarily removed.

  “My goodness,” Katheryn said with concern as she put her arm around Brighton’s shoulders. “What a harrowing experience, my lady. But you are safe now. Come with us and we shall tend to you.”

  Another thing about Katheryn that reminded Patrick of their mother was the fact that she could be rather pushy. “Not now, Kate,” he said sternly. “I have many questions for the lady. I must ask now while the situation is fresh in her mind.”

  Both Katheryn and Evelyn scowled at him. “Look at her,” Katheryn said, sounding like she was scolding him. “Are you so cruel that you cannot see how exhausted and terrified she is? She needs food and a bath. We shall tend to her and when she is fed and rested, then you may question her. Are you truly so heartless, Patrick, that you would think of your own demands over her comfort?”

  He frowned. “This has nothing to do with being heartless,” he said. “I have many pressing questions for the lady and….”

  “They can wait,” Katheryn said firmly, pulling Brighton up the stairs with the help of her sister. They were boxed in around her, preventing Patrick from retaking her. It was a rather smart tactical move against him. “Let us feed the woman and make her comfortable. Then you can go on with your tasteless military interrogation.”

  Patrick knew he was licked. He shook his head in frustration, watching his sisters escort Brighton up the stairs and into the keep, being most attentive and kind to her. It would be futile to argue with them, he knew, stubborn women that they were. As he stood there with his hands on his hips, greatly annoyed, he felt someone come up beside him.

  “Was that my wife?” Alec asked. “What is she doing with your captive?”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed at the man. “She stole her from me,” he declared. He jabbed a finger at the keep entry. “That bold, unreasonable woman that you married stole my captive. Hell, she isn’t really my captive. I do not know what she is, but whatever she is, I have need of her before the women have their way with her. Go and summon fifty men, heavily arm them, and bring them to the keep. I will need just that many men to fight off my sisters so I can have my captive returned.”

  Alec fought off a grin. “You could just ask them to return her, you know.”

  Patrick’s scowl grew. “I did ask them, you dolt,” he snapped. “And you see how they answered me – they pushed me away and took the lady into the keep. Christ, these women are going to be the death of me. When you married Katheryn and asked if she could come with you to Berwick, I should have denied you!”

  Alec couldn’t help but laugh now. “I have astonishing news for you, Atty,” he said. “You are three times their size. You could easily overwhelm them both and take back your captive. Did you not realize that?”

  He sighed heavily and turned for the keep entry, wearily dragging himself up the stairs. “They would only tell my mother and then she would beat me,” he said. “I realize that I am a grown man, Alec, but you of all people should understand the fear of a mother. In fact, I fear your mother more than my own. She might actually try to gouge my eyes out.”

  Alec’s laughter grew. “But she would do it lovingly.”

  “Aye, Aunt Jemma would lovingly gouge my eyes out and then lovingly tend me as I am blind for the rest of my life. God, what a prospect.”

  He could hear Alec’s snorting behind him. “It is the lot we lead in life, having strong and stubborn mothers,” he said. “Do you still want me to gather the men or are you going to go crawl into a corner and cry now?”

  “Gather the men. I shall cry later.”

  Snickering, Alec turned and headed back to the gatehouse where the knights would be gathered. There were several men in the command structure of Berwick that needed to be part of Patrick’s meeting and Alec went about to spread the word. As he headed off into the bailey, Patrick continued up the stairs and into the vast keep.

  The entry to the keep was cool and dark, lit only by a pair of sconces on the wall with fatted torches, burning hot into the dimness. The foyer was two-storied, the height of it cutting into the third floor above. An unusual mural staircase that was built into one wall, led to the floor above. From the third to the fourth floor was a spiral stair built into the width of the north wall. The keep was a glorious piece of architecture, most fitting for the de Wolfe knights and ladies who lived inside it.

  But Patrick wasn’t concerned about the stunning architecture of the keep. He was lingering on the woman his sisters had stolen away from him. Straight ahead was a small hall, one used by the family for meals or for meetings. He headed into it, seeing that there was a fire blazing in the hearth, stoked by thoughtful servants. He caught sight of one of the house servants, an older man whose sole duty it was to make sure every room had peat and wood and kindling, and he sent the man to the kitchens for wine.

  He needed it.

  As the man fled, Patrick yanked off his helm and set the thing on the table. He began pulling off his gloves, gloves made for hands that, when fisted, were the size of a man’s head. There was nothing about Patrick de Wolfe that was small, in any fashion, and his father liked to take credit for his size when his mother knew full well it was the Scots in him that gave her son his great strength and size
.

  The gloves came off and Patrick tossed them onto the table as well, his mind shifting from the captive woman to the old nun and what he’d been told. He began to remove his weapons, unstrapping his broadsword and laying it, and the sheath it was lodged in, upon the tabletop as well. Soon, the sword was joined by a host of smaller daggers he kept on his body. He was just removing the last one when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to the chamber entry to see both of his sisters with Lady Brighton between them.

  Surprised, his brow furrowed as he gazed upon them. “Why are you here?” he asked, annoyance in his tone. “You made it clear that I was not to be part of anything you were planning.”

  Katheryn twisted her lips wryly. “It seems that Lady Brighton insists on speaking to you first,” she said, clearly unhappy. “She will not let us help her until she does.”

  Patrick’s gaze was on Brighton although he nearly smiled at his sister’s tone; she had been thwarted in her maneuvers against her brother and was displeased. He felt somewhat victorious. He pointed to the bench seat against the table.

  “Then sit, Lady Brighton,” he said politely. “Kate, this does not involve you and Evie. You will leave us, please. I will send for you when I am finished with the lady.”

  “Do not be too unkind to her, Patrick. She is very weary and frightened.”

  “I will not be too unkind.”

  Frowning, Katheryn and Evelyn quit the room under protest. They would push Patrick around to a certain extent but when it came to his command, they knew better than to argue or question him. As his sisters wandered away, dejected and unable to help their visitor, Patrick waited until he heard them mount the stairs to the third floor before speaking.

  “My sisters mean well,” he said. “Did they introduce themselves?”

  Brighton nodded. “T-they did, my lord.”

  His gaze lingered on her. Here, in the light of the chamber, she was even more beautiful than he had initially observed. He liked the way the corners of her mouth tilted upward when she spoke and her eyes, he was coming to note, were the color of the ocean. It was a great and mysterious blue. He tore his gaze from her long enough to push his weaponry away, far down the table, so there was nothing between them. Heavily, he sat opposite her across the table and was preparing to speak when Brighton interrupted him.

  “I-I must know why you feel it would be unsafe to return me to Coldingham, my lord,” she said nervously. “I-I know you told me not to ask you again and to be obedient, and I swear that I am trying to be obedient, but I simply do not understand any of this. I was taken from Coldingham by despicable raiders and I will be ever grateful to you for saving me from them. I-it never occurred to me that I would not be returning to my home and you will not tell me why.”

  She was verging on tears by the time she was finished. Her bravery was only holding out so long and Patrick could feel a tug of sympathy towards the lady and her plight. He was coming to think, perhaps, he had been too hard in his response to her, shutting her down and expecting her not to react to it. Or it could be the fact that he was being sucked into those big eyes, now filled with frightened tears. Those eyes were having an effect on him, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. He struggled to ignore his attraction to them as he considered his answer.

  “When the Scots broke into the priory, did they say anything to you?” he asked, avoiding her statement for the most part. He had questions of his own that he needed answers to. “Did they ask you any questions at all?”

  Brighton blinked, quickly wiping away the tears, as she was genuinely trying not to weep. Sister Acha had always told her that crying was a weakness and she did not want to appear weak to this enormous knight. He frightened her, too, but she didn’t want him to know. She was trying very hard to be brave in the face of a most unsettling day.

  “T-they did not ask any questions, my lord,” she said, trying to think back to the chaos of the morning. “It all happened so quickly. But… but I think I heard them asking for me by name.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I-I think they asked for de Favereux. At least, I thought I heard them ask some of the nuns.”

  “What happened when they asked?”

  Brighton chewed her lip, pondering the question. “I-I saw them strike a nun who did not answer them,” she said. “A-another nun finally pointed to me as Sister Acha tried to take me away. It was quite chaotic, you understand. Everyone was fearful for their lives.”

  Patrick nodded. “As well they should be,” he said. “But did you not find it strange that they asked for you by name?”

  Brighton nodded hesitantly. “T-to be truthful, I had not thought on it at the time,” she said. “B-but I am thinking of it now. All I know is that the Scots swept into Coldingham and came away with me and Sister Acha. I do not even know why they would want someone like me. I am no one.”

  So she must not know her true heritage, Patrick thought. Either that, or she does not think that I know and does not want to give herself away. He regarded her carefully for a moment, considering what he would say next.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, watching her reaction. “What is your lineage?”

  She shrugged. “I-I was brought to Coldingham as an infant,” she said. “Sister Acha raised me. She is the only mother I have ever known.”

  He could see her tearing up again at the thought of the old nun who had perished that night. “What did she tell you about your lineage?” he asked.

  She sniffled delicately, wiping at her eyes. “T-that I was a bastard,” she said quietly. “We prayed on it often.”

  “But nothing else?”

  He was probing her and she sensed it. His line of questioning indicated that he was searching for a specific answer. Cocking her head curiously, she gazed at him with that wide-open look that told him that she more than likely had no idea what he was talking about. There was something in her expression that suggested utter innocence.

  “W-what else could there be, my lord?” she asked.

  He hoped to God she wasn’t playing him for a fool. Either she was genuinely naïve or she was extremely manipulative. Given the fact that she had been raised in a convent, he couldn’t imagine she was the latter. Overall, he didn’t get that sense from her. He opened his mouth to reply but the servant he’d sent for wine returned, bringing a pitcher and a single cup. The man looked stricken when he saw the lady at the table also, but Patrick simply took the pitcher and cup from him and sent the man away.

  Putting the cup in front of Brighton, Patrick poured her a measure of wine before drinking directly out of the pitcher himself. After two large gulps, he set the pitcher down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “How old are you?” he asked her.

  Brighton took a timid sip from her cup. “I-I have seen nineteen summers, my lord.”

  “And in all that time, no one has told you the story of your birth or your lineage?”

  She was appearing increasingly curious. “N-nay, my lord. There is no story.”

  “Is that what you were told?”

  “I-I told you all that I know.” She lowered her gaze a moment, her curiosity turning into puzzlement. “I-is it important?”

  Patrick felt as if he had no choice but to tell her. For her own sake, she needed to know. Or, at least he had to tell her what he’d been told. If she was truly being hunted, then she had a right to know it.

  “Before your nurse passed on, she told me of your heritage,” he said quietly. “While I have no reason to disbelieve what I was told, I cannot confirm it, of course. Your nurse told me that you are to be protected at all costs, my lady. She also told me that your real name is not Brighton de Favereux.”

  Brighton gazed at him for a moment, her eyes widening in surprise as his words sank in. “W-what do you mean, my lord?” she asked, puzzlement overwhelming her. “I-I do not understand.”

  Patrick found himself studying that utterly exquisite face, fixating
on that for a moment before he realized she had asked him a question. Feeling foolish for being distracted, he turned back to his wine.

  “Your Sister Acha told me that you were brought to her as an infant,” he said. “That much you know. But what you apparently have not been told is that your mother was from Clan Haye and that she was given over as a hostage to the Northman to secure an alliance. Your mother lay with a Northman prince and you are the result. That Northman prince is now king of the Northmen and, somehow, the reivers that came to Coldingham had discovered your true identity. It was you they had come for, my lady, and you they managed to capture. I had received word from our patrols that there was a raiding party riding south, close to Berwick, and rumor had it that there were captive women among them. When I set out to subdue the raiders and rescue their captives, I had no idea what I was really getting myself in to but your Sister Acha managed to wrest a promise from me that I would keep you safe. And that, my lady, is why you cannot return to Coldingham. You are a valuable commodity and your identity has been revealed. Men want you and they will keep coming for you until they have you.”

  Brighton listened to his speech with increasing astonishment. By the time he was finished, her eyes were so wide that they threatened to pop from her skull. She stumbled up from the bench, a hand over her mouth in shock as she faced him.

  “N-nay,” she finally breathed. “That cannot be true.”

  “Your nurse told me it was true.”

  Brighton wanted very much to deny it but being that Sister Acha had told him such things, she couldn’t, in good conscience, refute him. Sister Acha had never lied to her, not ever. But it didn’t make any sense to her and confusion such as she had never known filled her mind.

  “S-she must have been mistaken,” she gasped. “Mayhap… mayhap her wounds had polluted her mind because what she told you is pure madness!”

  “She did not seem mad, my lady.”

  “I-it is! It is madness! I am not… I am not who she said I am!”

  “How do you know if you know nothing of your lineage?”