That was fairly close to what William had told Brighton. She could hear, indeed, that the man had completely changed his son’s mind from what Patrick had been telling her all along.
It will be dangerous to return to Coldingham.
So now she was to be sent back from where she came. Sent back to those cold halls, with no Sister Acha to guide her, wearing rough woolen underwear and working in the gardens until her hands bled. Well, she didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want to go back. This taste of the outside world had turned her head completely and she didn’t want to return to a place where there was no love and no laughter.
No Patrick.
Her emotions were already running high and something inside of her suddenly snapped.
“T-then take me back,” she hissed, standing up and moving away from him. “T-take me back and let me take my chances. Take these beautiful clothes away and do not let me become upswept in my reflection when I see how beautiful my hair has been braided or how lovely this dress is upon me. You should have never brought me here, Patrick de Wolfe. You should have left me on the road and let me escape back to Coldingham where I would have never known the joy and beauty of the outside world because now that I see it, I do not want to return to cold walls and even colder people!”
She was yanking out her beautiful braid, mussing her hair up, sobbing as she spoke. Quickly, Patrick stood up, genuinely concerned with her tears. “I did not say that I felt that way,” he insisted, hoping she would calm and stop trying to ruin her lovely appearance. “I said that my father felt that way. I still feel the same way I have all along, Bridey. I will not take you back to Coldingham.”
Brighton stopped pulling at her hair, her eyes wide with surprise as she gazed upon him. “Y-you will not?”
He gazed into those red, tear-filled eyes. “Nay,” he said softly, his heart lurching at the intense emotion on her face. He could hardly breathe for the sight of it. “I am not exactly sure what I will do, but I will not return you. I swore to protect you and I intend to do that. My father… he is afraid. He is afraid that we are sticking our noses where they do not belong and we will incur the wrath of the church. I suspect we will return to Berwick on the morrow and then I will try to determine what will be best to do with you.”
That wasn’t what Brighton had expected to hear. She’d expected apologies, excuses. But to hear that Patrick had not changed his mind filled her with both astonishment and gratitude. With a gasp, she pitched forward, catching his big hands and holding them so tightly that she nearly cut off his circulation.
“T-then I shall not return?” she breathed. “Truly?”
His large fingers wrapped around hers, small and warm things. “Truly,” he said quietly. “I am sorry my father upset you so. He should not have said anything to you until I had a chance to speak with you.”
Brighton simply shook her head, at a loss for words for a moment. But she quickly recovered. “I-it is of no matter,” she assured him as he led her by the hands over to the bench and practically forced her to sit. “But what will happen now? Will your father not be angry if you disobey him?”
Patrick was still holding her hands as he sat down beside her. In fact, he found himself caressing her flesh, loving the feel of it. Her small hands were calloused from work at the priory, but the flesh was nonetheless soft. He rather liked the feel of it, sending pinpricks of excitement racing through him.
“My father trusts my instincts,” he said. “They have never failed me. He will trust that I will do what is best for all of us.”
That was an answer without really giving her much information. Brighton’s brow furrowed with some confusion. “W-what does that mean?” she asked. “Can I remain at Berwick?”
He shrugged. “I do not see why not,” he said, realizing that she was starting to caress his fingers as well, mimicking his actions. “Do you want to?”
She nodded quickly, before the words were even out of his mouth. “I-I do,” she said. “I know that your sisters are already chatelaines, but it is a very big place. Mayhap I could help with the children. There are so many of them and I know how to read and write. Mayhap I could teach them.”
He smiled faintly, seeing the outline of her face in the weak light. There was such hope there. “That is a very good idea,” he said. “I will speak to my sisters and see what they think. I am sure they would like to have your companionship.”
Her face lit up. “D-do you really think so?” she asked. “They are so kind. I have never known such kindness. You have all been so very kind. No one has ever shown such regard for me.”
Patrick wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. It seemed to him that the conversation was on the tipping point of him saying something incriminating, perhaps something to the effect of you are easy to be kind to. She could construe that all different ways and he would find himself with a lot of explaining to do. He didn’t want her to think that there was anything in his manner other than pure duty, pure courtesy. But looking into that lovely, doe-eyed face, it was difficult to remain detached.
“Did the nuns at Coldingham beat you so severely, then?” he asked, trying to jest his way out of what could possibly become a tender moment. Romantic. “You make it sound as if no one has ever shown you an ounce of compassion.”
She smiled and his heart began to beat faster, just as it always did when she smiled. He was becoming a slave to that smile.
“W-when I was young, they were quick with a switch or a slap,” she admitted. “Fortunately, I learned quickly. I have not been switched or slapped in many years.”
He grunted. “The Brides of Christ are brutes,” he muttered. “You can get more out of a man with encouragement than with fear. That is a lesson those nuns need to learn.”
Brighton giggled. “Y-you can tell them so,” she said. “Then make sure you run away very quickly. Those switches are very fast when they swing them.”
He grinned because she was. “They cannot catch me,” he insisted. “I take one stride for every three of theirs. They would have to run like the wind to catch me.”
“A-are you brave enough to test that theory?”
He shook his head without missing a beat. “Not me. I have no desire to be switched.”
Brighton was rather enjoying the jesting mood. For a woman who had never flirted in her life, it seemed that she had somewhat of an innate ability because she squeezed his big hands tightly as she gave him a rather impish grin.
“N-not to worry,” she said. “I will protect you from them. I will have my own switch and fight them off. Any man who would save me from reivers, I dare not permit the nuns at Coldingham to lash.”
All of that resistance he’d fronted against possible romantic feelings was being summarily crushed by her expression and warm hands. Here they were, in the dark, alone, with only a hint of moonlight through the trees, and he was being foolish enough to resist showing the woman any kind of tenderness. She frightened him but she also intrigued him; he was resistant yet she continued to lure him in.
He had no idea what to do.
God’s Bones, what are you thinking, you fool? You have a royal appointment you are leaving for soon! You do not need this complication!
Aye, his common sense screamed to him, that part of him that was professional and driven. He didn’t want to complicate something he’d worked very hard for. But as he looked at Brighton in the dim light, he began to realize that even if he were to leave her tomorrow, he would still think of her. He’d still have visions of a lady with enormous blue eyes and a rosebud mouth, a postulate who was half-Scots and half-Norse. A woman he’d sworn to protect yet a woman who had endeared herself to him very quickly. Too quickly, in fact. He had no idea how or why, but this woman was already under his skin and she didn’t even know it. She hadn’t even tried. Perhaps that’s why she was under his skin. It simply… happened.
… was it fate?
Patrick had always thought his fate was the halls of Westminster Palace, n
ot a postulate from Coldingham. Everything he’d ever known, or ever expected, had been jolted by the lovely Lady Brighton.
Now, as he gazed at the woman, he realized that she had said something to him and expected something of an answer. The smile on her face was fading, turning into a grimace as he stared at her, lost in thought, and refused to answer. He could see that she was afraid she’d been too forward or too silly in her statement. Gently, he lifted her hands, still wrapped around his, and kissed them.
“I should be so fortunate to have such a protector, my lady,” he said softly. “I am grateful, Bridey.”
Patrick watched as Brighton’s eyes widened at his kiss and she looked at her hands, where he’d kissed her, as if she could see his lip prints on her flesh. He rather liked the astonished look on her face. Before he could stop himself, his big head loomed over hers and he deposited the sweetest of kisses on her warm, soft cheek.
“Now,” he said huskily, “shall we return inside to eat? I am famished.”
Brighton was genuinely speechless. She stared at him, wide-eyed, her hand on her cheek where he had kissed her.
“Y-you… y-you…,” she stammered. “Why did you do… that?”
Her mad stuttering amused him. It made him feel powerful and in control. “Because I wanted to.”
Brighton stared at him a moment longer before grabbing his face between her two small hands and planting a kiss on his lips that literally knocked him backwards. She came at him so forcefully, so unexpectedly, that he hadn’t been prepared for it and when she pulled back, looking at his now-astonished expression, she burst into gleeful giggles.
“B-because I wanted to!” she said.
Patrick couldn’t help it; he broke down into soft, deep laughter, rubbing at his lips where she’d nearly bruised him. “I would say so,” he said. “Are you always so impetuous?”
“I-I do not know!”
“Did you hurt your mouth?”
He reached out, touching her chin and lower lip as if to inspect where she’d roughly hit him, but she shook her head, unable to stop giggling. Giddiness swept her, as she’d never been giddy in her life. Yet another new experience in a few days that had been full of such things, only she liked this one better than all the rest.
“O-of course not,” she said. Then, she abruptly sobered, looking at him with a worried expression. “Did I hurt you?”
He shook his head, giving her a half-grin because she was so excited about the kiss. “You could not hurt me if you tried,” he said softly. “But we will have to work on your technique if you plan to do that again.”
As the giddiness faded a bit, uncertainty came to the forefront with the reality of what she’d done. Sweet Mary… she’d kissed a man! “I-I did not plan to do it in the first place,” she said. “D-did I offend you? I did not mean to. I do not know what came over me.”
Patrick just chuckled, taking one of her hands and kissing it again. “You did not offend me.”
“I-I have never done that before. Kissed anyone like that, I mean.”
“I can tell.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Y-you can?” she gasped, now feeling mortified as the reality of what she’d done began to sink in. “I am so very sorry, Patrick. Please forgive me.”
He shook his head, holding both of her hands tightly. “I kissed you first,” he said. “If anyone should ask forgiveness, it should be me.”
Brighton wasn’t sure if that was an apology or an invitation for future kisses, but one thing was certain – she’d liked it. She’d liked it a great deal.
“Atty!”
A shout came from the alcove door, abrupt and loud, and Patrick stood up, taking a few steps to see who it was. He could see Alec in the doorway.
“I am here,” he said. “What is –?”
“’Tis a night raid,” Alec said quickly. “Your father is already moving to gather the men. You must come.”
Patrick’s brow furrowed but he was walking towards Alec with Brighton following close behind.
“A night raid?” he repeated. “Where? What has happened?”
Alec turned away from him and headed into the hall with Patrick on his heels. “It seems that the Scots have launched a night raid on Coldstream,” he said. “Several of the villagers have come here, injured and terrified. They have large grain stores meant for market and it seems as if the Scots have gone after it. A soldier from Pelinom Castle is also at the gatehouse. Your father is going there now to speak with him.”
Patrick was quickly shifting into battle mode. “Pelinom is north of Coldstream by a couple of miles,” he said. “That is a fairly large castle, de Velt men. Why have they come to us for help?”
Alec shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “But your father wants us all mounted and ready to ride.”
Patrick didn’t hesitate. He charged after Alec on his way to gear up for battle but he hadn’t taken five steps when he suddenly remembered Brighton. Swiftly, he turned to her and she nearly plowed into him from behind. He grasped her by the arms to steady her.
“You will remain here with my mother,” he said steadily. “She will tend you until I return.”
Brighton simply nodded, perhaps a bit stunned by what was happening. Up until three days ago, she’d never been around a battle in her life. Now, Patrick was heading off to another one. There was tension in the air; it was frightening. Perhaps this was something about the outside world that she didn’t like at all. But before she could say anything to him, a word of blessing for his safety, he turned away from her and stormed from the great hall.
Brighton stood there and watched him until he faded from her sight. After he was gone, she turned away from the hall entry with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Everything had happened so swiftly over the past few days, including this, that she was still trying to absorb everything.
Muddled, and perhaps a bit frightened on Patrick’s behalf, she wandered back over to the table where Lady Jordan was sitting with her grandchildren, her daughters, and Lady Jemma. As she approached the table, little Penelope crawled off the bench and went to her, slipping her little hand into Brighton’s. Big, innocent eyes gazed up at her.
“Will you sit with me?” Penelope asked. “Mama returned my sword to me. Come and see it.”
The little girl was very excited about her sword, seemingly oblivious to the mood of depression that hung over the women of the table, the fear that seemed to carve into the very air around them. Fear for their men, fear for what was to come. Brighton sat down next to Penelope and was promptly shown a dull wooden sword with the lass’ name carved into it. Penelope, it said. The little girl was very proud of it and proceeded to show Brighton how it was used.
Brighton watched her but without much enthusiasm. This was all very new to her, men leaving for battle and her confusion over her feelings for Patrick. But looking into the faces of Lady Jordan and Lady Jemma, she could see that whether it was the first time or the one hundredth time, the men leaving for battle never got any easier. The men were heading out to risk their lives and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
All they could do now was wait.
CHAPTER TEN
It was a nasty skirmish from the start.
It wasn’t just a few Scots raiding the border town of Coldstream for grain, it seemed like several clans. Patrick saw Nesbit tartan and he also thought he saw Armstrong, but it was difficult to tell because of the darkness. The entire town was in an uproar as homes burned and people fled for safety.
The army from Castle Questing charged in like avenging angels. William, who had handled raids like this many times in the past, had a system for these attacks – he split his group in half, with some men going to one side of the town while the rest went to the opposite side. One group of men would then plow through town and drive the Scots to the waiting contingent, which usually resulted in the end of the raid fairly quickly. This time, the plan was the same. William led the group that would wait for the Scots
to be driven to them while Patrick led the group that would do the driving.
Given the fact that half of the village was in flames, it was easy to see who the enemy was. Patrick, Alec, Hector, and Kevin charged through town striking down anything that resembled a Scots, predictably driving raiders and townsfolk alike towards the other end of town where William, Kieran, and Apollo await. It seemed like a simple enough plan and Patrick drove his sword through more than one raider who tried to fight back.
While reivers seemed to be unorganized groups of men from many clans, these raiders seemed to be organized from one or two specific clans. He saw only two specific tartans but there were a lot of men, much more than the numbers that reivers usually carried. Still, it was of little consequence. Having been raised on the borders, Patrick knew how to handle them.
Or so he thought.
His first hint that something was wrong was when he made it towards the end of the town, with a clear field of vision to where his father and the others were waiting. Only they weren’t alone. They seemed to be in a massive battle themselves and Patrick realized that the raiders must have also been split into two distinct groups, one of them lying in wait for the English who had their backs turned. Clearly, what he was seeing was far more than a skirmish.
It was a battle.
When Patrick and the other knights saw what was happening, they gave up herding the raiders through the town and made a break to go help his father and the others, who were seemingly overrun. Unfortunately, the men they’d been herding turned on them and the entire village deteriorated into two separate brawls. The raiders were going for the knights more than the men-at-arms, and Patrick found his skills being tested again and again. Men with short swords were trying to undercut him as he sat upon his horse, but he kept his shield low. With his sword, he managed to slice more than a few heads. He emerged the victor with confidence, but it was clear that this was no ordinary raid. The English had been drawn into something planned. Now, it occurred to him why the men from Pelinom were asking for help.
Nighthawk: Sons of de Wolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 7) Page 15
