An Oath Taken

by Diana Cosby

  Nicholas cleared his throat. “ ’Tis time to tend to the duties of the keep.” And he needed to bloody get out of here!

  Emerald eyes too wide, too sad, and tinged with burgeoning trust lifted to his with distress. Thomas sniffed. “I canna even do this right can I?”

  God’s teeth. It seemed that neither could he. Nicholas worked up a tender smile not wanting to frighten his squire. “I would say you are doing everything fine.” He released him and took a step back, fighting to come to his senses, searching for answers to his unexplainable draw to this lad, answers that wouldn’t come.

  The familiar stubbornness worked its way back into Thomas’s gaze much to Nicholas’s relief. Someone needed to retain their grasp on sanity in this moment of madness.

  A lone tear slid down the lad’s cheek. He wiped it away with an angry slash. “Weak men cry.”

  As much as Nicholas wished to, he couldn’t look away. The fierce pride of the lad held him. “No. Tears are only shed by those brave enough to love.”

  Thomas eyed him in silence.

  “I need to don my garb,” Nicholas said, unsure at which point he’d lost control as well as his mind. “The Wardens of the Western Marches will be awaiting my presence as well as the others.”

  His squire stepped back. “Aye, Sir Nicholas.”

  That cool mask shifted back onto the lad’s face, and Nicholas wanted to shake him, to erase the indifference Thomas seemed to erect between them with ease when he barely held himself in check. Frustrated, he strode to the hearth, knelt, and threw another log on the fire.

  Elizabet jumped as the wood clattered into the flames, shaken by the intimacy that had passed between her and Nicholas. This definitely wasna good. She hurried to gather the castellan’s clothes. “Here.” She handed him the hose, shirt, and tunic.

  His face littered with confusion, he donned the garb.

  Consumed by guilt, she turned to retrieve his boots. What a fool! How could she have allowed him to embrace her or stayed within his arms? Wanted more? Wanted him still?

  Why do I not just tell him that I am a woman and end my misery?

  By the saints she was a lackwit. After her stolen kisses last night, which he’d thankfully nae recalled, she should have applauded his misery from too much drink and left him to flounder with the resultant pain.

  But she couldna watch him suffer. She glanced toward him, then looked away, wanting him and damning him more. Why did he have to be so blasted endearing!

  “ ’Tis getting late.” Elizabet knelt at his feet and shoved on his boots, trying nae to admire his well-muscled legs or his teasing scent of male with a hint of soap. Her blood warmed at the nearness, all too familiar with the feel of his body against hers. She glanced up, stilled.

  He watched her with a cautious expression, as if not trusting himself.

  And why shouldn’t he? She had felt it, the thrill, the flash of desire when their gazes met. And from his panicked reaction when she’d looked at him moments ago in his arms, he’d experienced the same.

  Mary’s will. If she believed herself a convoluted mess of emotions, he must think himself more so. She had botched this from the start.

  Nicholas stood, walked to the hearth where the flames danced before him with a mocking twist, shoved his hands upon his hips.

  She forced herself to keep busy, setting the pack containing the herbs out of sight before he realized that lads rarely knew about healing. Another muddleheaded move.

  “Was there a woman in here with me last night?”

  The sack of herbs trembled in her hands. Oh God, he’d remembered! She shoved the sacks into the pack before they spilled. Calm. She must remain calm. “Sir Nicholas?”

  He exhaled as if to continue then paused, mumbling something under his breath about a bloody dream. The castellan shook his head. “Never mind.”

  Mary, Mother of God, that was too close!

  Dropping his hands to his side, Nicholas turned. A frown creased his brow as his eyes scanned hers assessing, undermining her crumbling bravado.

  She stilled. What now?

  “Which of the men below do you know?”

  She gave a mental groan. Why had she believed he’d forgo that line of questioning? Elizabet shrugged. “They are all familiar to me.”

  He arched a brow. “All?”

  Pinpricks skittered across her spine, and she gave a slow nod. “The Wardens of the Marches are known to all who live within their boundaries.”

  He muttered a soft curse. “I have not figured out who is the bigger fool, you for not trusting me, or me for trying to earn your trust.”

  “How could I nae trust you?” she said, finding it the truth. His every action bespoke a man to be admired, a man to count on. A man she wanted with her every breath.

  “Give me something about the men below, Thomas.”

  Need churned within his heartfelt demand. At the very least, he deserved an answer. She moved toward the bed and began to make it, needing a release for her restlessness. “On occasion I have seen them. They are powerful men, leaders of their people.” She faced him. “Though their duty calls for them to uphold the law, most ride beneath the night and raid across the borders. Or worse, steal from their kinsmen without remorse—as did Sir Renaud.”

  Sir Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. “You knew the previous castellan?”

  Relieved by the change of topic, she nodded. “Of him, to be exact.” She tugged the sheets up, fighting to steady the fury that always accompanied thoughts of Sir Renaud. Once the sheets were drawn tight, she pulled the wool blanket on top, smoothing out the rumples with her hand.

  “Of him?” Nicholas asked.

  An icy calm settled over her as she straightened. “The previous castellan was an evil man. He reived as many of the other leaders do, but for him ’twas nae enough. ’Tis rumored Sir Renaud even stole from his own king by smuggling goods.” She shook her head. “A more ruthless hand I have never heard of.”

  Nicholas remained silent.

  She tried to stem the rush of anger, but ’twas too late. Sir Renaud was responsible for the uprising along the border, the deception to his king, and the murder of her father and many others. ’Twas time Sir Nicholas knew the truth.

  “Worse,” she continued, outrage fueling her words. “He blamed the Scots in his treachery against the crown and used their deaths as justification for his own barbaric acts. After murdering them in their beds, Sir Renauld claimed he’d chased them after catching them on his land. Or, he would charge the Scots with transporting illegal goods.” A harsh laugh fell from her lips. “But he did nae halt there. He burned the Scots’ homes, claimed their land as his own—”

  “All with King Edward’s backing,” Nicholas broke in, his words tainted with indignance.

  She halted, surprised he understood, then nae surprised at all. He was a rare man in this harsh world. “Aye.”

  Nicholas’s eyes darkened to a dangerous cast. “And with the king behind his claims, none would challenge the right of it.”

  She nodded, pleased and distressed by his insight.

  “King Edward never knew of Sir Renaud’s crimes,” Nicholas said, his voice gentling. “I swear it. He seeks peace. He would not condone the acts you have described.”

  She snorted her disbelief. “Your king laid siege and captured Ravenmoor Castle, once held by the Scots. ’Tis an act of war.”

  “Nay, ’tis an action of our times.”

  ’Twas true the land upon the borders was often raided and claimed by the other country, but losing a piece of Scotland to English hands, even the most remote loch, was an unbearable thought.

  “And what of your king’s seizure of the Isle of Man? Or his negotiations in the Treaty of Birgham? Admit it. Your king doesna seek peace, but wants Scotland beneath his rule.” She angled her jaw. “At least be honest enough to admit that.”

  He lifted a skeptical brow. “You are surprisingly well educated on political matters for a homeless Scot,” he said, his v
oice too soft.

  Heat flared on her face as she scrambled for an explanation. “If your country was threatened with war, at risk of being overtaken by another, would you nae listen as nobles discussed your country’s fate?”

  “Aye.” Though his quiet response agreed, the wedge of doubt in his expression remained.

  She stepped toward the door. “The men will be waiting below.”

  “So they will.” He strapped on his broadsword, watching her all the while.

  Elizabet moved closer toward the exit, tasting freedom.

  “Wait.”

  Heart pounding, she paused.

  “You have given me answers, though not the ones I wish to hear. But we both know that, do we not?” He shook his head as she opened her mouth to speak. “Rest assured, Thomas, in the end I will know.”

  Nicholas strode past her to the door, confidence exuding in his every step. When he opened the hewn entry, he turned to face her. Gray eyes narrowed. “I do not lose.”

  Icy chills rippled through her. “This isna a game.”

  “No, that it is not.” He watched her a moment more. “I expect you downstairs posthaste. Be there or I am coming back for you.” He stepped out, pulled the door shut with a firm snap.

  Out of the fire and into the flames; Lachllan’s words echoed through her mind, and loneliness for her mentor engulfed her. Except the steward was miles away.

  Whatever happened now depended on her.

  And in the next few hours somehow she had to manage to keep any of the Scots below from recognizing her.

  Hours later, anxiety filled Elizabet as she hurried up the turret to the dungeon followed by the healer. At the top, she held up the basket to show the guard.

  He nodded, allowing them to pass.

  At least something had gone right this day. When the leaders had stayed until late morning, she had wondered if Nicholas would still complete his rounds or send his men to do the task without him. Thankfully he had delayed his knights’ departure until his guests had departed. Now he was miles away, but his words from this morning haunted her.

  Nay, a man like him didna lose.

  She fought to quell her rising sense of doom. Time was running out. Only by mentioning Sir Renaud had she sidetracked Nicholas from more personal questions, questions she could never answer. But the time was coming when she couldna avoid the inevitable.

  Both knew it.

  Elizabet turned her focus to the task. As before, even with the use of lye soap and plenty of water to clean the dungeon, the stench of bodies and death assaulted her. She stanched the rise of nausea, needing her wits to tend to Giric. Had the fever passed? Would he recognize her this day? How was she going to free him along with the other Scots locked within these walls? Patience. She had nae come this far to give up.

  “Lad,” the healer called.

  She turned. “Aye?”

  “We will begin here.” Deredere pointed to the cell on her right.

  On edge, Elizabet glanced toward Giric’s cell at the end of the narrow corridor. “Yesterday we began with those who needed aid the worst.”

  “He is gone.”

  Fighting to remain calm, she clutched onto a nearby bar. “Gone?”

  “Aye, they carried him out yesterday.”

  The healer’s words echoed around her.

  Her world tilted. She clawed for each breath, for sanity, for reason through this impenetrable grief.

  “Lad, are you well?”

  The buzzing grew louder. Coldness filled her, a chill so bitter she doubted if she would ever recover. Giric was everything, and since her mother’s death, the only person who had truly loved her—ever.

  Now he was dead.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tears burning her eyes, Elizabet clutched the cell’s thick-framed door. Giric is dead!

  A soft yet firm hand touched her shoulder. “Lad?” The healer’s voice echoed from far away.

  Engulfed in the dungeon’s dank surroundings, she lifted her head and met the old woman’s concerned gaze. “I—I am fine. A touch dizzy for a moment.”

  Deredere’s mouth tightened, then she waved her forward.

  Tears glazed her eyes as she followed the healer. Everything had changed yet naught was different. Her men remained locked within the dungeon, Scots she would free.

  A long while later, with all the people tended, the healer headed toward the exit.

  With a heavy heart, Elizabet shoved the dungeon door shut, then followed her down the stairs. As she stepped outside, sunlight glittered in the pristine sky, steel clashed in the distance as knights trained in the practice field, the smithy plied his hammer on glowing red steel, and men worked on the new structures Nicholas had ordered built. ’Twas another day as if naught had changed.

  Except Giric was dead.

  Deredere frowned. “You look a might peaked, lad.”

  She felt like death, sure she appeared little better. “I am . . .” Fine? Nay. She would nae offer the obvious lie again. “I need rest is all.”

  Understanding shone in the healer’s eyes. “ ’Tis nae an easy task to bind wounds knowing very well the men could easily die by the morrow.”

  Tears threatened and she could only nod.

  The healer took the basket from her arms. “Get along with you then,” she said, her voice softening. “I will take care of the last prisoner myself.”

  A lone tear trailed a path along her cheek as Elizabet stared at her, lost in a numb haze. The pruned face blurred. Her throat constricted in a rough knot.

  The healer headed toward the keep.

  The last prisoner? Elizabet scrubbed the tears from her face and ran after the elder. She caught her arm, almost throwing the woman off balance. “The last prisoner?”

  “Aye.” Deredere frowned as she studied her. “The man who was running the fever.” She shook her head. “ ’Tis a sorry business.”

  Giric is alive!

  “Sir Nicholas stopped by my hut,” the elder continued, ignorant of the myriad of emotions pouring through her. “When I informed him of the prisoner’s worsening condition, he ordered the Scot moved to a chamber inside the keep.”

  Elizabet wanted to weep with joy. Nicholas hadna let her down. She should have known that he wouldna tolerate a prisoner wasting away with nay even the hope to live. Joy faded beneath the weight of reality. Giric wasna any prisoner, but a noble, a man of importance. The castellan must have learned of her brother’s name and title, which is why he wanted to ensure he lived. Why? Did he believe Giric would aid him in bringing peace along the border?

  As if now was the time to be worrying about such? Her brother was alive. She would worry about the rest later.

  Wizened eyes watched her carefully. “What is the prisoner to you, lad?”

  Everything, she wanted to shout. She stared at her straight in the eye. “A man I admire and respect.”

  The elder’s aged mouth settled into a grimace. “Well, come along then. No sense in us standing out here for everyone to gawk at.”

  Sunlight brushed over her face as Elizabet followed. Mayhap the warmth of its rays would touch her soul after all.

  At the second floor, Elizabet spotted a knight standing before a door halfway down the corridor. Uneasy, she followed the healer. Nicholas had forbidden her from entering the dungeon, but he’d nae said anything about a room within the keep.

  The healer halted before the chamber.

  The guard’s eyes leveled on Elizabet.

  “I am assisting the healer,” she blurted, prayed he’d allow her entry.

  The guard lifted a questioning brow.

  “I do nae have all day,” the healer said with impatience.

  Elizabet could have kissed her.

  With a grimace, the guard stepped to the side and opened the door. “After the fever broke the prisoner regained consciousness for a short while, then he fell asleep.”

  “A good sign.” The healer walked into the chamber.

  As the door shut behi
nd them, Elizabet sighed with relief. “Thank you.”

  Deredere gave her a wink. “I had a friend once whom I did whatever it took to see. Come on, lad. We have a Scot who needs us.”

  Thick curtains canopied over the large bed centered against the wall. Tied back, they framed the tall man lying within.

  Giric!

  She forced herself to walk to the bed as the healer halted and set her basket on a nearby table.

  With a soft groan, her brother’s eyes flickered open. He stared at her a moment then frowned as if confused.

  Clear. His eyes void of the fever that had almost taken his life. Elizabet swallowed hard. Thank God!

  “Here.” The elder held out a damp cloth, ignorant to the emotions pouring through Elizabet. “Wipe his brow while I tend to him.”

  Her entire body trembled as Elizabet moved to Giric’s side. With care, she began wiping his brow.

  Without warning Giric’s hand clamped over her wrist, then his fingers trembled and his hand fell to the bed and his eyes fluttered closed.

  “I think he recognized you as well,” Deredere said with a smile.

  Indeed Giric had. Before her brother had passed out, she’d caught the recognition, and a flicker of outrage.

  “I am pleased to see his fever is gone.”

  “’Tis a blessing,” Elizabet agreed. Between sneaking out from under Lachllan’s parental gaze and trying to keep Nicholas’s suspicions at bay, she’d forgotten about having to face Giric’s reaction to her attempt to free him.

  As if his anger was anything new? When she’d rescued her brother from the bog when he was ten and fifteen summers, he hadna approved her presence then, but she had pulled him out had she nae? Mayhap the fact that she had put the burr under his mount’s saddle had been a factor to his getting stuck between two rotting logs, but who was remembering that anyway? ’Twas a youthful prank, one long past.

  She took in Giric, shaken by the frailty and his pale skin. But this was different. He needed her. And with their father dead, she needed him.