by Diana Cosby
Giric started to correct the priest of his improper address, then remained silent.
A knight.
With his lingering status as an outlaw in the Western Marches and the shame of serving as an escort to earn gold, he’d decided to conceal his title of Earl of Terrick during this mission.
Now, he must play the part.
The priest frowned at the exiting woman.
Curious at the priest’s reaction, Giric studied the fading figure through the whirls of snow. Escorting Lady Sarra to her betrothed in Scotland was to be a simple deed. Yet, it appeared the bride was displeased by the match. “My thanks for your hospitality.”
The priest signaled toward the stable.
A lad ran from the structure and halted before his horse. “I will take your mounts.”
After one last glance toward the keep outlined in the increasing fall of white, Giric nodded and waved for his men to dismount. Warmth and food were his first priority. There would be enough time later to speculate on Rancourt Castle’s intriguing mistress.
Three days later, Giric, along with his men, sat around the trencher table at supper. He kept his hands clasped together, his head bowed, and waited until the priest finished the blessing. But the hearty fare of venison, onions, and sage did little to ease a temper that had grown shorter with each passing day.
While rich tones of a prayer echoed throughout the great hall, he covertly glanced toward the dais. Lady Sarra sat rigid in her chair and stared straight ahead. As during every other meal, she neither bowed her head nor clasped her hands in prayer in a show of respect for which the occasion demanded.
Her indifference troubled him. If she was displeased by the match, ’twould seem she would seek answers in prayer. Yet, her lips remained still and naught about her countenance portrayed a hint of divine appeal.
If she indeed shunned the church and its beliefs, then why upon his arrival to Rancourt Castle had she sought out the priest to accompany her to meet him? Whatever her reason, it did nae excuse her poor manners. Each morning since their arrival, he’d sent her a request for an audience, all which she’d ignored.
Though they’d yet to speak, her distrustful looks when he caught her glance served to aggravate his temper. He looked toward her again, damning his body’s tightening as he took in her slender frame, beauty of an angel, and rich golden hair. She was a task, nay more.
He studied the priest who dealt with the mistress of Rancourt Castle on a daily basis, and his respect for the cleric rose a notch. The day Giric delivered his wary charge to her betrothed in Scotland and left her far in his wake would be one to celebrate.
After making the sign of the cross, the priest ended his blessing.
The servants stepped to the tables with trenchers of bread as a page sliced off portions of venison roasting over the fire.
Another lad carrying a large platter of food halted beside Giric. “Sir Knight?”
Giric nodded and the lad placed a hunk of meat upon his trencher. Then he scooped onions and carrots alongside.
Once finished, the boy stepped to his right where a large, tawny-haired man sat. “Sir Knight?”
Colyne MacKerran, Giric’s longtime friend and the Earl of Strathcliff, nodded.
The page filled his trencher then moved down the table.
Colyne speared the meat with his dagger and took several bites before glancing toward Giric. “ ’Tis fine fare.”
How could he let Colyne join him in this mayhem? Blast it, both of them nobles, yet playing the roles of knights. The matter was his to take care of, but Colyne had insisted to come along. “Better than gruel.”
Colyne eyed him a moment, then laughed. “Aye, ’tis at that. Though with your surly temper, you would be deserving such.”
With a grunt, Giric carved a bite.
Colyne reached for his goblet. “If asked, I would say your foul mood began with the arrival of Lady—”
“I did nae ask.”
Humor flickered in his friend’s eyes. “You did nae, but it has been overlong since I have witnessed a woman who has sparked more than a brief glance from you.”
“My interest is in the coin this task will provide, naught more.” He had enough to do in rebuilding Wolfhaven Castle. He didna need a wayward heiress to keep reined in as well.
“She has a fine figure.”
Giric stabbed his dagger into the tender venison. “And the warmth of ice.”
“I have known you to melt a few maidens’ hearts in your days,” Colyne said with lazy enjoyment.
“Even if the lady in question appealed to me, which she does nae, she is betrothed.”
His friend gave a resigned sigh. Then a glint of mischief sparked in his eyes. “But could be wooed for a wee kiss.”
“You are a bloody pain in the arse.” His appetite gone, Giric shoved away the half-eaten trencher. “I have nae figured out why I brought you along.”
With a hearty laugh and his dimples giving a fine show, Colyne raised his cup in a toast. “Why, to keep you out of trouble, Sir Giric.”
At his friend’s emphasis on his title, Giric’s irritation fell away. He was right, ’twas best to remember the humility of his position until he’d delivered Lady Sarra to her betrothed.
The clank of tankards melded with the voices of the men around him. Smoke, thick and pungent, sifted overhead. “I am ready for this journey to be over,” Giric said. “ ’Tis long past time to return home.”
“But it will be quiet without your sister, Elizabet, in residence.”
“Aye, but she is safe. Though English and sworn to serve King Edward, Sir Nicholas has proven to be a good husband and fair to the bordering Scots.” Though Colyne nodded, Giric didna miss the shadow of hurt that crossed his face. Over the years when his friend had visited Wolfhaven Castle, the love Colyne held for his sister hadna escaped him, nor his intent to offer her marriage.
Except, true to her unconventional manner, Elizabet had fallen in love and wed a man who by rights should be their enemy. And blast if Giric didn’t like the Sassenach.
In these troubled times, where rumors of war between England and Scotland rumbled as often as thunder, that his sister had found a man worthy of her love, made their union all the more precious.
He glanced at Lady Sarra who maintained her regal pose upon the dais and toyed with her food. Regret sifted through his mind. It appeared she, like most women, would marry for obligation.
A knight slammed his fist upon the table several lengths away and laughter broke out around him.
Lady Sarra turned toward the warrior, then her gaze shifted to Giric.
Their eyes locked.
Anger flared in her gaze as she stared at him. For a split second, they darkened with awareness, then her mouth parted in surprise.
Heat stormed Giric’s body. The temptation of how her mouth would feel beneath his shoved his need up another notch.
Her finger touched her lips as if she could read his thoughts. Then, the heat in her gaze iced, and her tempting mouth thinned in a haughty line.
An air of challenge snapped between them, and at her clear dismissal of him, Giric’s regrets of moments ago faded.
But nae his desire.
He held her gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. Her contempt toward him, for God knows whatever reason, was her affair. Like it or nae, if she agreed to her guardian’s writ, they would be traveling together.
A long moment passed.
Redness crept up her face, but from the hard set of her expression, it wasna from embarrassment.
Giric narrowed his gaze.
She tilted her head in defiance, almost daring. Then, her nostrils gave a slight flare and she looked away.
His body thrummed with unspent energy, unsure if he should be pleased or aggravated by her bravado.
After a sip from her goblet, she leaned over and whispered to the priest, then pushed her chair back and stood.
“You will nae avoid me this time,” he muttered be
neath his breath. Giric snatched the cloth nearby, wiped the grease from his mouth and hands, tossed it aside.
Colyne laughed as he watched the heiress depart. “Methinks the rose has thorns.”
“A bloody bushel of them.” Giric shoved to his feet. Rushes crunched under his boots as he strode after her. He kept his pace steady. Nae too fast as to alert the guards or her of his intent, but enough to keep her in sight.
Three blasted days now she’d made him and his men wait, and if she had her way, the lass would make it four. By God, he would speak with her this night!
Once shielded from the great hall, he took the steps up the turret two at a time. As he ascended, the light scent of heather mingled with the moors and the night. A wisp of her ivory linen gown twisted ahead of him with an elusive swirl as she made to take a step, then was lost in the shadows.
Giric rounded the corner and caught her figure clearly silhouetted from the torch in the wall sconce. “Lady Sarra.”
Leather kid slippers scraped over stone as she whirled to face him. The flutter of flames outlined her like a dark angel. Wariness flared in her eyes.
He took a step closer, damning her beauty, lured by her spirit.
Her hand slid to the side of her gown. With a flick of her wrist, she withdrew a slim dagger from the folds. “Halt.” Her ominous warning echoed in the darkened void, edged with a hint of fear.
Giric dismissed the knife. Did the lass think she could hold her own against him with a mere blade? “I mean you no harm, my lady. I wish but a brief moment of your time.”
That small pert nose lifted a fraction, like a warrior would raise his shield. “How dare you steal about and corner me in my own home.”
“If you had talked to me instead of avoided me, I would nae have had to resort to such extreme measures.”
A sliver of torchlight glinted off the dagger in her hands. “Leave me. I will grant you an audience when I deem the time appropriate.”
If she believed he could be swayed by flashing a weapon before him or a terse command, she was about to learn otherwise. He wasna one of her servants she could order about. He took a step closer. “We need to discuss our departure.”
She flinched, but she held her ground.
Determined to keep his temper, he took a slow breath and started again. “My Lady, our acquaintance has begun poorly.” Her narrowing eyes chinked at his hard-won control, and the fact that she hadna lowered the blade didna help either, but he pressed on. “Let us begin anew, this time in the proper manner. Let me introduce my—”
“No!” She stepped forward, the dagger tight in her grip. “I will leave Rancourt Castle at my discretion. Your name as well as your demands are of little consequence. Try my patience further, Sir Knight, and you will find yourself housed within my dungeon this night instead of on a pallet of straw.” As regal as a queen, she sheathed her dagger and strode up the steps.
Fury slammed through Giric. He was wrong. With a woman like her, nae even a saint could keep his temper in check.
On a curse he bolted up the steps.
The angry scrape of the knight’s steps gave Sarra a second’s warning as the Scot caught her arm, spun her around, and pinned her against the wall.
Pressed in a firm hold, the coldness of the stone seeped through every pore as the heat of his hard, sculpted body leaned inches from hers. She stared at the large hand clasped on her arm, lined with scars and calloused by hours of maneuvering a sword. On an unsteady breath, she looked up.
His large frame blocked the light, leaving his face partially shadowed. Hard, unforgiving angles that served a fitting canvas for ice-blue eyes that held no quarter. And his devil’s black hair added an ominous edge to his dark looks.
Fear surged through her, a hard brutal force that threatened to undermine her hard-won control. The man was dangerous, a fact she’d noted from the first. What had possessed her this evening to challenge him on any level?
But she knew.
So caught up in her anger over her guardian’s news of her betrothal, she’d ignored the knight’s requests for a meeting. But, once in her chamber and with time settling her thoughts, she faced the reality that once she left her home, if Lord Bretane denied her request and forced her to marry his son, she might never return to Rancourt Castle.
And her intent to depart immediately to confront her guardian had become smothered by fear. She hated her indecision, it but postponed her inevitable fate.
Shame filled Sarra at her poor manners. The knight was hired to perform a task. He didn’t deserve her dismissal. Except his dark presence churned up painful memories of the reivers who’d murdered her parents, and reminded her of her future promised to a Scot she abhorred.
“Apologize,” he breathed.
His voice, as potent as thunder, rattled through her senses, jerking her thoughts back to the fore. Sarra shoved against his muscled chest.
He didn’t move.
“Release me.” At his noncompliance, her mouth grew dry. She licked her lips; his eyes followed the act.
The knight muttered a soft curse, and a new worry shot through her. Oh, God. She glanced past him down the spiral steps to where her men ate, oblivious to her peril.
The knight tilted his head and fragments of light spilled over his angled face. Anger still raged within his ice-blue eyes, but now desire churned as well.
Stunned by his boldness, she shoved harder. “Comply or I will order you hanged!”
The knight loosened his grip, but he didn’t let go. “Rest assured, my lady, I have no personal intentions. A boar would offer more warmth than you.”
“Ho—How dare you!”
“And how dare you stand before me in judgment, casting aspersions on my person when you know naught of me.”
He was right, but he didn’t understand her aversion to his people or what they represented to her. “My decisions are those of the mistress of Rancourt Castle. And ’twas not I who skulked through the castle without permission.”
He leaned an inch forward. “ ’Twas your rudeness that forced my hand.”
“I am firm but fair.”
He arched a skeptical brow. “Have you deluded yourself into believing that as well?”
The coldness of the night seeped through her skin, leaving her chilled. “You know naught about me.”
“Then we are even, are we nae?”
Again she shoved against his chest. To her surprise, this time he released her, but he didn’t step away. His gaze shifted to her lips. Raw hunger burned in his eyes as they lifted to hers. Then they grew cold, distant.
A sense of loss infused her, followed by shame at her untoward thoughts. For a moment, trapped within this rogue’s embrace, she’d wanted his touch.
God help her.
She looked away, but the sense of loss remained.
“Yell.” His challenge, as hard as seductive, ripped through her tangled emotions and threw her further off balance.
Sarra met his gaze, confused by the urgent roughness of his voice.
He caught a lock of her hair and threaded it through his fingers. “Call for your guards to come and rescue their fair maiden.” With devastating slowness, he lifted the tendril to his lips.
Silence clattered between them. She should be afraid. Terrified. Never before had a man dared touch her so. But she remained still, as intrigued as afraid.
“ ’Tis what you are good at, is it nae?” he pressed. “Ignoring those you do nae wish to see. Allowing others to deal with issues you canna, or that you refuse to face?”
The coldness of his words shattered her delusions of desire. Humiliated to have been so easily seduced, she felt heat steal up her cheeks.
The Scot held his position, one hand pressed against the wall where he’d held her trapped moments ago, his ice-blue eyes riveted upon her.
The image of a wolf flashed in her mind. Dark. Wild. Untamed.
A tremor rocked her, then another. Her knees wobbled and threatened to give. Refusing to al
low him the satisfaction of knowing he’d unnerved her, she tilted her chin in defiance. An error as it brought their faces within a hand’s breath.
Shaken by everything this warrior made her feel, she drew a steadying breath. “My doubts have left me indecisive. Once I leave, fate may never allow me to return.”
“So you ignore me? Refuse to explain your reasons?”
What did he know about her and what did she care? “My reasons are not your concern.” With as much dignity as she could muster, she walked up the stairs. The lonely shuffle of her slippers on the stone steps echoed around her, but she sensed he still watched.
Waited.
Though the writ from her guardian had tossed her organized life into chaos, it appeared with the arrival of the Scottish knight, fate had thrown in another curve as well.
Whatever lay between them was far from over.
A retired Navy Chief, AGC(AW), Diana Cosby is an international bestselling author of Scottish medieval romantic suspense. Diana has spoken at the Library of Congress, appeared at Lady Jane’s Salon NYC, in Woman’s Day, in Texoma Living magazine, USA Today’s romance blog, “Happily Ever After,” and MSN.com.
After retiring from the Navy, Diana dove into her passion—writing romance novels. With thirty-four moves behind her, she was anxious to create characters who reflected the amazing cultures and people she’s met throughout the world. In August 2012, she released her story in the anthology Born to Bite, with Hannah Howell and Erica Ridley.
With the release of her sixth book in the bestselling MacGruder Brothers series, Diana is now working on the Scottish medieval The Oath trilogy. In addition, she’s excited about the upcoming release of the MacGruder Brother series box set early in 2015.
Diana looks forward to the years of writing ahead and meeting the remarkable people who will share this journey.
www.dianacosby.com
Love Diana Cosby?
Be sure to check out
The MacGruder Brothers series!
Keep reading to learn more
