Castles, Knights, and Chivalry: 4 Medieval Romance Novels

by Ruth Kaufman

  But did he trust her that much? Even if she was not a spy or an assassin, one mistake on her part could kill him.

  There was one way to learn her true intent.

  Instead of drinking, he placed the medicant on the table and cupped her face in both of his hands. He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

  She made a startled sound but did not try to pull away from him. His lips slid softly over hers and he toyed with her mouth. She tasted of sunshine and sweet heather. He had surprised her, and she had been unprepared for his kiss, but she did not resist him. His tongue lightly traced over her bottom lip, and she opened her mouth. His heart raced as he deepened his kiss and pulled her tight against him. She tentatively mimicked his actions, and in that moment, he knew. Her response to him was so innocently honest that he knew she could not be a spy. She was simply a young lass who had never been kissed.

  Gently, Ronan ended the kiss and lifted his head. He gazed down at her, memorizing every detail of her bonny face, her lips reddened from his kiss. She blinked open her eyes as if coming to her senses.

  She was no spy, for the English would have sent a woman who could seduce him with her feminine wiles, not one who had never been courted. They would have chosen one whose lies would be serpent smooth, not a lass who boldly told him the truth then stood before him unflinchingly. They would have selected someone to kill his people and turn the rest against him instead of one who fought to save lives and defeat their fears. They would not have sent a healer, but an assassin who would have murdered him within a day of entering his keep.

  He traced his fingers through her hair and picked up the cup and winked at her before he brought it to his lips and downed it.

  Ronan shivered and gagged. “Dear God, lassie, I almost rather ye poisoned me.”

  “That can be arranged,” she muttered, her thoughts still reeling from his kiss.

  “Pray pardon?” he asked as he returned to his chair.

  Lia’s thoughts scrambled to keep up, but it was practically impossible after he had turned her wits upside down with his kiss. Her heart still raced and butterflies still rioted in her stomach.

  She sat in the chair across from him, fighting to gather herself.

  Ronan gently covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers. “Forgive me, lass, for my doubt.”

  “I don’t fault you, Ronan. You’re not the first to believe the worst, and the taste of that concoction doesn’t help.”

  “Aye. And ye be certain I will have tae drink it every day?”

  She shrugged and lifted her hands helplessly.

  He shivered again. “As long as it works.”

  “As I said, it may not seem to work at first. I will continue to observe and adjust. Of course, the dose of hemlock was exceptionally light for someone of your size. But that is also why I need you to be honest with me. How you feel will tell me how to adjust the amount.”

  He looked at her a long moment. His expression changed subtly and a muscle ticked in his jaw. His features paled ever so slightly.

  Lia’s heart jumped in her chest and her fingers tightened on his. “Ronan?”

  His eyes widened and grew unfocused.

  “Ronan?” her voice rose in alarm. He’s having another one! What have I done? But she soon silenced the voice of her doubt. She had expected this, which was why she had moved so quickly in making his medicant.

  Ronan’s mouth twisted downward, his expression cruel and terrifying. Lia’s heart pounded harder. She squeezed his hand again, but he did not respond. As his eyes darkened, she caught the red glint in them.

  Did I make his medicant strong enough? Will this turn worse?

  He did not move; he did not blink.

  Terrified he would pitch face-first onto the floor with an active fit, Lia lunged from her chair. On her knees before him, she wrapped her arms around him, refusing to let go. If the attack progressed into another active fit, at least she would stop his fall. She felt every muscle in his body lock and squeezed her eyes closed.

  “Ronan, you are safe. You are at home,” she murmured and held on to him with all of her strength.

  The first thing Ronan heard was a soft voice whispering reassurances. You are safe. You are home. He instantly recognized it as Lia’s voice and his fear eased. He knew she was with him, he knew she did not fear the Demon Laird. She would not run. As his awareness returned, his heart slowed its thundering pace. He felt her arms wrapped tightly around him, so tightly it was a wonder he could breathe. He blinked rapidly, his vision pulling itself together.

  Lia was before him, holding him in the chair, making certain he did not fall to the floor if the attack worsened. But it was only another blackout, the same he had suffered as a child.

  His body was loath to return to his control, but he managed to turn his head and bury his face in her soft auburn hair. He released a ragged breath, his body finally uncoiling. Even though he could move now, he had no desire to. He managed to wrap his arms around her, but his strength had not yet returned. Probably for the best since he would have squeezed the breath from her if he held her as tightly as wanted to.

  “Ronan?”

  “Aye,” he said softly to let her know he had returned.

  Her grip changed on him but did not ease. Instead, it grew stronger. She reached up and stroked her hand through his hair and down his back, encouraging him to remain as he was. He was only too willing to do so.

  He was uncertain how long they remained as such, but when Lia sought to pull away, he realized it was not long enough and he protested her movement.

  “Ronan, look at me,” she said, only pulling away enough to gaze up at him.

  Her fingers gently traced over his skin, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and savor the sensation.

  “Ronan?”

  “Aye,” he said softly and looked into her beautiful hazel eyes.

  She searched his gaze for a long moment, and Ronan wondered what it was she saw. Then her lips tugged upward and her fingers resumed stroking his hair. He loved it when she did that, he decided.

  “My sweet, beautiful Ronan,” she whispered.

  He arched an eyebrow at her boldness but decided he loved her words as well.

  “This is the first time since the night of my arrival that a passive fit has not led to an active one.”

  He blinked at her, realizing she was right. “Then perhaps your foul potion helped?”

  “Perhaps. But you understand what that means.”

  He groaned and lowered his head until his forehead rested against hers. “I will have tae drink more of them.”

  She laughed softly. Ronan knew at that moment he would drink a thousand foul draughts if it meant hearing her laugh again.

  Chapter Eleven

  A month passed and Ronan’s healing took a huge leap forward. The wounds on his back no longer needed bandages, although Lia diligently applied the oil to his scars every night.

  Unfortunately for Ronan, feeling her hands on him provoked his body into a tempest. How had this happened? How could he desire a Sassenach healer so intensely? But he realized he rarely thought of her as English anymore. Instead, she had become the healer of Clan MacGrigor . . . his healer.

  The foul medicant she forced on him also reaped benefits as she cautiously adjusted the amount of hemlock, informing him every step of the way and documenting everything she did and how he responded. Since developing it for him, he had suffered only one active fit, and its severity had been reduced.

  To his surprise, she taught not only him how to mix his own medicant but Aidan and Marta as well. Although measuring the hemlock into his own cup rattled him somewhat, Ronan also felt control over his own life returning, and with that returned the confidence he had not realized he had lost.

  Ronan’s leg also healed to the point where it was still stiff in the chill morning hours, but he no longer needed a cane, even for the stairs. His limp was barely noticeable, only worsening if he stood for too long.
r />   But there was a greater miracle Lia had worked. Ronan appeared in the great hall every morning, resuming his duties as laird and holding a small court where he could listen to the needs of his clan and resolve issues that arose among its members. Although some seemed a bit wary of him, no one whispered their fears of the Demon Laird, no one voiced concern that he had made a deal with the devil—even Alba acted as if she no longer feared him.

  Whenever Lia entered the room, Ronan’s gaze automatically found her. He was besotted, he knew, but he surprised himself by realizing he didn’t care. After suffering so terribly, he welcomed the happiness in his heart. He craved seeing her smile and hearing her laugh. He savored the warmth of home, the peace of family and friends around him.

  There was only one thing that vexed Ronan. The nightmares he suffered: feeling the agony of his torture and hearing le March’s voice echo in the blackest part of his soul had not faded. They only grew worse. Every morning and many times in the middle of the night, Ronan would awaken in a cold sweat, bellowing his pain and fury, uncertain where he was, if he was truly free of his prison. He spoke naught of it to anyone, least of all Lia. She had done so much for him, and he had no desire to burden her with something as silly as dreams.

  But every night, he dreaded sleep more and more. Rather than face the horror he could not defeat, he returned to donning his cloak and stalking the shadows of the keep in the dead of night. But he was careful to hide his presence. If the servants knew, they would return to their fear of the Demon Laird. If Lia learned of his actions, she would have his head.

  Late one night, Ronan sat alone in his solar, staring at his bed. The castle’s occupants had long since achieved theirs. He was tired, that much he admitted; the nightmares and his lack of sleep now taking their toll. But as he stared at his bed, he realized he had no desire to face le March yet again.

  He sighed heavily, briefly toying with the idea of rousing Lia. At least talking to her, enjoying her company, kept his ghosts at bay. But he knew better. She should not pay the price of his inability to control his own memories.

  His gaze slid from the bed and stopped on his claymore hanging in its scabbard from the bedpost. As a lad, the moment he had become strong enough to heft it, his da had begun to teach him how to use it. This was the weapon of the laird of Clan MacGrigor. His da had wielded it in battle, and now so did Ronan, when he wasn’t fighting on a horse.

  Ronan smiled as he remembered how patient his da had been teaching a young lad to control a sword longer than he was tall at the time. His da used to tease him mercilessly about how he was nothing but skin and bones, his arms and legs too long, his feet too big.

  Ronan had countered his father’s jests with resolve and dedication. In the middle of the night, when all were abed, he would take the huge claymore down to the castle cellars. There he worked until he was ready to drop, practicing everything his da had taught him, working blocks and attacks against unseen foes. Every night he practiced without fail, but it seemed as if he would never be the warrior his da was, he would never have the strength and control needed to handle the giant weapon.

  But just as everything changed on the one day he wrestled and defeated his da, so did it change with the claymore. It was as if his body grew into the weapon overnight, and all of his work came to fruition. His da had been astonished when Ronan wielded the claymore in practice as if it had been nothing more than a bastard sword.

  “Who be this man I suddenly see before me?” his da asked after Ronan demonstrated his skills with a perfection he had never before achieved.

  It was only then that Ronan told his da of his nightly practice.

  His smile grew as he remembered his da’s surprise along with the fact he seemed quite pleased learning of his son’s hard work and dedication.

  Ronan stood and drew the blade from the scabbard. It sparked in the firelight, as if it gleamed with its own inner light—the soul of Clan MacGrigor. He had not worked with the claymore since his wounding. But now he was healed, his strength returned. Like a good sword, a man lost his edge if he did not test himself. It was time to return to that.

  Once again, he donned his cloak and disappeared into the night shadows of the castle. But this time he carried the claymore with him.

  Aidan took the stairs into the keep two at a time. Dawn was only pink streaks in the eastern sky, but he hoped his brother was awake. Although his birds had told him troublesome news, they also had a song Aidan knew his brother wanted to hear.

  He bounded into the keep then up the stairs leading to the solar. He hesitated at the door and knocked softly.

  “Enter.”

  Aidan opened the door, surprised to see his brother fully dressed and sitting at his table as if waiting for him. Usually, he only awoke just as the first rays of dawn entered his loophole.

  “Good morrow,” Ronan said, smiling at him. He poured a second cup of wine and hesitated only a moment before pouring a third, which he placed before the chair Lia always sat in.

  “Ye be up early.”

  “And ye be knockin’ on my door early,” Ronan countered.

  Aidan grinned and took his chair, but his grin faded as he examined his brother. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the lines seemed more pronounced on his face. Aidan had not seen this since Lia had developed the medicant that lessened Ronan’s fits. But she had said it was a process. Perhaps she had more work left to do.

  “Are ye feeling all right?”

  “Aye,” Ronan said, smiling as was his habit.

  Aidan dismissed his worries and took a drink of his wine. “I have good news for ye, brother.”

  “Yer birds?”

  “Aye. I have learned that those ye sent tae purchase more grain didna have tae go all the way tae Edinburgh. They found good stores not long after descending from the Highlands and purchased the grain for a decent price. The wagons are on their way back now. They should return in just over a sennight.”

  “Now that is good news, Aidan,” Ronan said, his shoulders straightening as if a huge weight had been lifted from him. “Angus told me the stone masons have almost completed the two large millstones. If they are not finished by the time the wagons arrive, they should be shortly thereafter.”

  Aidan expelled a breath, relieved to hear that. Ronan would also be able to take the rest of the news much easier now. In fact, if he could wait until Lia appeared . . . he looked at the loophole, seeing the pink skies brighten.

  Lia had taken over cooking Ronan’s meals. Aidan offered to help, so he could continue his tradition of breaking their fast in the solar, but she would have none of it.

  Another knock sounded and Ronan arched an eyebrow. “It seems everyone is early this morn.”

  Aidan, being the closest, rose and opened the door, taking the tray from Lia. He smelled the food and his belly rumbled. “Good morrow.”

  “Good morrow,” she said, smiling up at him but then shifted her gaze to Ronan.

  Aidan looked at his brother and almost laughed aloud. The two were absolutely smitten with each other, but both were too stubborn to admit it. If it had been him, he would give the lass a tumble and get it out of his system. But the moment the thought hit him, he knew: Ronan would never treat Lia in that fashion. The closer Aidan watched his brother, the more he realized that the possibility of wedding bells ringing over Castle MacGrigor loomed ever larger.

  He diverted himself by sorting through the roundels and bowls.

  Lia crossed the room and stood next to Ronan; she had developed a habit of greeting him by gently tugging a lock of hair away from his face. Ronan looked up at her, a spark in his gray eyes Aidan had never seen before. Again he fought not to laugh. Good glory, he would never allow himself to become so enamored with a lass. Yet he appreciated all Lia had done. Without her, Aidan feared he would have lost his brother—if not his life, then his heart and mind.

  Ronan caught her hand and kissed the back of it. “Well met, my bonny lass.”

  Lia blushed
prettily, but Aidan noted she also studied Ronan intently. “Are you feeling all right?”

  So it wasn’t just his imagination.

  Ronan shot a wink at Aidan then grinned up at her. “I am fine.”

  She inclined her head as if she wasn’t sure if she believed him but then sat next to Ronan at the table.

  Ronan turned his attention to the food, his stomach rumbling loudly. Lia laughed and Aidan joined her.

  Ronan chuckled, accepting the roundels Aidan handed him. “So will ye both fault me for enjoying the lass’s cooking?”

  “Not I,” Aidan said as he returned to his chair.

  “I do have one question,” Ronan said as he ate. “I noticed the meals ye prepare for me are now constant, they are the same as those I chose when ye offered the selection.”

  She grinned at him, wrinkling her nose in an adorable fashion. “I suppose I can tell you now.”

  Ronan looked at her sharply. “As long as ye dinna utter the word hemlock.”

  Aidan nearly choked, taking a quick drink of his wine to wash his food down.

  “Nay,” Lia said laughing. “Remember how I thought you had learned to manage your illness long ago?”

  “Aye.”

  “I noticed you’ve been displaying an aversion to certain foods, even those Aidan said were once your favorites.”

  He blinked, staring at his plate.

  “Sueta believes some foods, while not the source of the problem, can aggravate an illness such as yours.”

  Aidan’s thoughts raced. He was the one with supposed great powers of observation. “Saints be merciful,” he muttered, suddenly wanting to kick himself. “I ne’er realized, but ye are correct, Lia. The older Ronan grew, the more power he had tae choose what he ate. Why didna I see it afore?”

  “You did see it, Aidan, but honestly, the only reason why I knew its import was because I have been taught since I was a child to watch for this sort of thing.”