by Eliza Knight
Be afraid, Belfinch, be verra afraid.
The closer they got to the castle, the hotter Strath’s blood ran. He loved a good battle, especially when he had the chance to defeat an enemy who thrived on tormenting others.
They were nearly halfway there, and still no calls of warning had gone up over the walls. A grin spread over Strath’s face. He loved surprising nasty bastards.
Three quarters of the way there…
Closer…
Closer still…
He sent out a hawk call to the man at the outer flanks of his brigade, and they peeled off. They would meet at the postern gate and be ready. A second call sent the second regiment to the sides of the outer wall, where they would toss up their grappling hooks and start climbing.
As for himself, Tomaidh, and the half dozen other warriors he had left, they stopped just out of range of the torchlight.
The men up on the wall suddenly came to life, straightening and peering into the darkness as if having sensed their presence, although their horses had made not a sound.
“Who’s out there?”
Strath grinned. “Just a few men on the way to Berwick looking for shelter.” Strath used his best English accent, one he’d practiced often with his uncle Blane. Blane had been a spy, and had often been sent to the border and to England for his king. Though of late, he’d retired from the ruse, moving into more of a leadership position.
“Our village has a tavern. Go there,” was the answering call.
Strath was prepared for that. “We’ve no need for food. But we wouldn’t mind sleeping in your stables. Please, good sir, we promise no ill will.”
From what he could see, the guards on the wall were all moving toward Strath to see who was out there, exactly what he wanted, leaving much of the wall unmanned. Good. They were all idiots.
“Go on to the village. We’ll not be opening the gate for you.”
Strath inched closer, giving them a shadow, but nothing more. “’Tis far and we are weary. We’ve got coin. We can pay ye for the night.”
“We’re not a bloody inn. Get out of here afore I have one of my men shoot you.”
Strath grinned into the night, knowing that while he argued with these foolish bastards, his men were likely nearly over the wall on the east and west sides of the fortress.
“Oh, come on then, there’s no need to be hostile,” Strath said in his perfect English accent. “We heard the Earl of Northwyck is known for his charity.”
The men on the wall scoffed, confirming what Strath had already surmised. Northwyck was anything but generous. In fact, he’d been taxing his peasants to the point of starvation.
“Don’t know who you’ve been getting your information from,” the man called down, “but I warned you.” An arrowed whizzed down, splashing into the moat. Either the man had terrible aim, or he thought a move like that would scare someone. He was wrong. “Next one goes through your heart.”
Strath held up his hands in surrender, though he was certain the man couldn’t see him fully.
“All right, we get the message.”
Just then, a rumbling sounded from the men on the wall, and they all jerked around toward the noise of weapons being engaged. And just as quickly, Strath’s men appeared, and the Sassenach imbeciles dropped like flies. The clink-clink of metal hadn’t lasted more than a few moments.
A few seconds later, the drawbridge was lowered, but the gates weren’t opened. The shouts from inside warned Strath that more enemy warriors were about to engage. Lucky for his men, they had the advantage of being on the wall, and they made use of the arrows left behind to shoot anyone climbing the stairs to the ramparts.
But Strath didn’t want to be a bystander, and his men needed the seven of them out here to be in there helping. The quicker they got this done, the better.
“Get your hooks ready.” They would climb the wall and join the fray since the gates had yet to be opened.
But seconds later, just as their hooks attached to the top of the wall, the gates were thrown open by one of his men, and Strath and his six wasted no time in riding over the gate to engage the enemy. On horseback, he was at an advantage against those in the bailey.
If he had to guess, there were about twenty warriors left.
As they fought knights with both Northwyck and Belfinch livery, one thing became evident—the two bastard lords were missing.
“Belfinch!” Strath bellowed. “Northwyck! Show yourselves, ye cowards.” Gone was his pretense of an English accent; he wanted the bastards to know exactly who’d come for them. “Attack the Scots, and we’ll come back to haunt ye.”
Several of the English knights crossed themselves as though Strath was serious. It could be they were a suspicious bunch, but more likely, they were guilty of heinous acts and feared for their souls.
The Sassenach knights started to line up in front of the chapel, as though to defend it from Strath and his men.
Strath grinned. “Ye gave them away ye slimy bastards.” Didn’t they know they’d show him exactly where to look for Belfinch and Northwyck with that simple act?
Strath urged Beast forward, and his men followed. If they thought he was going to politely wait for them to move or beg them to step aside, they were denser than he’d originally thought. Strath did not wait, just barreled over the knights, trampling those that didn’t leap out of the way beneath his warhorse. And those that did leap took the brunt of his men’s swords.
Strath raised Beast up on his hind legs in a move they’d practiced countless times, allowing his warhorse to pummel the chapel door until it splintered. Whatever bar they’d used to block his entrance shattered under the weight of the horse, and the door burst open to reveal the inside of the dimly lit chapel.
Without dismounting, Strath rode his horse right inside, passed the worn wooden pews, and took in the sight before him.
Standing before the altar with a priest were two men, one older than Strath’s father, the other a decade or so older than Strath, and a terrified looking lass. Was it the one he was looking for? The younger of the two men held her elbow tightly enough that the knuckles of his fingers stood out white. She trembled, her eyes wide as she glanced from him back to the men. They could be none other than Belfinch and Northwyck. By the way they were standing, it was obvious this man was attempting to wed the wench. Perhaps she was Northwyck’s presumed dead daughter after all.
She was beautiful even in her terror. Wide blue eyes, a shocked red mouth, and pale high-arched cheeks—except for a slowly growing bruise marring her cheek and scab on the corner of her lip. Had someone hit her?
Golden hair in disarray looked as if it had been braided but that frightened it had come loose from its confines. Had he come upon a struggle? Instinct knotted his gut. If he were to hazard a guess, she’d fought this wedding. But then again, she was an English wench. Mayhap she was simply clumsy and had tripped as she ran to the altar to be wed to the jackanapes. What did he care?
The older man rushed to stand before his daughter, though the only weapon he grabbed was an altar candlestick. The lass, rather than looking ready to faint as he would have expected, seemed to straighten.
The middle-aged one—Belfinch—withdrew his sword and took two steps forward. “How dare you interrupt my wedding ceremony? How dare you attack this castle!”
Strath raised a brow and suppressed the urge to chuckle. “Och, but that’s where ye are wrong, ye limp goat, I dare a lot. And I’ll dare to fight ye, too. Though it willna be as much of a challenge as I typically prefer.”
Belfinch sputtered, and in the background, the lass now looked to be trying to convince the older man of something. She took up a candlestick of her own, as though she were prepared to go into battle, too. From the look of it, she might even use it on the old man.
What the devil?
Belfinch waved his sword, making a circle in the air, his face full of a rage that was actually comical.
This time, Strath did laugh, and he exaggeratingly looke
d toward the Englishwoman. “What were ye thinking, lass? Ye’d have done much better with a real man than this pathetic slop heap.”
The lass’s gaze darted back to him, and she looked confused before a spark of spirit soared into her eyes. But there was no time for him to admire her spunk, because Belfinch rushed at him haphazardly with his sword drawn.
With an arc of his claymore, Strath blocked the blow and sent the man stumbling backward. His foot caught on a pew, and he fell over, his arms flailing madly before he lost all balance and hit his head against the stone floor with a resounding thud that echoed in the small enclosure. He didn’t move after that.
For the love of all things holy… Strath dismounted and sheathed his claymore, not at all worried about being attacked by the three standing before the altar. By the time he reached Belfinch, a pool of blood flowed beneath his head.
“That was entirely too easy,” Strath muttered. He held the back of his hand against the man’s mouth. Slow but steady breaths came from him.
Strath glanced back toward the lass, who did not seem in the least horrified as she regarded the felled man. When her gaze met his, there was a bit of terror that flickered. At least she wasn’t completely daft.
Turning his attention back to Belfinch, he rolled the man’s head to the side to get a look at the wound. On closer inspection, he could see that the blood spilling from the gash on Belfinch’s head only looked terrible. He would probably wake with a tremendous headache and need a few stitches, but the wound had not crushed his skull. The bastard would live.
He’d live for Strath to kill him.
He pulled his sgian dubh from his boot, pressed it to the man’s neck. A simple flick, and the bastard would bleed out. No more attacks on his people. But his king had demanded he bring Belfinch back to him in one piece.
As Strath looked toward the lass, an idea sparked in his mind. If he were to finish off the man while he lay unconscious, that would go against his own sense of pride. He liked men to fight him back.
Their journey back to the Highlands would be long and treacherous if they had to bring along an injured English lord. And Strath wasn’t going to sit here and wait for the man to heal. Not with his own small band of warriors. They’d come prepared for a sneak attack, not a massive battle should reinforcements arrive.
Strath touched the sgian dubh to Belfinch’s neck. Mayhap, he should just slit the bastard’s throat and be done with it.
The lass let out a whimper, stilling Strath’s hand. Had she guessed what he planned to do? When he looked at her, he saw that the old man had collapsed to the floor and was holding his heart. Poor bastard was having a fit of apoplexy. Served him right for having taken up with bloody Belfinch. The man hadn’t even tried to fight Strath. The way he had weakly cowered with the lass had Strath pausing over whether or not he could have been a willing participant in the destruction of the border towns. Then again, the man had an army at his disposal and could have put a stop to it.
Tomaidh stood at the entrance to the chapel, his expression not giving away his thoughts, and no help at all for Strath.
“Ballocks,” Strath muttered. There was only one thing he could do that would satisfy both him and the king.
He needed Belfinch to come to him. And there was only one way he could think of to make that happen. He had to leave the bastard alive.
Without hesitation, he took a large coin purse from Belfinch’s belt, the rings from his fingers, the heavily jeweled collar from around his neck, and a large iron key he found strapped to a girdle at his waist. Then he marched toward the altar.
The lass leapt to her feet from where she’d knelt beside the old man, brandishing the candlestick as though it were the mightiest of swords. In her other hand, she clutched a pretty necklace, reminding him of the bobbles his sisters coveted.
“Take the necklace.”
“Adorable,” Strath muttered sarcastically. “But I fear it is not to my taste.”
He tossed the other items he’d filched to Tomaidh and closed the distance between himself and the lass. As predicted, she swung the candlestick at his head, but he caught it mid-air, and with a flick of his wrist pried it from her hands. It landed several feet away with a dull ping.
“I won’t let you kill him,” she said.
“Kill who?”
“My father.” The long-lost lass…
“Are ye Lady Eva?”
A flicker of question flashed on her face. “Aye.”
“I’m not going to kill him, my lady.”
“I won’t let you take him either.” Her arms were outstretched, blocking the man from Strath’s view. “Take me instead.”
He’d already decided to do just that. What better way to show his king that he’d found the alleged dead lass than to drop her at his feet?
“If you insist.” Without hesitating, he lifted the lass up off her feet and tossed her over his shoulder. She beat at his back, shouting nonsense. When he reached his horse, he tossed her over it, face-first, placing his hand on the small of her back to keep her there.
At the altar, her father sat up, still clutching his heart and staring at them in stunned silence.
Strath caught the old man’s gaze. “When Belfinch wakes, tell him to come find me in the Highlands, and should he harm anyone along the way, I’ll kill her. And ye’d best accompany him, old man.”
“Nay!” the lass shouted, struggling to shimmy off his mount. “Belfinch won’t care! He won’t come!”
Strath mounted behind her, holding her belly first over his lap. “Oh, he’ll care. Trust me, lass. A man doesna like when his enemy takes his possessions, and I’ve taken his coin and his woman.”
She let out a bellow that sounded like a wildcat shot with a bow. Angry, in pain, and hell-bent on destruction.
“Scream like that again, and I’ll have ye gagged. Besides, ye asked me to take ye.”
With that, he turned Beast and rode out of the chapel. In the bailey, his warriors were tying up the men who’d surrendered. A hell of a lot less than those who’d given their lives. A shame. If they had simply let him in and laid down their weapons, he would have only disposed of Belfinch.
Strath whistled for his men to mount up, and they left the castle without anything other than the lass and a large coin purse.
His men had sustained only minor injuries, thank the saints.
The woman no longer made a peep, though she did struggle every once in a while. Apparently, his threat of a gag had worked, or else she’d remembered that she’d offered herself. Luscious curves rubbed against his thighs, and he could feel the indentation of her narrow waist and the swell of her hips beneath his arm. Against his better judgment, his body reacted with primal desire, blood rushing to his groin.
Strath ground his teeth together. This was going to be a long ride. If he was a man like Belfinch, he would slake his need on her body and then continue on without the distraction. But honor won out. He was not a ravager of innocents. Even if he was abducting one.
Mayhap they should have taken a horse for her. Then again, that would have only made it easier for her to escape him. Ruminating on maybes and should haves would not help the situation, and he wasn’t turning around to get her a mount.
After they crossed the heath and entered the forest, they slowed their neck-breaking speed to a trot. “What were ye going to marry that bastard for anyway?” Strath asked.
“None of your business,” she ground out, punching his thigh for added insult.
“Well, I’ve made it my business.” And the king needed to know that the lass he’d been looking for was possibly an enemy of Scotland.
She didn’t reply, but he didn’t find it annoying. Instead, he was amused by her spirit and surprised. Weren’t all English lasses supposed to be limp rags? Besides his mother, of course, who was well and above all women in the world.
“Suit yourself.” He chuckled and tapped her on the rear, biting the tip of his tongue to keep from making a comment about
how it bounced seductively against his palm.
That sparked a whole new round of bucking and hitting. “Let me off, you savage oaf,” she demanded, her words stilted as her belly bounced against his lap with each of the horse’s trotted steps.
“Not going to happen, Princess.” Strath tightened his hold around her hips.
“At least let me sit up.” The lass flailed again, and he was in serious danger of tossing her off just to teach her a lesson. Then again, having grown up with three meddling sisters, he was well aware of how to negotiate with a woman. Perhaps such a tactic would work on this one.
“If I let ye sit up, will ye quit flailing?”
She stilled and contemplated that for several moments. “Aye.”
“Good.” Strath lifted her up around her ribs, the undersides of her breasts brushing his fingertips. He gritted his teeth as he plopped her bottom on his thighs where her belly had been. And promptly groaned. So lush…
Perhaps tossing her off the horse would have been a better idea.
Chapter Three
Eva sat rigid, unsure of what to do with her hands other than hold the front of the saddle for dear life, which was very difficult given the necklace in her hand, but what else could she do? If she let go of the necklace, her only piece of her mother would be gone forever. If she let go of the saddle, the warrior behind her might just let her fall off.
The warrior behind her… Drawing breath was difficult. Every suck of wind left her lungs burning and her heart pounding. She was frightened, angry, surprised, horrified, and also intensely speculative. Her mind whirled in a thousand different directions, none of them connecting or making any sense.
She’d just been abducted.
Ripped from everything she knew.
By a Scottish warrior who was unfairly handsome and bold in his heathen woolen plaid and bare legs. And he’d known her name. Had the bard been successful in getting her letter to her relatives in Scotland? Was that why he’d been sent?
Or was there another more nefarious reason? She wanted to ask, but she didn’t dare.
Was he going to kill her? Bury her in a shallow grave where no one would ever find her? Ravage her first and then pass her amongst his friends?
