The Seduction of Laird Sinclair

by Kara Griffin

  “You’re leaving again?” she said in astound.

  He set his saddlebag on the floor and took her hand. His wife’s blue eyes softened for a moment, and she raked her reddish-blonde locks that appeared tangled from the night of revelry. “Aye, I must and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’m to lead our men in the Douglas’s pursuit.”

  Lydia appeared to want to say something, but she unclasped his hand and turned away. “I look forward to your return, but I must change and go to the hall. I’ll see to Dela now.” She hastened away.

  He kissed Dela on her head, retrieved his bag, and left the cottage. On the way to the stable to ready his horse, he thought Lydia’s reply distant. She hadn’t wished him a safe return or a fond farewell. Callum needed to face the truth−the woman didn’t care for him. Many marriages were made amiable with less care than theirs. When he returned, he’d make certain they reached an understanding. The thought of taking a lover though didn’t sit right with him. He wanted to be a faithful husband, but he wasn’t about to spend his years tied to a woman who loathed sex or him.

  The group of men rode out, and Callum didn’t speak much to his clansmen or to James’s men in the days it took to reach the border. He wasn’t close to the men his brother selected for the mission. They were seasoned Sinclair soldiers, who hadn’t attended his training sessions. The men were loyal to his brother and his chosen guardsmen.

  They approached Redesdale, and the band of one-hundred men lay waste to the countryside and reached Brancepeth. Once at Newcastle, they encamped around the keep’s walls and prevented the English from taking the field. The constant skirmishes between their band of men and the Percy brothers, spurred James to challenge Sir Henry Percy to a duel.

  James rode at Sir Percy, and the two clashed. His lance struck Sir Percy’s armor, and he fell from his horse. Before Percy gained his feet and retrieved his lance, James kicked him from behind and caused him to hit the dirt face-first. Percy rolled on to his back, and James snatched his enemy’s pennon and waved it in his face.

  “I’ll keep this, Percy. Aye, and I will hoist it upon my tower where it shall be seen from afar by all.” James chortled, and many of the Scots shouted in support of his boastful declaration.

  James’s followers taunted the Englishmen with snickers and bellows of hoots and hollers, and their bared arses exposed from across the expanse of the field.

  Percy’s face reddened. “By God, you’ll never leave this land alive with my pennon.” He shouted a war cry, and the English army set their battalions. Before the Scots moved in to thwart their movement from the fort, bands of men rode through the gate.

  The armies clashed and fought for hours. Many lay dead or injured. The raid wasn’t supposed to turn into a full-fledged battle. Callum continued to swing his sword at anyone who came within striking distance. All they’d wanted was to raid and irk the English, and to remind them they’d claimed independence.

  Callum searched among the field for James Douglas, or his followers, but they were nowhere near. The fight waned and most were captured by the enemy, or they’d taken captives themselves. A call of retreat rose amongst the English, and the Scots celebrated the hard-fought victory, and hailed off to the woods to rejoice.

  “Victory, finally,” he rasped out. Callum lowered his weapon and grated from the overzealous exertion. He was done in, exhausted, and longed to scabbard his sword.

  Before he set off to find his comrades, he fell to his knees and tried to gain his breath. An excruciating blow struck his arm and again on his shoulder. The attackers encircled him. His eyes widened at his clansmen who stood around him. Each held their blades in a threatening manner. Were they determined to slay him? The question reverberated in his mind as he tried to figure out how best to thwart them.

  Callum had to fight them off, but with his wounds, it was difficult. He struck one man, and turned to face another. As he turned about and used his sword to fend off their attack, he got in a good many strikes, and around him, his clansmen lay on the ground. From what he could tell, he’d killed at least two, the other three were wounded. Anger rode Callum, and he yanked a dagger from his boot. He crawled toward his clansmen and stuck the blade in the three remaining soldiers’ hearts. They wouldn’t live to try to murder him again.

  Callum fell back on the ground and groaned at the pain that seared through his body. Blood warmed his arm and soaked his tunic. His thigh took a hit when it was slashed with his foe’s blade. Blood sullied his tartan. He forced himself to keep his eyes open so he might see who would end his life. No final blow came. The night progressed and the sky darkened. There was no sight of the great fireball above. It disappeared and left behind its destructive mien.

  Moans from the injured decreased as most perished from their wounds. He wondered what took his maker long in coming for him. His wounds were as grave as those who lay near. Surely his turn would come soon. But he was impatient. Death was welcomed, and the torment of the pain and that of his life’s mistakes would abscond once he took his final breath.

  He lay with his eyes closed and listened to the men who roamed the dead for valuables. Callum held tightly to his sword. If he died, he wanted his weapons sent to the hereafter with him. It was rather a nostalgic notion, but he wasn’t about to part with the only thing that mattered to him. Someone shoved his foot. He moaned.

  “Here, My Lord, this one is alive, but he’s Scots.”

  Another man approached.

  Callum kept hold of his sword, eager to kill the English should they try to take it from him.

  The man crouched next to him. “Your wounds need attention.”

  He shook his head. “Leave me be.”

  “I can’t do that, my friend. All who make it through must be treated accordingly. I live by the code of honor, regardless of whether you are friend or foe.”

  “But I’m the enemy. For God’s sake, just kill me and be done with it.”

  The man grinned. “You Scots certainly don’t fear death. I won’t kill you because it would be dishonorable. Let’s get you to the healer’s tent.”

  He took his blade away even though Callum tried to keep him from doing so. He’d weakened to the point he was as frail as a newborn bairn. Men nearby set a cover on the ground, but before they placed him on it, they removed his remaining weapons. He’d secured a mace slung over his shoulder, one dagger in his boot, the other dagger from his hand, and a short sword tucked in the belt at his waist. But they’d missed one, and he felt the bulkiness of it as he lay on his back.

  The man whistled. “You are a fighter who likes to be prepared, I see.”

  “I’ll have my weapons back. There’s no use in taking me to your healer. I will die. Bury me with my weapons, or leave me here to rot. I care not which.” Callum wanted to give in to the lure of the pain, but he wouldn’t let the English take him, not until he was assured his weapons would remain with him.

  “You’ll not die this night, my friend. Get him to the healer and be hasty.”

  Callum groaned as pain wracked him to an urgent state. “I’d rather die than be taken prisoner. Leave me here to die as God wills.”

  “We will not take you as a prisoner. Rest easy. Lift him gently, lads. I’ve changed my mind, put him in my tent, and have the healer come at once.”

  Another man took his legs and shifted him onto the cover. “Can we keep his weapons, My Lord? His sword is worth a good sum and well-made.”

  The man shook his head. “I’m sure he’ll want his weapons back when he recovers.”

  The men muttered ‘awws,’ lifted him, and trudged off. He was taken inside a tent and set on the ground. The inside was dark, but he noted the cots and a small fire. Several candles lit and sent shadows to the reaches within. Callum moaned when he tried to roll from the cover. He wanted to flee, but his wounds rendered his limbs useless.

  “Keep still,” a woman’s voice came. “I’ll be but a moment.”

  The leader appeared and spoke low with the
healer across the tent.

  Callum twisted his good arm behind him and tried to retrieve the six-inch dagger he’d strapped to his back beneath his tunic. He had to stop the pain and wouldn’t end up in enemy hands. The only thing that troubled him was his maker’s disownment. But if he ended his life, he’d take God’s judgment rather than let the English torture him. He held the blade at his heart. Just as he was about to thrust it, the dagger was plucked from his grip.

  “You’re a resourceful man. I’ll give you that, Scot. You won’t die on my watch. Remain still or you’ll further injure yourself. The healer will tend to you soon.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man ignored his question. “You’ll owe me, Scot.”

  “Highlander,” Callum grated out.

  He laughed. “Ah, you’re a wily Highlander, even better. Your leader, James Douglas, perished on the battlefield this day. It’s shameful a scuffle led to this. Best you know, I only aid you because I like the notion of having a Scot being indebted to me.”

  “Why would you…want me…indebted to you?”

  “This discord by the border might aid me in the future. I intend to make friends with England’s enemies, for one day soon, it may matter. Besides, I admire your Scot’s spirit. And after a battle, it is best to be respectful of the injured and dead.”

  Callum wasn’t sure how much longer he would remain coherent. Each second that passed intensified his pain and decreased his breath. It wouldn’t matter what the man wanted of him, because he wouldn’t make it to see the morrow. “You…didn’t tell me…your name.”

  “I’m Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, at your service. Worry not, my friend, my healer is good at what she does. You’ll be well in no time. There will be no more talk of death.”

  He scoffed and muttered an expletive. “Why in bloody hell is an English nobleman saving the neck of a Scot?” But Callum wouldn’t get his question answered at that moment. If he survived, he might find out. He succumbed to the pain of his wounds and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Two

  Westminster Hall

  King Richard’s Residence

  December 1388

  The sight of Londontown should have excited Violet Danvers, but her life was in peril. A nagging sense overtook her on the journey. It was the first time she’d ever been to London, and had, until now, avoided the king’s court. London was a horrid place and smelled rancid. On her approach to the king’s residence that morning, she’d had to whittle her way through the crowds. She thought an execution might have taken place because there seemed to be a mass of town folk gathered. Their good humor indicated they’d enjoyed the morbid spectacle and entertainment. Along with the crowded roads, many thieves and knaves set upon the poor souls who lived there. She couldn’t wait to leave and return to her husband’s country estate.

  Violet arrived at Westminster and was immediately taken to the king’s hall where she awaited Richard’s call. Fear brought a tremble to her body and unease settled in her chest. Why had the king summoned her? Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t be favorable. For support, she leaned against the wall and hoped her name wasn’t announced.

  The great hall crowded with those who sought business with Richard. Most would be pleased to be in the king’s presence, but not her, for she knew well Richard’s temper. Her husband had spoken about his affinity for brutality and waste. Several lords rallied against their sovereign’s misuse of his position and united in support to bring him to justice. Violet hoped to see Charles, her husband, while in London to ensure herself he fared well. Her husband hadn’t been home in many months.

  “Lady Danvers.”

  Startled, Violet turned and found not the king’s servant, but Sir Nicholas Colfax behind her. More dread came and tensed her shoulders. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter to ward off the cold that settled within her. He wasn’t someone she wanted as company. Ladies vied for his attention, but she was aware of his darkness. As handsome as he was on the outside, within, he beheld a fiendish soul. His dark eyes peered at her as he loomed close. The dark-haired knave wore an arrogant expression.

  “Sir Nicholas, if you’ll excuse me.” She tried to move past him, but he blocked her exit.

  “I offer my condolences on the death of your husband, sweet Violet.” He bowed to her with a haughty grin on his face.

  Her eyes widened, and she pressed her hands against her chest. “Charles is dead?” Tears gathered, and she hastily wiped her eyes to suppress them. She wouldn’t show emotion in front of Nicholas, for he was a boorish-lout and would offer her no comfort.

  Sir Nicholas stepped forward and forced her back to the wall. “Your husband was a traitor to the crown. But I saved his hand when they quartered him.” He thrust an opened wooden box at her. The bones of a hand lay inside with pieces of bloodied skin covering most of it. “Since you preferred his hand to mine, I thought you might want to keep it as a token to remember him by.”

  Violet gasped and her stomach lurched at the sight. “Why would you…?”

  “You don’t want it?” Nicholas laughed mockingly. “I shall keep it as a reminder then of what happens to those who go against me. My enemies never prevail, remember that, sweet Violet. You are forewarned.” He snapped the box lid closed.

  “I must go, please allow me to pass.” She tried to reroute around him, but he wouldn’t let her. She avoided the man, and yet, he persisted to torment her.

  “You’ve thwarted me, sweet Violet, all these years. The day has come when I’ll finally have you. I’ve won. You were a worthy challenge though.” He took her hand and tightened his hold. “The king will give you to me as a reward for my service. You’ll be mine.”

  Violet snatched her hand from his and scowled. “I shall never be yours. I wouldn’t agree to marry you if you were the last knave alive.”

  “You deem you have a choice?” Nicholas laughed derisively. “No one, even you, sweet Violet, can refuse King Richard’s order.”

  She gasped, for now she knew why she’d been summoned. “You expect me to willingly marry you after you killed my father and burned my home? I would rather be imprisoned for the rest of my days than be yours,” her breath hitched by the time she finished her tirade. She shoved him out of her way and crossed the hall to the safety of the older lords.

  Sir Nicholas was a lout and had pursued her since she’d been a young girl. He’d lived in the neighboring village and used her father’s farm as a pass-through. As a lad, he taunted her and when she’d reached womanhood, he was even more of a black-heart. She never encouraged him, but it hadn’t mattered.

  God help her. She had to avoid the meeting with the king. It wasn’t to be though, because Chancellor Arundel called her name with his booming voice. Violet approached the dais and stayed standing. How she did so, she was uncertain because her knees shook with force. She waited for Richard’s attention and scowled at Nicholas who stood to the king’s right.

  She wanted to faint and succumb to the dread of losing her husband, but she wouldn’t do so in front of the horrid men. Her body chilled and her cheeks burned. A fever ravaged her from within, or the fright at being in the king’s castle overtook her. She prayed she wasn’t coming down with a malady. As she waited for his attention, Richard continued a quiet discussion with the chancellor. A moment later, he called her forward. She curtseyed and lowered her chin, and waited for permission to rise.

  “Lady Danvers.” Richard’s face remained impassive as he spoke to her, “Your husband, Charles, Earl Buckingham and Essex, Duke of Aumale, Lord Danvers, was executed this morn for treason against me. His action, along with several other parliament lords, was inexcusable, and I had to punish him for his misdeeds. His lands have been confiscated and his possessions taken.”

  She wanted to fall to her knees and plead for her life, because surely that’s why she’d been summoned. Richard would declare her execution as well. A myriad of death scenes came to her: imprisonment, starvation, hanging, and beheading. Vi
olet took a deep breath and shook the images away. With despair almost leaping to her throat, she remained silent.

  Richard continued, “Charles politically challenged me and lost. I won’t hold it against you, Lady Danvers, and have given your hand in marriage to one of my knights.”

  She pressed her hands together and squeezed tight, but prayer wouldn’t help her. Violet supposed she should be grateful for his favor, but that depended upon who he named as her suitor.

  Richard’s bearded chin rose. “You’ll stay at your home in Cumbria. I hope this pleases you, Lady Danvers. I am aware you weren’t privy to your husband’s treason and deeds. On the morrow, you will wed Sir Nicholas Colfax and will be excused from court.”

  Violet fisted her hands and tried to remain composed. “Your Grace, I appreciate your consideration, but I must decline. I will not marry Sir Nicholas.”

  Richard shifted on his throne. His fair, rounded cheeks brightened. The king stammered as he was wont when something vexed him, “What say you? You’ll do as I order. This is not a request.”

  Though he was an imposing figure, Violet stood straight and kept her gaze on his face. The king was said to be fairly intelligent and well-read, and he appeared lean and strong. Yet she refused to be intimidated by him.

  “I won’t marry him and I shan’t be forced. If you punish me, so be it, but come the morrow, I won’t give the priest my agreement.” She kept her gaze fixed even though she deliberately defied her sovereign. His wrath would probably call for her death, but it couldn’t be helped. She wouldn’t marry the man regardless of the king’s threat.

  Richard’s eyes flashed with anger. “You give me no recourse, My Lady. I won’t punish you as I would like. Instead, I shall have your daughter kept in my court. She’s already in my custody and won’t be discharged or returned to you as I had intended.”