Where's My Hero?

by Lisa Kleypas

  Had she done something wrong?

  Had he not meant the letters he had written to her?

  Uncertain and fearful of what his reaction meant, Kenna excused herself and headed for the castle.

  She entered the mammoth donjon and made her way to the stone, curving stairs that led to her chambers on an upper floor.

  Surely she hadn’t mistaken Lord Stryder’s intent. Surely. Nervous, she made straight away for her satchel on the desk by the window. She always stored her most prized possessions inside the dark tanned skin.

  Her letters.

  She pulled out the one letter on top—the one she had secured with a special red ribbon that matched the one she always wore in her hair. The one she had sent to Stryder while he was in Germany. Her hands shaking from worry, she opened it and sought verification.

  As she read the elegant, flowing script, the familiar joy spread through her, warming every inch of her body.

  My dearest Kenna,

  The sun has set now and I find myself outside the town of Frankfurt. The tournament went well today, but I am rather bored by the events, by the crowd and most especially by the knights who recount their noble deeds.

  I’m bored with much of late.

  I miss England a great deal, but Scotland even more. Strange, isn’t it? I’ve only been to the Highlands once and then only briefly.

  Yet when I read your words, I can feel the breath of the Scots winds on my skin, remember the sweet smell of the air. The sound of your voice speaking to me.

  I cherish the story of your learning experience in the kitchen. Like you, I had no idea how easily one could burn down a larder, nor how hard it is to clean soot from sandstone. I am only grateful that no one, least of all you, was hurt and I’m sorry you have now been banished from the kitchens for eternity.

  Further, I am glad that the cook has decided to let you eat again.

  Like always, you remind me of the things that are gentle and good, and bring a smile to my lips when I think of you.

  I was excited this morning when the messenger came with your letter. This one still held the scent of your sweet hands upon it. More and more, I find myself looking for them. Looking for my connection to you.

  Your words see me through the days and especially the long nights while I remain far from home and familiar comforts. I know we have only met once, and yet I feel as though I know you in a way I have never known anyone.

  I miss you, Kenna. Every moment of my day is spent wondering how you are doing and if something has made you smile in my absence.

  I have the lock of hair that you sent me. I wear it inside a circlet that rests over my heart to remind me of your gentle words and kindness. It is my most treasured possession, it and the letters you send.

  In truth, I can’t imagine living in a world where you are not a part of it. If I could, I would gladly spend the rest of my life with you, making you happy.

  Meet me in England on my return, my lady, and there I would make true my heart’s fondest wish. A kiss from your tender lips and a pledge from my heart to yours.

  Until then, let sweet dreams be with you.

  Ever your knight,

  S.

  Kenna closed her eyes and held the letter close to her heart. Stryder loved her. She was certain of it. Surely no man could write such tender words unless he meant them.

  But perhaps she had misread them.

  They had sounded like a proposal upon her first three dozen readings, but now that she had seen Stryder again, she wasn’t so sure. He’d acted as if he’d had no idea who she was, and yet the two of them had been writing for well over a year now.

  “Kenna?”

  She turned to find Caledonia standing in the doorway.

  “Are you all right?”

  Kenna nodded as she folded up the letter and returned it to the satchel. Stryder’s words had been written for her alone, and she had never wanted to share their precious sentiments. “I’m just trying to understand Stryder’s reaction.”

  From the words he had written to her, she’d expected him to scoop her up in his arms and cry out in delight at her presence. Instead, he had excused himself and run for cover as if the devil himself had been after him.

  Could he have been lying to her all this time?

  But why would he do such?

  Their letters had been innocent at first, just little notes to each other about the weather and what they were up to. He had been the one who had turned their missives into more serious matters.

  Perhaps he had thought her to be another lady. Perhaps he had remembered her to be beautiful and elegant like her cousin Callie, and now, having seen her again, he was disappointed and regretful of his writings.

  She shivered at the thought.

  Nay, surely not. He had shared too much of himself with her. Told her of his mother’s death, of his brutal past.

  He had told her things she was quite certain he had shared with no one else.

  “Men can be strange beasties,” Caledonia said quietly as she shut the door behind her and drew closer. “You’ve no idea what a hard time I had with Sin when I first met him. He was prickly and harsh, always seeking to put distance between us.”

  Kenna took comfort at her cousin’s words. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Aye, but it’s true. I think you caught Stryder off guard. Give him time to think clearly and I’m sure he’ll make good his promises.”

  Kenna nodded, even though part of her still wanted to cry at the shattering of her dreams.

  Everything had started out so simply in the beginning. After her brother’s death, she had gone to France to abide by her brother’s dying wish—to return Stryder’s heraldic emblem to the earl and to thank the man for saving her brother’s life and returning him home.

  Once in France, she had been enthralled by the fighting prowess of the man in the list, by the strength of his sword as he’d trained.

  And when Stryder had removed his helm and she had seen his impeccably chiseled features, she had been enchanted. No man born could ever be more beautiful than he.

  Stryder had been hurried as he’d left the field, barely taking time to do more than speak a quick word to her before he’d rushed off.

  Her tongue had been so tied that she hadn’t been able to explain to him her purpose for being there or to call him back.

  Her hands had shaken so badly that she hadn’t even realized she’d dropped Stryder’s emblem until another knight had retrieved it from the ground and returned it to her cold hands.

  “Forgive his haste, my lady,” the knight had said. “Stryder is oft harried in his attempts to leave the list and make it back to his tent before he is swarmed.”

  She’d looked up into the face of another handsome man. His long, dark auburn hair had reminded her much of the men who graced her Highlands. His deep blue eyes had been warm and friendly.

  “I only wished to return this to him,” she’d said, wondering why she wasn’t tongue-tied with this man. She’d always been awkward around the opposite sex. But for some reason this stranger, regardless of his handsomeness, had made her feel comfortable.

  The knight had looked down at her hand and frowned at the sword-and-shield badge. “Where did you get this?”

  “It belonged to my brother. He returned from Outremer with it.”

  His warm hand had covered hers, and she had shivered at the calluses on his rough fingers, at the sound of his deep, silken voice. “Your brother’s name, my lady?”

  “Edward MacRyan.”

  A distant light had come into his blue eyes, as if he’d been recalling the past. He’d offered her a small, gentle smile. “You’re Kenna.”

  A sensation of heat had gone down her spine at the way he’d said her name.

  “You know me?”

  “Aye, my lady, your brother spoke of you often.”

  “You were with them in Outremer?”

  His smile had faded as he’d nodded. His eyes had betrayed the sa
me pain that her brother’s had held whenever he’d remembered the years he’d spent imprisoned by the Saracens.

  It was then she’d known who this man was. Edward had spoken of Stryder’s right hand. The one man who had stayed in the shadows while Stryder had gained fame and renown. He was one of the men who had never allowed others to know his name, but who had comforted and protected them just the same.

  “You are the Wraith.”

  He’d looked instantly uncomfortable at her words. “How do you know that name?”

  “My brother never spoke to anyone other than me about your Brotherhood,” she’d hastened to assure him. “We never kept secrets, he and I. And I’ve never spoken of his tales to another living soul. I promise you. He only wanted me to know of you before he died so that I could uphold his foresworn oath.”

  The stranger had winced at her news as if someone had struck him. It had made her feel even more tender toward him that he, too, shared her grief at the loss of so noble a man.

  “Edward is dead? How?”

  “Of illness. He took a pox last spring.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, my lady. Edward was a good man.” He’d closed his hand over the badge and started away from her. “I shall return this to Stryder and tell him the news.”

  “Wait.”

  He’d paused and looked back at her.

  “I don’t know your name.”

  All emotion had vanished from his face, and he’d become the man of legend right before her eyes. “I am the Wraith, my lady. I have no real name. Not in this.”

  “Can you at least get me close enough to Lord Stryder to thank him for protecting my brother while you were imprisoned?”

  He looked away at that. “Stryder doesn’t like personal thank yous.”

  “May I at least write him then?”

  The Wraith had nodded. “Aye. I shall see he receives it.”

  He had left her so quickly that she hadn’t even had the chance to thank the mysterious knight.

  But then that was why they’d called him the Wraith. Her brother had told her many stories of the Brotherhood of the Sword—the men who had banded together to escape the Saracen prison where all of them had been held.

  Lord Stryder had been called the Widow-maker due to his strength of arm and willingness to kill whoever threatened those who fell under his protection.

  The Wraith had been the one to gather information for them and run interference with the guards. He’d been punished countless times so that their captors would be distracted while the others tunneled their escape.

  Even now, after spending a year of her life writing letters to Stryder, Kenna didn’t know the name of that mysterious knight. She’d asked Stryder for it only once, and his response had been very curt and odd.

  He is naught of consequence, my lady. Only a hollow, haunted ghost who is best left to the memories of the past. Let us not speak of him.

  She had never questioned it further. Her thoughts had quickly been taken over by the fantasy of the fearless knight who wrote to her. Of the man who told her so much of his heart that she had been powerless against the love that overwhelmed her.

  Perhaps Caledonia was right.

  Stryder had shared so much with her that maybe her appearance had shocked him. Maybe he was embarrassed now by his candor and just needed a brief time to adjust to her physical presence.

  Aye, that was it.

  He just needed a little time to come to terms with the confidences they had shared.

  Chapter 2

  “Simon, you’ve been like a brother to me all these years. ’Tis a damn shame that I have to kill you now.” Stryder’s angry tone was low, lethal. Even so, it reverberated through the empty hall where Simon sat, eating a light repast to tide him over until the evening meal.

  Simon choked on his bread at the unexpected words and the heartfelt sincerity of Stryder’s voice.

  Stryder’s eyes were cold and unfeeling, devoid of the friendship that Simon was used to seeing from him.

  “That’s it,” Stryder said, his gaze narrowed by rage. “You go ahead and choke. I’m not even going to bother saving you from it, but before you die of asphyxiation, could you at least tell me who it is I’m supposed to wed?”

  Simon choked even more.

  Stryder was going to kill him for this.

  As Simon reached for his mead to help clear his throat, Stryder continued his angry rant.

  “Apparently, Simon, I have been writing to my future wife. And just for clarity, let me repeat that…. I have been writing to my future wife.”

  His glare intensified until it would rival the devil for heat. “Don’t you think that it is rather difficult for me to do such a thing since I write to no one, hmm? But then, since I don’t write, who is it who answers all my personal letters? Oh, aye, I know….’Tis you, Simon. You.”

  Simon took a deep drink of mead as his mind raced. He’d known this was coming, but he had hoped for a little more time to think up some way to extract all of them from this madness. “You told me to answer your letters as I saw fit. Not to bother you with their content.”

  “Answering my letters does not require a betrothal. Tell me of this woman. Is she at least wealthy?”

  “She’s very nice.”

  “Simon!”

  Stryder gave him a glare so sinister that Simon could almost believe the tales that claimed Stryder had sold his soul to Lucifer.

  Had Simon been any man other than himself, he might even have flinched, but Simon flinched from no man’s anger, and most especially not from Stryder’s.

  They had known each other too long and had been through too much for Simon to fear him.

  But when it came to annoying him, that was another matter entirely.

  “What say you?” Stryder asked, his voice even angrier. “Is this a jest? Who is this woman who claims I have proposed to her?”

  Simon met Stryder’s stare levelly and wondered how he’d gotten himself into this.

  Unfortunately, he knew.

  It, like all ills of the earth, had come from a woman.

  And not just any woman was she.

  Like Eve with Adam, she had lured him into disaster against his will and his common sense. When he should have run, he’d stayed, and now he would pay a steep price for it.

  His downfall had but one name.

  Kenna.

  Kenna with light brown hair and eyes that were golden brown and bright. She was a small slip of a woman, rather plain in looks, but she held an inner beauty that had enchanted him from the moment Simon had read her first letter.

  Unfortunately, said letter hadn’t been intended for him.

  She’d written it to Stryder, the earl of Blackmoor, self-styled barbarian cur, known to possess the wrath of Armageddon. When Stryder entered a room, renowned warriors broke into a sweat lest they incur his notice.

  Stryder who was every woman’s fantasy.

  Stryder who was the bane of Simon’s existence. At least at this moment, because the woman Simon loved was in love with Stryder, whose heart would never be captured by a single maid.

  At least not for any longer than a night or two.

  Damn Stryder anyway for putting him in this position. But then if not for Stryder and his prowess, Simon would never have met Kenna.

  He would do anything for his lady.

  “You said if I could find you a level-headed woman, you would marry her.”

  Stryder sputtered at that and looked at him as if he’d grown three heads. “Are you mad?”

  Aye, he was. Mad for a woman who had spilled her heart out to him as the one she thought was destined to be her husband.

  “If you meet with her, you will see. She would make a good wife to you.”

  Stryder cursed. “Simon, what were you thinking? You proposed on my behalf? How could you do such a thing?”

  Simon cringed at that. He’d been writing to Kenna for so long and signing the letters as Ever Your Knight, S, that he had forgotten the
one small fact that in her mind the S stood for Stryder, not Simon.

  He hadn’t realized the mistake until her next letter had come to him. Instead of her writing, My Dearest Warrior, she had penned, My Dearest Stryder.

  The words had struck his heart like a blow as they’d reminded him all too clearly of what he had done. Who she thought him to be.

  He was such a fool.

  “It just happened.”

  Stryder narrowed his eyes. “Nay, Simon. Foul weather just happens. Disaster just happens.” He glared meaningfully. “Death just happens. But people do not get betrothed without design. You will get me out of this, or so help me I will have your head and your bullocks.”

  Simon just looked at him. “Now there’s an empty threat if I ever heard one. Calm yourself, Stryder. Meet with her. She’s not like other women. You will see.” Simon stepped forward and lowered his voice. “Besides, she knows of us.”

  “Everyone knows of us, Si, we happen to be rather famous—or infamous, as the case may be.”

  “Nay,” Simon said, giving him an arched look. “She knows of us.” He spoke in an even lower tone, enunciating each word slowly. “Her brother was Edward MacRyan. Do you remember him?”

  Stryder’s eyes turned dull as the repressed memory of their captivity in the Holy Land came back to him. “He’s the one I saved from the crocodiles.”

  “Aye. She is the sister he spoke of on so many occasions, and even after his death, she is still abiding by his oath to our cause. It was his praise of you that caused her to write to you that first time while we were in Normandy. It was her brother’s fondest wish that the two of you should meet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the two of you are the people he loved most in this life. She wanted to thank you for saving his life and seeing him home again.”

  “That didn’t require a betrothal.”

  Simon drew a deep breath as he struggled against his untoward emotions, which demanded he beat Stryder and take Kenna regardless of the consequences.

  Nay, it didn’t require a betrothal.