Forbidden Alliance

by Diana Cosby

  One she’d passed earlier this day. Though far enough away from where anyone would recognize her, without coin or time, she’d avoided the tavern. Neither did she wish to go with him.

  She shook her head. “I canna—”

  “While we sup,” he continued, “we will discuss arrangements for you to reach your destination.”

  “You would accompany me to my aunt?”

  “Nay. As you are without sufficient funds, I will arrange for an escort.”

  “I…” Elspet smothered another surge of guilt. “Your generosity is appreciated, but I refuse to disrupt your travels further. If you would kindly spare a pound, which will cover fare, meals, and lodgings for the remainder of my trip, I willna delay you further.” Lowering her lashes a degree, she gave him a demure look. “Money I assure you, once I know where you are headed, that I will repay.”

  He shook his head. “I dinna carry such a large amount when I travel.”

  She smothered a burst of panic. Merciful saints, what was she going to do?

  “I understand and appreciate your kindness,” she forced out, “but I nay longer need your assistance.”

  A red brow lifted in stunned disbelief. “You want me to leave you here, injured and without a horse or protection?”

  Straightening her shoulders, she limped back a step. “Aye. If I find the need to rest, as you said, there is an inn nearby.”

  He frowned. “With the way the storm is worsening, we will be fortunate to reach the tavern by horse, much less on foot. Or, in your case, hobbling. Nor, by your admission, can you pay for a room.”

  Blast it. She scowled at the thick flakes tumbling past, damned the throb in her ankle. All she needed was the coin, not more time spent with a man who made her notice the hard cut of his jaw, nor his eyes as blue as the ocean, not to mention the delay that may cost her stepbrother his life.

  An errant ray of light broke through the clouds and shimmered off the knight’s broadsword.

  Elspet stilled. Atop a leather grip, a carved gold crest lay etched within the pommel, with intricate carvings on the guard. She’d believed him but a knight, though a warrior could far from afford such a superior weapon, garb of such quality, or a destrier of such caliber.

  Unease rippled through her. God in heaven, who was he? If of nobility, why had he not proclaimed his title? Regardless, a sword of this quality would bring more than enough to pay the guard to free Blar.

  She lifted her gaze to his, distaste swirling on her tongue. The last thing she wished to do was to steal this courageous man’s weapon, nor did she wish to risk trying to rob an unsuspecting traveler. She brushed her fingers against the bruise on her cheek. Too well she understood the danger in such a foolish choice. Though she despised her decision, time to reach the guard was running out. “I agree.”

  A dry smile touched his mouth. “I thank you, my lady, for allowing me to offer you escort.”

  She didn’t correct him. Let him think she was of noble birth, not the daughter of a farmer. ’Twould make it more difficult when he tried to find her.

  The warrior swung into his saddle. With ease, he lifted her before him.

  Elspet tried to ignore the hard ripple of his muscles against her body, his warmth, the strength of his arms as they circled around her to lift the reins, or how, for this moment, she felt safe. Given her predicament, she had no business noticing anything about this handsome knight.

  Cailin draped his cloak around her. “I will protect you,” he said, as if sensing her need for reassurance, then he kicked his steed into a gallop.

  Protect her? If he knew what she had planned this night, he would have abandoned her to her fate.

  * * * *

  A short while later, settled in their room at the inn, the savory scent of food filled the air and firelight from the hearth illuminated the chamber with a soft, golden glow and warmth. Elspet scowled at how the swelling in her ankle had grown steadily worse.

  “I fear my aunt will be worried when I do not arrive,” she said.

  Cailin tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the hearty stew, popped it in his mouth, then swallowed. “Given the ferocity of the storm, she will understand the delay.”

  As she ate her portion of the fare, she scanned their tiny room. Aside from the hearth, a bed with extra blankets folded atop stood in the corner, and nearby sat a small table holding a pitcher of water.

  However sparse the furnishings, Cailin’s presence seemed to fill the chamber, a potent reminder of her predicament. “’Tis unseemly for us to share this chamber.”

  “If another room were available, I would agree.” He took a sip of ale, grimaced. “God’s blade, they must have scraped the dredges of the barrel for this rot. Still, we were fortunate that I had already paid for a room. Given the steady flow of travelers seeking shelter since our arrival, by now even the stable is filled.”

  Indeed. With the throng of people below, they were lucky to have acquired a meal and drink.

  He refilled his goblet. “Sleep in the bed. I will make a pallet beside the hearth.”

  And once he was asleep, she would leave, though…Another wave of guilt swept Elspet as she glanced toward the finely crafted broadsword hanging near the door and damned the action she must take. If only he’d had the coin to loan her, she wouldn’t need to resort to thievery.

  While he continued to eat, she fingered the sack of powdered valerian root hidden deep in her gown pocket. A healthy dose would make him sleep, and the bitter taste of the brew would mask the herb.

  Though she regretted taking his weapon, except for any personal attachment to the broadsword, for a powerful man of wealth, procuring another would be naught but an inconvenience. More important, on the morrow she’d meet with Wautier Brecnagh, a merchant known for purchasing stolen goods.

  Her heart stumbled whenever she thought of Blar locked away in that gruesome dungeon, and prayed the merchant would give her enough to pay the guard to save Blar’s life. Beneath half-lowered lashes, she studied Cailin. At least once she departed, she’d never see this handsome warrior again. Given the stakes, neither could she afford to care what he would think of her.

  Elspet rubbed her arms. “’Tis cold.”

  Eyes dark with concern swept over her. “Exhausted and injured, you might be coming down with a chill.” He crossed to the hearth.

  With his back to her, on a trembling breath, she withdrew the valerian root. After a quick glance to ensure he hadn’t turned, she sifted a liberal amount into his ale, stirred.

  Logs clunked in the hearth, and her fingers jerked. A swath of powder spilled on the table. Nay! She swept away the residue, secured the sack, and then stowed the herb.

  Sparks swirled within the churn of smoke as he laid several smaller pieces of wood into the flames. Brushing the dirt from his hands, he stood. “That should keep us warm for the night.” He walked over, settled in the chair, and lifted his mug. Cailin’s brow furrowed.

  Her heart pounded. God in heaven, had she missed some of the powder? “Do you have a large family?” she blurted out, desperate to distract him.

  Weary blue eyes shifted to her. “If I reply, will you be answering my questions about yourself as well?”

  Tension eased within her. He suspected naught. “Nay.”

  With a grunt, he lifted his cup in a mock toast, downed the brew, then hissed, shoved aside the mug. “’tis dreadful, but it wets the throat.”

  She forced a smile. “As you said, we were fortunate that any food or drink remained.”

  “Nay doubt until the storm arrived, they had planned on dumping this foul brew.” He shoved aside the goblet, then stood. “Go to sleep.”

  “I thank you.” Mindful of her throbbing ankle, Elspet limped to the bed, then slipped beneath the covers. Feigning sleep, she watched for signs of the herb taking effect.

  At the hear
th, he made a pallet. Instead of lying down, he knelt and then made the sign of the cross.

  Soft whispers of the Lord’s Prayer reached her, each word thick with grief, each verse as if dredged from his soul. Once Cailin finished, he began again.

  Mesmerized by the intensity, riveted by the passion, she couldn’t look away. What had happened to cause him such torment? A part of her tried to ignore the anguish in his voice, but another longed to offer him succor.

  Elspet’s heart ached. His faith was a potent reminder of how, days before, her belief in Him had been just as strong. But after what she’d witnessed yesterday, she could no longer fathom believing in a God who would allow people to endure such horror.

  After whispering several more Paternosters, he again made the sign of the cross and then sat back.

  On a yawn, the warrior glanced toward her.

  Through her lashes, she watched him.

  For a long moment, he studied her.

  And why wouldn’t he be curious? She’d revealed naught about her past, and during their brief discussion of her travels, she’d remained vague. Neither had she pressed him for information.

  However ill-timed and destined to be short-lived, she found herself drawn to this handsome warrior. Foolish indeed when soon she would be leaving.

  He started to turn away and almost tipped over. Muttering a curse, he righted himself.

  “Cailin?”

  His lids raised, and she caught his slightly dazed look. She gave a relieved sigh. The valerian root was beginning to take effect.

  “Aye?” he replied.

  “I want to thank you for rescuing me this day.”

  “’Tis naught.”

  “I disagree. Many would have ridden past without a care.”

  “That, I f-find,” he slurred, “hard to believe.”

  “I would have agreed,” Elspet said, “but since Gaufrid MacHugh, Earl of Dalkirk, took control of Tiran Castle years ago, he rules with a brutal hand.”

  He sat, braced himself against the wall, giving his head a quick shake, as if to clear the confusion. “Explain?”

  What could it hurt? He was unlikely to remember this conversation. “He is a cruel man. All within Dalkirk fear him.”

  “As do you?”

  Horrific memories of the day before rolled through her. “Nay. I despise him.”

  “Why?”

  Far from pleased by the shift in the conversation, she looked away.

  “Kenzie?”

  Tears burned her eyes, and Elspet damned that he’d ask or care. The crackle of flames echoed within the chamber, melded with a faint yell and laughter from below, as if the night was like any other.

  A soft thud had her turning.

  Eyes closed, Cailin lay on the floor, his red hair flopped against his cheek. On his next breath, he gave a soft snore.

  Anxious as she’d been for this moment to arrive, now regret weighed heavy in her mind. Though she’d known the knight for mere hours, he seemed good, decent, and kind.

  Refusing to let her conscience outweigh what she must do, Elspet pushed from the bed and hobbled over to him as quietly as she could. She allowed herself the luxury of skimming her finger along the hard line of his jaw, then slid the pad of her thumb along his firm mouth.

  In sleep, his expression had softened, as if he were a gentle man, though she saw the faint scar on his cheek, and another across the side of his neck that disappeared beneath his garb.

  He was a man of war, one who would not tolerate being crossed. When he awoke, he’d be furious.

  Something that couldn’t be helped.

  Pulse racing, Elspet pulled a blanket up to his chest, then moved across the chamber and withdrew his broadsword from the scabbard. The weight of the weapon surprised her, but her gaze shifted to the gold crest etched within the pommel, then to the intricate carvings on the guard. However wrong, this valuable weapon would save Blar’s life.

  After securing the sword beneath her cape, she opened the door. Throat tight, she glanced back. “I am sorry, Cailin.” Favoring her ankle, Elspet stepped into the hallway and quietly closed the door in her wake.

  * * * *

  Through the fog of sleep, Cailin forced his lids open, peered out. He cursed the pounding in his skull, the dizziness blurring his thoughts, and the awful taste coating his tongue. Blast it, where was he, and why did he feel as if he’d drunk too much?

  Foggy memories of the men assaulting Kenzie rushed through his mind, of saving her, and then their travel through the blizzard to the inn.

  He sat. Pain spiked his head. With a slow sweep, he scanned the unfamiliar chamber. Coals glowed in the hearth, the sheets on the bed turned back; a slight impression of where she’d slept remained, but the lass was gone. He rubbed his brow. Mayhap she’d headed downstairs for food. Foolish, when the inn was filled with men and without his protection.

  Cailin shoved to his feet, damned another blast of pain. He started to turn, stilled.

  His scabbard was empty.

  Unease prickled up his spine. Had she taken his weapon to fend off any threats? He grunted. As if with her ankle injured she could swing the sword with any force. Blast it, why hadn’t she woken him?

  Muttering a curse, he turned, paused at the smear of powder on the floor beside where he’d sat for supper. His mind churned with several reasons for the residue.

  None good.

  Wanting to be wrong, Cailin stalked over, swiped his finger through the powder, sniffed.

  Valerian root!

  He glared at the closed door. Nay, he hadn’t slept, nor were his ailments the result of too much ale. Kenzie had drugged him and then stolen his broadsword. His anger surged. God’s blade, the lass was in league with the men he’d found her with yesterday. They weren’t robbing her; ’twas naught but a bloody ploy to fleece him!

  Fury seething through his veins, against the splintering pain in his skull, Cailin jerked on his cape, gathered the few belongings he’d brought, then stormed from the chamber.

  Aye, he’d find her.

  God help her then.

  Chapter 2

  Her fingers numb from the cold, Elspet tugged open the thick entry of the merchant’s cottage. A hand’s width above her, metal bits hanging against the door to warn those within of someone entering clanked.

  “Shut the bloody door!” a surly voice boomed.

  The cold bite of wind blasted against her as she hurried inside, shoved the heavy wood shut.

  Warmth permeated the chamber from a fire roaring in the weathered stone hearth, and the rich scents of leather, oil, and age, along with a faint wisp of cooked meat filled the air. Staggered upon the side wall hung several baskets, helmets, swords, a wide array of tools, and, centered against the back, a large woven blanket curtained off a room.

  On a table to her right, half buried beneath various pieces of leather, lay an anvil with a hammer atop. Seated behind the disorganized heap on another table to her left, a reed thin, balding man, his mustache infused with gray that curled into a thick beard, scowled at her, a strip of leather in one hand and an awl in the other.

  Elspet’s shoulders sagged. Thank God Wautier Brecnagh was here.

  The merchant set down the leather tool. “’Tis a poor day to be out.”

  An understatement. Falling snow was now knee high, and the wind blew with merciless disregard. Though binding her ankle had allowed her to walk with bearable pain, she’d had to travel throughout the night and a good part of the morning to reach his hut. If desperation hadn’t forced her hand, she would have found shelter and hid until the storm passed.

  She shrugged as if she wasn’t freezing. “A bit of snow.”

  “And did the snow give you the gash above your eye or the bruise upon your cheek?”

  “I–I slipped and fell in the woods. Hit my face agains
t a rock.”

  With a disbelieving grunt, he set down the piece of leather, then crossed his arms over his chest. He nodded to the bundle wrapped in her arms. “To sell or trade?”

  Thankful he hadn’t pressed further, her fingers tightened on the covered hilt, and she damned the guilt weighing upon her. “To sell.”

  Unfurling his arms, he shoved aside the pile of leather, clearing a large swath of the table. “Place it here.”

  Her hands trembled as she lay down the heavy bundle and unwrapped the blanket.

  Firelight glinted off the blade as Wautier lifted the weapon, turned it. Shrewd eyes cut to her. “’Tis a common enough weapon.”

  “There is little common about this broadsword,” she scoffed. “Look at the detail of the engraving on the pommel and hilt.”

  The lean man shrugged. “I have seen such weaponry before, forged with craftsmanship of higher quality.”

  A lie. Over the years, when she’d accompanied her stepfather and mother to festivals, she’d seen many knights’ swords. Never had she witnessed anything this exquisite. She ached to rewrap the weapon and storm out, except she didn’t know of another merchant who dealt in stolen goods, and neither did she have the time to find one.

  Nor could she blame him. He did naught but barter to his advantage.

  Elspet met his gaze square on. “How much?”

  “Eight shillings.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Moireach had demanded a pound! “’Tis worth at least two pounds.”

  “Two,” he blustered as he lay the weapon down. “’Tis the cost of a palfrey.”

  “’Tis,” she agreed. “But the broadsword is well worth the price.”

  He rubbed his chin, paused for a long moment. “I will give you nine shillings.”

  So close to what she needed. Taking a chance, she scowled as if insulted by his pathetic offer. “Never mind.” She clasped the sword’s hilt.

  Wautier’s boney hand moved atop hers, his eyes narrowed. “A pound.”

  Relief filling her, Elspet gave him a cool stare. “The gold on the pommel alone is worth more.”