by Diana Cosby
“The reason I raised my offer. Take it—” A gust of wind slammed against the side of the cottage as he withdrew his hand. “Or leave.”
“’Tis thievery!” she sputtered with indignation.
“A fair price when I have not questioned how you came by such a fine weapon when you arrive in a tattered gown and cloak, looking little better than a thief.” He shot her a sly glance. “Had you purchased the blade through a legitimate venue, never would you have traveled here in the middle of a snowstorm.”
Fear building, her stomach clenched.
Aged brows slammed together. “Was the man who owned the blade old?”
“Nay.”
“Did you know him?”
“Never had I seen him before.” Merciful saints, she must have the coin before he changed his mind. On a shaky breath, she withdrew her hand from his. “I accept your offer.”
A cold smile curved his mouth. “You are fortunate I am in such a generous mood.”
Generous? With ease he would sell the broadsword for more than two times what he offered her, if not more. Thankful he hadn’t pressed for further details of who she’d acquired the weapon from, she focused on the fact that within moments she would have the money and could leave.
The merchant lifted the sword and started to turn.
She caught his arm. “Until I receive the coin, the broadsword remains with me.”
Anger flared in his eyes. “So be it.” Wautier set the weapon down, crossed to the hanging linen, and shoved the blanket separating the rooms aside, exposing the back of a younger man working, a saddle, tools, blankets, and various items stacked inside the room.
The merchant entered the chamber, and the cover settled into place, cutting off her view.
Again, Elspet glanced around the work area, pausing at the array of swords mounted on the wall. Blackened leather grips from heavy use stained the handle of each one, fractures marred some of the blades, while others displayed chips in the cutting edges. None could begin to compare to Cailin’s impressive broadsword.
She worried the finely braided strip of leather around her neck holding a forged Celtic cross of silver with a ruby embedded at the center shielded by her garb. Where was he now? A foolish question. Nay doubt searching for her. But he sought a noblewoman named Kenzie, one he would never find. Once he grew frustrated, the knight would continue on his journey.
Another gust battered the exterior, and she tugged her cape tighter. She far from looked forward to the travel to pay the guard who’d promised to aid her, but her discomfort was a small price. But what if Moireach took her coin and refused to help free Blar?
No, she refused to cling to doubts. She’d met the guard several times. Moireach had always smiled at her as she passed, and once at the castle had helped her load oats she’d purchased into her stepfather’s wagon. By this time tomorrow, her stepbrother would be free, and they would be headed toward…
A sinking feeling settled in her chest.
Where?
During yesterday’s mayhem, the Earl of Dalkirk had seized their home.
Grief built in her chest. As if where they went at this moment mattered. Blar was her only remaining family. They would be together and free. With the earl furious at their escape, they would go wherever necessary, do whatever they must, to keep safe.
“You want me to travel to Tiran Castle in this weather?” the young man grumbled from behind the curtain.
“Keep your voice down,” Wautier hissed.
Elspet stiffened. Why would the merchant want to send his assistant to Tiran Castle and hide the fact from her? She crept closer.
“Tell the Earl of Dalkirk,” Wautier whispered, “that I have purchased his brother’s broadsword from a thief. I am unsure how ’twas acquired, but warn him that I suspect his nephew, Cailin MacHugh, has returned intending to claim his rightful title.”
Confused, she frowned. Sir Cailin was the earl’s nephew? How could that be?
“But he died as a lad,” the man replied in a low voice.
Something she’d been told in her youth as well.
“Dinna question me!” Wautier hissed.
“A-aye.” The youth stumbled out.
“Tell him that the coat of arms on its hilt is proof to those within Dalkirk that Cailin MacHugh is the rightful claimant. A fact,” the merchant grumbled, “that will infuriate the earl.”
A chair scraped.
With a gasp, Elspet stumbled back. Merciful saints, the warrior who’d saved her, the knight she’d robbed, was the rightful heir of Dalkirk!
With a frown, she stared at the curtain. Why would news that Cailin lived displease his uncle unless… Heart pounding, she took another step back. The Earl of Dalkirk was behind Cailin’s supposed death, which must explain why Cailin hadn’t ridden straight to Tiran Castle, or disclosed his full name when they’d met.
“And dinna discuss this with anyone but the earl,” the merchant said with soft warning.
“A–aye,” the lad replied, fear thick in his voice.
She must inform Cailin! Elspet grasped the hilt, hesitated. As if after she’d lied and stolen his weapon Cailin would believe anything she had to say. What if after she explained, he refused to help her? Breath unsteady, Elspet stared at the broadsword. Should she stay for the coin to pay Moireach to free her brother?
How could she? After Cailin had saved her, he deserved to know that his uncle was being informed of his presence on Dalkirk lands. As well, if his uncle was involved in attempting to kill him, Cailin must despise the earl as much as she and would indeed help her free her stepbrother.
Calmer, she accepted the logic of her decision. He had a horse and could make the trip to the guard in but a few hours, when on foot and with her injured ankle, ’twould take her a day. As for how she’d convince Moireach that he could trust Cailin, she would worry about that when the time came.
Steps thudded on the other side of the curtain. The hanging blanket shifted as the outline of the merchant bumped against it. Wautier whispered something too soft for her to hear.
Quickly enfolding the sword in the blanket, Elspet hobbled to the door, scowling at the bits of metal hanging above. With a glance toward the blanket, thankful the makeshift curtain remained in place, she propped the sword against the wall. Withdrawing her sgian dubh, she stood on her tiptoes and caught the tied bits of metal in her fist. With a slash, she severed the string, then secured her dagger.
After another glance back, thankful the cover hadn’t moved, she picked up the covered weapon, eased the door open, and crept out. Once she’d secured the entry, Elspet tossed the bits of metal, then fled.
Ignoring the shooting pain with each step, the lash of bitter cold wind, she pushed on. At an outcrop of rocks a distance from the merchant’s home, she collapsed beneath the stone overhang.
Her breath rolling out in a cloud of white, pain screaming up her leg, she glanced at the covered broadsword, fought the rush of nerves. What if another knight named Cailin had come into possession of the previous Earl of Dalkirk’s sword and, as Cailin had claimed, he was doing naught but passing through? Or what if the merchant had misidentified the crest upon the sword?
Or, in her panic, she had erred and sealed her stepbrother’s fate? No. After losing her mother and stepfather, she couldn’t lose Blar.
Frustrated, she jerked open the blanket. Flakes of snow hurled past as she stared at the gold crest etched within the pommel.
Faded memories of Cailin’s sailing to Rome to study came to mind, then news of his death. Much loved as he was, all within Dalkirk had mourned his passing. She slid her finger across the tip of the hilt as she recalled how Cailin’s father’s sword had disappeared. Rumors of a witch’s curse upon the blade, of fairies taking the weapon to the Otherworld, or a ghost hiding the sword to preserve it for Cailin’s return were among many reasons
for its disappearance. Regardless, the broadsword had never been seen since.
Until now.
Memories of how Cailin had faced the two braggarts without hesitation, of his chivalrous actions to ensure she had food and rest flickered in her mind. Nor could she overlook how his confident actions, quick decisions, and intelligence bespoke a man of noble birth.
Elspet’s finger stilled on the crafted hilt. The sword belonged to Cailin and, God willing, she would return it to him.
With a grimace, she shoved to her feet and shifted the weapon to her other arm. Ignoring the stabbing pain in her ankle, she pushed on.
* * * *
Cailin shielded his face as he rode, damned the sharp sting of snow that had buried Kenzie’s tracks hours before. Blast it, where was she? Injured and slowed by his heavy sword, he found satisfaction in knowing that wherever the lass was, she couldn’t have traveled far.
If, indeed, she was alone.
When he’d first begun his search, he’d expected to find naught but hoof tracks leading away from the inn. Then he’d picked up her awkward steps with ease.
As he’d trailed Kenzie, he kept waiting for her steps to merge with the hooves of her accomplice’s steed. Proof she was in league with the two miscreants he’d found her with yesterday, men who’d awaited her departure from the inn and were long gone. But her tracks had remained solitary as they headed north.
Over time, snow had begun to fill her trail; then any signs of her passing had become undiscernible against the bulky blanket of white. That her path never wavered from its direction kept Cailin pushing on, searching for a fragment of her torn gown or broken twigs to expose signs of her passing, anything that would alert him that he was closing in on her.
What tragedy had she endured to convince her to join such a disreputable lot? Her quick wit, bearing, bravado, and, though ruined, her quality gown, assured him that she was a woman of means. More perplexing, he was a good judge of character. That he hadn’t an inkling of her deceit until too late left him unsettled.
Cailin tried to dismiss his draw to her beauty, the ease with which he’d been able to speak with her. Regardless of her duplicity, there was something genuine about her, an innate sense of hurt she tried to shield.
With a frustrated sigh, he shook his head. ’Twas a sad day when after her deception he’d seek a motive for her thievery.
He kicked his steed into a canter and hardened his heart. When he found Kenzie, regardless of her nobility, she’d be answering his questions. However beautiful, and though she stirred his blood, she’d proven she was a lass he couldn’t trust.
He scowled at the steep incline ahead. How much longer until he found her? Blast it. The broadsword was proof of his claim as the rightful earl.
The soft thud of hooves upon snow accompanied Cailin as he rode through the weave of leafless birch. Slashes of black smeared the white bark, thin strips he’d used many times over to start a fire or, in times of urgency, to pen a missive. But today, the majestic trees laden with snow upon their barren branches were naught but a reminder of the oncoming winter.
Cailin nudged his steed around a large copse of rocks, then guided him higher up the incline. A short distance ahead, pine, alder, and ash stood like sentinels to the windswept valley below, one as a child he’d ridden through many times over with his father.
Tragic memories of how he’d lost his parents twisted inside. When his uncle, Gaufrid MacHugh, had stepped in to become his guardian and to run Tiran Castle until Cailin was of age, he’d been an innocent child struggling with the loss of the parents he loved, and had been thankful.
A month later, Gaufrid’s decision to send him to Rome for a proper education to prepare him for the day he claimed the title of earl was one that made sense.
But ’twas a lie.
Once away from port, the ship’s captain had revealed that his uncle had paid him a handsome sum to kill Cailin. Instead, swayed by greed, the miscreant had sold Cailin to pirates, believing the lad would die at sea and his uncle none the wiser. A cruel plan that would have succeeded if the pirates hadn’t attacked a cog of the Knights Templar.
Rescued by the Brotherhood, without coin, connections, experience, or a fighting force to reclaim Tiran Castle, Cailin had remained with the Templars while he’d struggled against the grief at his parents’ death and his uncle’s betrayal. But, in the back of his mind, thoughts of one day avenging Gaufrid’s betrayal remained.
Once of age, without means, he’d set aside his thoughts of vengeance and joined the Brotherhood. There, he’d found a life he’d cherished until King Philip’s treachery two years before.
Fury slammed through Cailin at thoughts of the French monarch’s duplicity against the Templar Knights, elite warriors who’d protected him over the years. Men of honor who, in the sovereign’s desperation to replenish his coffers, he’d sacrificed without hesitation.
Though absolution was the teaching of the Church, for the wrongful accusations and slaughter of warriors who’d vowed to protect the innocent, men who’d given their lives to serve the Brotherhood’s cause, Cailin could never forgive King Philip.
With the Templars secretly disbanded, he, as many within the Brotherhood, had fled to Scotland to serve King Robert, whom few knew was a Templar. Knowledge Cailin still found incredible.
Cailin was thankful he’d gained the Bruce’s support in reclaiming his birthright, his lands and the title of Earl of Dalkirk, from his treacherous uncle, who’d supported King Robert’s adversary, Lord Comyn. More so the Bruce’s promise to send troops as soon as possible to support Cailin’s cause. With the lull in fighting the king’s bid to claim Scotland, knights that would soon arrive.
Nor had he expected his sovereign’s gift of Cailin’s father’s broadsword. A weapon he’d never again thought to see. The Bruce had explained how Father Lamond, a priest faithful to Cailin’s father, had seized the weapon, then secretly delivered the blade to the king.
A snow-littered gust of wind swept past. His horse slowed, snorted as he half-walked, half-slid down the steep incline. “Easy, boy.” He scanned the valley below.
Sparkles of sunlight glinted off the pristine white like diamonds scattered. A smile touched his mouth as he thought of the way his mother used to tell him the shimmers were magic dust sprinkled over the land by the fey.
His fingers tightened on the reins. Nay, the glitters upon the frozen ground were naught but tricks of light, a tragic reminder that the woman he’d loved was lost.
A grimace settled upon his mouth. He had more important forces to face than fairies.
Several paces from the copse of pine at the bottom, branches shifted and snow tumbled from the limbs.
He halted his destrier and withdrew his dagger.
Tangles of chestnut-brown hair tossed within the snow-whipped wind as Kenzie limped into view, a bruise dark on her cheek, minimal swelling on her jaw, the gash on her right brow showing signs of healing, and his father’s sword partially wrapped in a blanket in her arms.
Rage pulsing through his veins, Cailin scoured the area. Naught but another gust of snow whirled past.
She lifted her head and her eyes seared him, an action at odds with someone who’d wronged him. Her shoulders seemed to stiffen beneath her bulky woolen cape as she clutched his stolen sword, yet her gaze remained unwavering.
“I am alone,” she called with impressive confidence for one who had committed a treasonous act, yet managing somehow to look as if she was the victim.
That he doubted. “Where is your horse?”
“As I explained yesterday, I have none.”
Cailin grunted. “You said the men had taken your mount.”
“I lied.” She limped toward him. “Never had I planned to see you again.”
“And the men who supposedly robbed you?” he demanded. “Am I to accept that injured, you somehow hobbl
ed this far, or after you have given me naught but mistruths, am I to believe anything you say?”
“Suspicion I would deserve.” Favoring her right ankle, the one bound with sturdy cloth, she limped forward, struggling up the incline. “I came to return your broadsword.” Kenzie paused a pace away and unwrapped the weapon. Cloth fluttered in the wind as she raised the forged steel, hilt first, toward him. “’Twas wrong of me to take it.”
“Wrong?” Ignoring a twinge of pity at her struggle, he leaned forward, retrieved his blade. “’Twas thievery.”
Her face pale, she nodded. “’Twas. I was desperate and needed coin to save my stepbrother.”
Far from persuaded by her demure demeanor or that anything she shared was the truth, he sheathed his sword. “And your companions?”
“Travelers whom I had robbed earlier in the day.” She captured several strands of hair fluttering against her face, secured them in her braid. “When you rode in, they had caught up with me and seized their coin, which I had taken earlier. Only”—a blush swept her cheeks—“I had not planned on their…”
Wanting her for their pleasure, he silently finished to himself. Could he believe her, or was this yet another deceptive tale? Though Cailin hesitated to accept any of her claims as the truth, her having stolen from the travelers explained their anger. “And your stepbrother?”
Hope ignited in her eyes. “The reason I am here. I seek your help to save him.”
Cailin crossed his arms. “A request you could have made without drugging me or stealing my weapon.”
Her breath rolled out in a broken cloud of white. “I–I am explaining this poorly.”
God’s teeth, why the devil was he allowing her to ramble on? With his weapon recovered, he should leave her to her fate. “Save your lies for another.” Cailin shot her a cool glare as he picked up his reins. “Away with you before—”
“I know you are Cailin MacHugh,” she burst out, “the rightful heir of Dalkirk!”
He wanted to dismiss her claim, but there could only be one way she’d discovered his identity; she’d heard it from another. “Explain.”
