by Lynsay Sands
"Well, nay," Rolfe allowed reluctantly. "Nay, I did not. I thought mayhap it would set you to fretting, and there was no sense in doing that."
"Damn!" Blake glared at Dunbar Castle as they approached. It appeared cold and unfriendly to him. The Scots had not exactly rolled out the welcome, but then he had not expected them to. They wanted the marriage no more than he did.
" 'Tis not so bad, son," the bishop soothed. "Seonaid is a bit rough and gruff, but rather like your friend Amaury is. In fact, I would say she is as near a female version of that fellow as 'tis possible to have."
Amaury de Aneford was Blake's best friend and had been since they'd squired together as children. They got on well and had even been business partners until Amaury's recent marriage and rise in station to duke had forced him out of the warring business. Bishop Wykeham thought he was offering a positive comparison to the young man. He thought wrong.
"B'gad," Blake muttered in horror. In his mind's eye he was lifting his bride's marriage veil and having to kiss a tall, black-haired version of his good friend. It was enough to near knock him off his horse.
Shaking the image away, Blake tossed a glare in Little George's direction as he burst out laughing--no doubt under the influence of a not dissimilar vision. When his glare had little effect, he slumped miserably in his saddle. He would dearly have loved to turn around and head straight back to England. However, it was not an option. The blasted betrothal had been negotiated when he was but a boy of ten and Lady Seonaid just four. His father--the earl--had regretted doing so almost before the ink had dried on the scroll. He and the Dunbar--once the best of friends--had suffered a falling out. They had not spoken to each other since two weeks after completing the betrothal, some twenty years ago. Both had been more than happy to forget all about the contract, but neither of them had been willing to break it and forfeit the properties and dower they had put up against it. Their reluctance had left the possibility of the king ordering the fulfillment of the contract if he so wished. Unfortunately, he wished.
Blake could not turn and head back to England. His future was set. By noon on the morrow, he would be a married man.
Life was a trial, and what little freedom a man enjoyed was short-lived. He forced himself to straighten in the saddle as he realized they were about to pass through the gates into the bailey of Dunbar keep. He would present a strong, confident front to these people. His pride insisted upon it.
Blake lifted his head and met the silent stares of the guards watching from the walls, but soon found it difficult to keep his face expressionless when the men began shouting to each other.
"Which one be he, diya think?" shouted one man.
"The poor wee blond one, I wager," answered another, an older soldier. "He be a fair copy of his faither."
There was a brief silence as every eye examined him more thoroughly, then someone commented, "A shame, that. I be thinkin' the dark braw one might have a chance, but the wee one'll no last a day."
"I say he'll no last half a day!" someone else shouted.
"Whit diya wager?"
Blake's expression hardened as the betting began. Indignity rose in him on a wave. Never in his life had he been called wee before. He was damned big next to the average man, though he supposed he appeared smaller next to Little George. Still, he was of a size with Rolfe and by no means small. He also didn't appreciate the fact that they doubted his ability to handle one lone woman, taller than average or not. A glance at Rolfe and the bishop showed both men looking uncomfortable as they avoided his eyes. Little George, however, was looking a bit worried. It seemed he was letting the men on the wall unsettle him.
Well, Blake had no intention of doing so. Stiffening his back a bit more, he led his horse up to the keep's front steps. The absence of his bride, who should have been waiting on the stairs to greet him, was an added insult. 'Twas damned rude, and he would be sure to say so when he met the woman. He had just decided as much when the men in the bailey gave up all pretense of working and began to gather around their party to stare. Being the cynosure of all eyes was discomfiting, but their mocking smiles and open laughter were unbearable.
Blake was relieved at the distraction when one of the large doors of the keep creaked open. A young boy appeared at the top of the steps, turned to shout something back behind him, then bolted down the stairs.
"Thank you, son." Blake slid off his mount and smiled as the lad took the reins of his mount. His smile faded, however, as he noted the mixture of pity and amusement on the boy's face. The child retrieved the reins of Rolfe, the bishop, and Little George's horses as well, then led them away.
Shifting uncomfortably, Blake raised an eyebrow in Rolfe's direction. The other man merely shrugged uncertainly, but worry crossed his features before he turned to give instructions to the soldiers escorting them.
Scowling, Blake turned to peer up the steps at the closed double doors of the keep. The upcoming meeting was becoming more intimidating every moment, and he took the time to mentally calm himself and gird his courage. Then he realized that he was allowing himself to be unsettled by a meeting with a mere female.
Blake paused and gave his head a shake. What the devil was he worried about? Women had always responded well to him. He was considered quite attractive by the opposite sex. He wouldn't be surprised if his soon-to-be-bride melted into a swoon at the very sight of him. Her gratitude at being lucky enough to marry him would know no bounds, and her apologies for not meeting him on his arrival would flow unending.
Being the Angel, he would gallantly forgive her; then they would be married. After which he would have done with the business and head home. There was no law and no line in the agreement stating he had to take her with him. Blake thought he would leave her here, making regular if infrequent visits, until he had a home where he could put her and forget her.
His usually high confidence restored, Blake smiled at an anxious Little George, then jogged jauntily up the front steps to the keep doors. He pushed them open with a flourish, then led his much slower and somewhat less confident companions into the keep. His steps slowed when he spied the men seated at the trestle tables in the great hall. They were wolfing down food and laughing with loud ribaldry. If he had thought the hundred or so men guarding the wall and going about their business in the bailey were all Laird Dunbar ruled, it seemed he had been sorely mistaken. There were at least as many men enjoying a rest and repast inside. 'Twas a lot of men for such a small keep.
Blake did a brief scan of those present, searching for the woman he was to marry and spend the rest of his life with, but there seemed to be none present. Other than a servant or two, the great hall was entirely inhabited by men. It mattered little, he reassured himself. He would meet her soon enough.
Blake moved toward the head table, slowly gaining the attention of man after man as they nudged each other and gestured toward him.
Ignoring their rude behavior, he moved up the center of the room until he stood before the grizzled old man he suspected was the laird, Angus Dunbar. The room had fallen to silence. A hundred eyes fixed on and bore into him from every angle and still the man did not look up. Blake was just becoming uncomfortable when Rolfe moved to his side and cleared his throat.
"Greetings again, Lord Dunbar."
Angus Dunbar was an old man with shoulders stooped under years of wear and worry. His hair was gray and wiry, seeming to stand up in all directions. He took his time about finishing the chicken leg he gnawed on, then tossed the bone over his shoulder and raised his head to peer, not at the man who had spoken--but at Blake himself. Blake immediately had to revise his first opinion. Had he thought the man old? Worn down by worry? Nay. Gray hair he might have, but his eyes spat life and intelligence as he speared Blake where he stood.
A brief flash of surprise shot across his face, then his mouth set in grim lines and he sat back. "Soooo," he drawled. "For guid or ill ye finally shoo yersel'. Ye look like yer faither's whelp."
Blake took th
e time to translate the man's heavily accented words. Once he was sure he understood, he gave an uncertain nod.
"Weell, 'tis too late." His pleasure in making the announcement was obvious. "Clockin' time came an' went an' the lass done flew the chicken cavie, so I ken ye'll be thinkin' linkin'."
"Cavie? Thinkin' linkin'?" He turned to a frowning Rolfe in bewilderment.
"He said hatching time came and went and the girl flew the chicken coop, so he supposes you'll be tripping along," the other man explained, then turned to the laird, anger beginning to show itself. "What mean you the girl flew the cavie? Where is she gone?"
Dunbar shrugged a dismissal. "She dinna say."
"You did not ask?"
Angus shook his head. " 'Twas nigh on two weeks ago noo, the day after Lady Weeldwood arrived--"
"Lady Wildwood is here?" Rolfe's surprise was obvious. "She was to wait for us to fetch her back to court."
"Aye, weell, an' surely ye've taken yer time about it, have ye no? We expected ye back more than a week ago."
Rolfe tossed a dirty look at Blake, muttering, "We were unavoidably delayed."
"Weell, while ye were 'unavoidably delayed,' Lady Weeldwood was forced to flee fer her life."
"You do not mean Lady Margaret Wildwood?" Blake interrupted, and was surprised when the Scot nodded. He had met Lord Wildwood and his wife several times at court. Lady Margaret had been there often while the queen had still lived. From what he had seen and heard, the couple had been happily married for some twenty years. Lord Wildwood would never have hurt his wife when alive and certainly could not now he was dead. Blake knew the older man had died in Ireland but a few short months ago. "Lord Wildwood is dead," he spoke his thoughts aloud. "Who would threaten Lady Wildwood?"
Rolfe frowned and seemed to debate what to say, then sighed. "Know you Greenweld?"
Blake nodded at the mention of the Wildwood's neighbor. He was a greedy, immoral bastard, not well liked by anyone.
"He forced Lady Wildwood into marriage," Rolfe told him. "He separated her from her daughter, Lady Iliana, and used the girl's safety as a means to keep Lady Wildwood from protesting the marriage and to keep her in line."
Blake was stunned by the news. "Surely he didn't expect to get away with it?"
"But he did get away with it," Rolfe said. "Until Lady Wildwood managed to get a letter to the king through a faithful servant. The message recounted her predicament. Richard immediately arranged for Iliana to marry Duncan, Lord Angus's son," Rolfe explained, with a nod toward the seated laird. "Thereby removing her from Greenweld's grasp and threat. The king is even now seeking to annul the marriage Greenweld forced."
"Which is most like what got her beat," Angus commented grimly. "He wid see her dead ere givin' up Wildwood."
"Aye." Rolfe nodded. "That may be the case, if he caught wind of it." He considered the situation before glancing at Angus. "She headed here for protection, I presume? Why did she not head for court? The king would have protected her."
Angus shrugged. "I doona yet ken. She fled here with her maid an' the maid's son, but she fell under a fever along the way. She's been restin' since arrivin' an' I have no yet spoken to her."
"I see," Rolfe murmured, his expression tight with displeasure. "Is she well?"
The Dunbar pursed his lips. "Alive. Barely. He near knocked the life out o' her. 'Tis why she anticipated yer rescuin' her an' fled here to the safety we could offer as kin."
Rolfe and the bishop exchanged a glance, then the younger man asked, "Have you sent a messenger to the king with news of her presence here?"
"Nay. I thought to wait for ye to arrive. 'Twill be best to give him all the news at one time. He may wish ye to escort her back to court once she's recovered."
Rolfe nodded. "You are a wise man, Angus Dunbar."
The laird's lip curled. "An' yer a fair diplomat, lad. 'Tis why yer king sends ye out on such fool chores."
"Hmm." Rolfe's displeasure at being saddled with such chores was obvious as he peered at Blake. "We had best see to this one now."
Angus grimaced. "Aye. Weell now ... that could be a problem. As I was tellin' ye, Seonaid took advantage of the uproar Lady Wildwood's arriving caused. The day after the lady arrived, the men an' I took to bowsin'. The chit waited until I was fou, then come gin nicht she flew the cavie."
"What?" Blake asked, with both confusion and frustration.
"He said she left the day after Lady Wildwood arrived--"
"I understood that part," Blake snapped irritably. "What the devil is gin nicht?"
"Nightfall. Laird Angus and his men were drinking and Lady Seonaid waited until he was drunk, then at nightfall she flew the--"
"Coop. Aye, I understood that." Turning back, he glared at the older man, who was eyeing him with open satisfaction. Blake liked to think of himself as something of a master of words. He used them often and well to gain his way in many things. It was the height of irritation for him to find himself unable to understand what was being said, and he suspected the Dunbar knew as much and was enjoying himself at his expense. "Am I to take it, then, that you are breaking the contract and are willing to forfeit her dower?" he asked.
Dunbar sat up in his seat like a spring. "When the devil sprouts flowers fer horns!" he spat, then suddenly went calm and smiled. "To me thinkin', 'tis ye who forfeit by neglectin' yer duty to collect yer bride."
"But I am arrived to collect her." He flashed a cold smile.
"The lass has seen twenty-four years," the Dunbar snarled. "Ye should have come for her some ten years back."
Blake opened his mouth to respond, but Rolfe touched his arm to stop him and murmured smoothly, "We have been through all this, Laird Angus. Been and back. You agreed to the wedding taking place here, and Lord Blake has come as requested to fulfill his part of the bargain." He frowned. "I do not understand why you are being difficult. You had agreed to the wedding by the time I left. Duncan agreed also. Only Seonaid was wont to argue the wedding taking place when last I was here, yet now you appear to be against it as well."
Angus shrugged, amusement plucking at his lined face. "Aye, I agreed to it. Howbeit, I dinna say I would be makin' it easy for the lad. He's tarried a mite long for me likin', an' 'tis an insult to every Dunbar."
There were murmurs and nods of agreement all around. Rolfe sighed. It seemed the laird would see the deed done, but not aid in the doing, which was not good enough in his opinion. "I understand your feelings, my lord, but I fear Lord Blake is right. By aiding your daughter in escaping her marriage, you are breaking the contract, her dower will be considered forfeit, and--"
Laird Angus silenced him with a wave of disgust. "Oh, save yer threats. I'd see the lass married soon as you would, 'tis well past time." He glared at Blake. " 'Sides, I'd have grandbabies from her, even if they are half-English." He paused to take a long draught of ale from his tankard, then slammed it down and announced, "She ran off to St. Simmian's."
"St. Simmian's?"
" 'Tis an abbey two days' ride from here," he explained with amusement. "She asked for sanctuary there an' they granted it. Though, I canna see the lass in there to save me soul."
"Damn," Rolfe snapped; then his gaze narrowed on the Scot. "I thought you knew not where she was."
"I said she dinna tell me," he corrected calmly. "I had one o' me lads hie after her when I realized she was gone. He followed her trail to Simmian's but had no luck in gettin' her out. Men're no' allowed inside, ye ken."
"Aye, I know," Rolfe muttered irritably.
Angus Dunbar turned his gaze back to Blake, his eyes narrowing on the small signs of relief he saw on the man's face and in his demeanor. "Well? Ye ken where she be now, lad, why do ye tarry? Go an' fetch 'er; she must be bored by now an' may e'en come out to ye."
Blake glanced at Rolfe. He had been thinking that he might have just slipped the noose they would place on his finger, but the expression on the other man's face and his would-be father-in-law's words told him he had thought wr
ong. They expected him to fetch her out of the abbey to wed. To his mind, it was rather like asking a man to dig his own grave, but it seemed he had little choice.
Sighing, he turned to lead the bishop and Lord Rolfe from the room, but at the door to the keep he paused and waved them on before he returned to face the Dunbar. "You say the abbey is two days' ride away?"
"Aye. Two days."
"Over lands friendly to you or not?"
Angus Dunbar's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Friendly to me. Though no always friendly to the King o' England," he added with amused pleasure. "So I wouldna be wavin' yer banner o'ermuch."
Blake nodded. He had suspected as much. It would no doubt please the Laird of Dunbar and his daughter no end if he died in the attempt, forfeiting the lands promised by his father should he fail to marry the wench. "I would have your plaid then, sir," he said with a predatory smile of his own.
Angus Dunbar blinked at him in surprise, then frowned. "Now, why would ye be wantin' me plaid?"
"If the lands we cross are friendly to you, I would wear your colors to prove we travel under your protection."
There was dead silence in the room and even a bit of confusion; then the men seated at the tables began to murmur amongst themselves, whispering something through the hall until it reached the man to the left of the bewildered laird. His bewilderment seemed to clear as soon as the man leaned to whisper into his ear. Whatever the fellow had said, Angus Dunbar found it vastly amusing. Throwing back his head, he roared with laughter, as did every other man in the room.
Still laughing, the grizzled old man stood, and with little more than a tug and a flick of the wrist, drew the plaid off. Left wearing only a long shirt reaching halfway to his knees, he tossed the brightly colored cloth across the tabletop.
His laughter slowed to a stop as Blake caught the plaid and grimaced at the stench rising off the blanket, then turned to leave again.
"Here!"
Blake paused and turned back. "Aye?"
"Would ye leave me standin' here in naught but me shirttails?" Laird Angus asked, his brows beetling above his eyes.
Blake stared. "What would you have of me?"