Ena’s Surrender

by Madeline Martin

  He trailed kisses down her chin, her silky neck, to the sensual hollow of her throat. He brushed aside the sleeve of her gown, exposing her shoulder. A thick rope of a scar showed silvery white against her skin and twisted down into her neckline. It was so vicious that it made him draw short.

  “Stop.” Ena jerked her sleeve up and held her fist over her clothing. The motion was protective. Defensive.

  He immediately dropped his hands from her. “Ena—”

  She turned her face away, but not before he saw the tears gleaming in her eyes. “Ye need to leave.”

  “Ena, forgive me, I—”

  “Bran will wake soon.” She unlatched the door to the stall with her free hand. “Leave.” Her watery gaze landed everywhere but on him. “Please.”

  He’d had it in his mind to protest, but the depth of her hurt was too unexpected. He would not question what had happened to her. Not until she was ready to share. But there was one question he had to ask, even though he already knew her response. And dreaded the answer he would get.

  He hesitated in front of the open door. “Is that why you hate the English?”

  Her eyes settled on his, blazing with powerful emotion. “One of the many reasons.”

  He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his arms and cradle her pain away. However, she had her dagger at her belt, and it would more likely end up in his side than she would be comforted by his presence.

  “I’m not like that,” he said softly.

  In response, she merely looked down at her feet, severing his ability to read her lovely, expressive eyes. He didn’t need to see her to know what it meant: she truly wanted him to leave.

  But he would see her again. He would learn who had done that to her. Why they had done that to her. And he would prove he wasn’t like them. That he was safe.

  Except that he wasn’t safe.

  He was no fool. He knew why he’d been sent to spy on Castleton. And any report he gave to the Earl of Bothbury would go against everything he wanted to prove to Ena.

  In the pit of his stomach, he knew the truth he didn’t want to admit to himself: it was best to let her go and to never see her again.

  She was right. They were enemies and would always be enemies.

  5

  Bothbury was waiting for Renault upon his return to England. The earl sat upon the dais that had only months ago belonged to his aged father. At only two and twenty, the youngest of all the March Wardens, the earl had strong ideas for how he might shape his future.

  Renault had six years on the man, enough time to realize the earl’s dreams were overreaching and dangerous. However, even as Renault understood this, he also knew the Earl of Bothbury was the only one who could make him a castle guard.

  The earl beckoned Renault toward him and bade him speak of what he found in Castleton. Renault dutifully shared the count of men he saw, a number dwarfed by the scores of women and children.

  “I believe many of them to be underfed,” Renault continued. “And the women and children did not appear to be armed.”

  Bothbury tilted his head to indicate a lack of concern. “That you saw.”

  Renault gave a single nod and stifled his doubt. Ena was armed, that much he knew. But then, he was aware she was not a typical woman. Ladies did not ride into raids in gambesons and helms or fight like men.

  There were rumors about the Earl of Werrick, the English West March Warden, and the five daughters living on the border with him. It was said they’d been trained to fight like warriors in order to keep them safe in such a dangerous location. He’d personally never met such a woman.

  Not until Ena. He would have thought a warrior woman would be impenetrable, with an exterior thick as ice on a loch and just as smooth.

  But Ena was vulnerable. He’d seen it in the fear in her eyes when he returned from the burning house, in the brilliance of her hurt when he happened upon her scar. He’d especially sensed it in how she’d softened when he kissed her.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to report?” The earl steepled his fingertips together. “Anything that might aid us, mayhap something unusual you saw, or overheard?”

  Renault thought back to what he’d learned from Bran while hiding in Maribel’s stable.

  “Nay.” As soon as the lie escaped Renault’s mouth, a pinch of guilt nipped at his conscience. He had spent his life begging, thieving and spying to stay alive. But in the face of his own ambition, when his own countryman’s lives could be at stake, he could not bring himself to share what he had gleaned from Ena’s home.

  If he had divulged such information, he would have to confess to being in Ena’s stable and that would be frowned upon. Or so he told himself.

  Even as he was dismissed from the great hall of Kershopefoot Castle and he passed through the high curtain walls, he knew his justification to be yet another lie. He could easily have evaded questions about how he overheard the news.

  In truth, his silence had everything to do with Ena.

  The woman he shouldn’t see again and yet could not purge from his thoughts. He’d lowered her defenses earlier that day, peeling away her calloused shell to expose a tenderness that made him want to cradle her to his heart.

  Renault had only just entered the village when someone slapped him on the back, knocking his attention back to the present. “Did you get the information you needed?”

  He turned to find Walter, the only friend he’d had since boyhood when they were both orphans abandoned like refuse on the streets, grinning at him. Walter had been one of the men who had gone into Scotland with him to retrieve the lost livestock and knew well of Renault’s true purpose and ambitions.

  Renault recovered quickly, as he always did. “Aye, thank you for the distraction.” He winked at his friend. “Did you retrieve the stolen cattle?”

  “Aye, nearly all of them.” Walter buffed his nails on his tunic. “’Twas almost too easy.”

  “Because you’re that damn good.”

  “Probably.” Walter chuckled, revealing a chipped eyetooth. “I heard Lord Bothbury was speaking of you to his Captain of the Guard.”

  Renault didn’t dare respond to such a claim. Hope flickered to life inside his chest, a dwindling, pathetic wisp of a flame he had fought these last six months to keep lit.

  He was too old for dreams. Especially when reality had always been so harsh.

  Walter filled the silence, as Renault had hoped he would. “We’re going on a raid tonight to see if we can retaliate. Mayhap take a few horses, stir up a bit of trouble.” He waggled his brows.

  The sinking sun indicated the time to be late afternoon. Preparations would already be finalized for the raid. Renault inhaled, drawing in the usual smells of the village: smoke from fire pits, roasting food, baking bread and rot.

  “Have I been included in the raid?” Renault asked.

  Walter shrugged his large, square shoulders. “I’m not certain, but that doesn’t mean you can’t join us. I’m sure your eagerness will be noted.”

  Renault nodded. He knew it would be. His presence during the raid would also allow him to ensure Ena stayed safe. Men sometimes became overwhelmed with blood lust. The heat of battle was an intoxicating elixir for some, and all too quickly led to the burning of homes and the taking of women.

  Renault had never been such a man and did not condone such behavior, but he was not their leader. Not yet.

  Even with his lack of power, he knew his presence could help keep Ena safe.

  “Thank you, Walter,” he said.

  “Be ready at midnight.” His friend clasped forearms with him and made his way to the village center, no doubt to have a few ales before their departure in several hours.

  Renault turned around to return to the castle, to inform the Captain of the Guard he’d be joining them. As he did so, he tried pointedly to ignore the pull of longing in him to see Ena once more.

  He would go to her only if she were in danger. Otherwise, he would stay away. The
y were enemies. It would do them both well to remain that way.

  But heaven help the man who might intend her harm.

  The thunder of hoofbeats over soft earth made Ena’s eyes fly open, waking her from a deep sleep. Her heart knocked about inside her chest and she strained into the silence of the cottage to listen for anything beyond.

  There it was—the discordant rumble of hooves racing over soil. Was it Bran and his men returning?

  She pulled the dagger from beneath her pillow and slid out of bed. The energy racing through her body left her legs and hands shaking. Moggy didn’t even budge from where she’d been curled up against the warmth of Ena’s side, as the cat clearly saw Ena as a serviceable substitute until Bran’s return.

  Ena focused on the racing hooves. If Bran and his men had returned, they wouldn’t be running their horses so hard. Which meant it could be the English.

  If that was the case, too many Scotsmen wouldn’t be here to protect their homes. Ena strained to listen for the sound of screams in the distance. But then, they didn’t build their cottages close together at the outskirts of town. While it kept fires and vermin from spreading, it also muted any calls for help.

  A solid thump came from the main door of the cottage. She gave a jump of surprise and squeezed her mouth shut to keep a cry from escaping her lips.

  Her breath came fast, huffing from her chest with an effort that left her lips tingling.

  Something heavy slammed into the door. It held, but the frame shifted slightly in the wattle and daub wall. The door might be well-made, but their home was built of twigs and mud, the same as all the others. Easily broken, which made it far too dangerous.

  She wanted to be brave. She wanted to fling open the door and thrust her dagger into the waiting body on the other side. Except that her pulse roared in her ears and every muscle in her body was locked with fear.

  She was no longer the strong woman who had learned to defend herself. She was the scared girl from twenty years ago who had hidden under the table in a moment of absolute panic while English soldiers kicked in their flimsy door.

  Fear had her in its powerful grasp. It fed her memories of death and blood and suffering until she couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. All she could do was clutch her dagger and gasp for breath.

  The powerful thunk came from the door once more. Again, the doorframe shifted, this time a fine dusting of the whitewash flecked over the floor.

  Ena put her free hand over her mouth to squelch a scream. She wanted to close her eyes; pretend she was somewhere else. She didn’t want to be here. Anywhere but here.

  She couldn’t endure that horror again.

  Another shove against the door. The frame tore away from the wall and left a gap of brittle twigs, exposed like a fresh wound. The next strike would push the door through the wall.

  She should hide. She should run. She should attack. She should do anything but stand there.

  But she did nothing, rooted into place by nightmares, by memories of how her neighbor’s screams had been cut short by blades. And how her own family had been slain before her very eyes.

  Her breath huffed against her hot palm as she struggled to get enough air. A softer thunk sounded against the door. Nothing that threatened to break it down, but different, followed by the whump of something heavy falling to the ground outside the door.

  Ena stood by her bed, her muscles clenched to the point of aching, blood icing over in her veins, ears straining for any detection of sound. A door creaked open. The one leading to Maribel’s pen. The realization propelled her into action.

  She ran across the room with her dagger gripped in her fist and shoved through the door connected to Maribel’s little stable. A man hunkered down by the unlatched door, his attention fixed outside.

  But Ena didn’t question why he wasn’t taking her goat, nor what he was doing there. No, she lunged at him with her weapon drawn, fully prepared to strike him dead.

  He moved in the shadows like a nightmare, his movements swift and strong. The assuredness of a warrior.

  “Ena,” he whispered.

  In the swirl of panic and fear, the sound of her name caused her to hesitate. It was barely a moment, but enough for the man to capture her hands and pin her back against the wall. She stared into his shadowed face, loathing her weakness. She would go the way of her mother and poor Gregor. The same way they’d tried to kill her before.

  A sob choked from deep within her. “Please,” she breathed.

  “Ena.” His hold on her wrists released. “’Tis Renault.”

  Renault.

  The strength sapped from her body and her hand lost its grip on the dagger. It slid from her fingers, falling silently to the hay strewn underfoot.

  She clasped her hands over her chest, her thoughts sucked by the pull of memories she’d tried a lifetime to forget.

  “You’re safe,” he said softly.

  She swallowed around her dry throat. “Safe?”

  He opened his arms and she fell into them. They closed around her, strong and protective and sure.

  “You’re safe.” The assurance was repeated with such conviction, Ena’s shoulders relaxed somewhat.

  She melted into Renault’s embrace and drew in the scent of his leather gambeson. He shifted slightly and she caught the familiar scrape of the latch slipping into the metal prong Bran had fashioned on Maribel’s pen. They were locked within.

  Safe.

  She repeated that word to herself and savored its meaning. She was not a little girl. This was not the home she’d shared with her family.

  But her mother and Gregor were still dead.

  Grief struck her, followed immediately by relief and the horror at how her fear had incapacitated her. The onslaught of emotions washed over her, drowning her. Tears filled her eyes and a knot lodged stubbornly at the back of her throat. She wanted to cling to Renault and sob like a bairn.

  “Let’s get you inside.” Renault carefully guided her inside the small hut.

  The fire at the center of the room was little more than glowing embers. Renault settled her into a chair at the table and knelt by the fire, adding several logs before returning to her side.

  His hand curled around hers, hot where hers was cold, solid where hers still trembled. “What happened, Ena?” His gaze settled on her collarbone where her scar began.

  “The English.” She stared into the fire as its flames tongued over the dry logs, greedily licking and devouring. “They attacked our village when I was a lass. We heard our neighbors being slain and knew we would be next. Bran is younger than me and had been too frightened to move, so I hid him in the cupboard. I dinna have enough time to hide properly but managed to dash under the table when they broke down the door.”

  She looked to the door now where it hung on its frame, sagging inward like something dying.

  Renault got to his feet and carried a sturdy chair to the door. He hefted it under the handle and shoved so the door straightened upright with its bulk held by the back of the chair. He returned to her side and once more took her hand. There was a wonderful comfort in the hold of his strong fingers. She reveled in the feel of him, grateful for this Englishman who had saved her life.

  “The soldiers found me, of course.” Ena scoffed at her pathetic hiding place. “I was so frightened, I screamed. I hadna meant to, but it slipped out. I ran, but they grabbed my hair and pulled me back. My mum burst from her hiding place to save me and Gregor…” His name caught in her throat, a stuck emotion she could not clear. She spoke around the knot. “My older brother leapt in front of her, holding our da’s sword. Even at only eight summers, he was so brave.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut as tears blurred her vision and the memory played vividly in her mind. “He killed one of them in a clumsy jab the man hadna been expecting. They made him pay for it with his life.”

  The blade thrust into Gregor’s skinny chest with such vehemence, the point punched through his back, red with blood.

&nb
sp; “My mum…” Ena’s voice trailed off. How could one put to words what she had seen and heard that day? The way her mother had screamed for the lives of her bairns, begging them to take only her as Ena cried for them to take her instead.

  So much love. So much pain.

  All these years later, the memory made old wounds tear anew within Ena’s heart.

  She shook her head, unable to put a voice to such agony. “After they…after she was dead, they tried to kill me. They slashed their blades at me.”

  The sword was still warm from the bodies of her mother and brother, wet with blood.

  “I must have turned slightly.” Ena lifted her shoulders, still unable to recall exactly what had spared her that day. “I hadn’t wanted to live, though. I wanted to die with my family.” The agony in her breast was unbearable. “I laid there and waited for death to claim me, but it dinna. After some time, the cupboard opened, and Bran emerged.”

  Bran gazed at her with wide, frightened eyes, his mouth little more than a line in his pale face. “Are ye dead too?”

  “He was too small to move me, and I was too weak to help. He cleaned my wound and cared for me over a sennight or so, sneaking out at night to get food for us.” She touched her collarbone with her free hand, fingering the raised line of skin. “He could have saved himself, but he stayed in that village filled with corpses until I was strong enough to leave.”

  She gritted her teeth and tried not to think of how Mum and Gregor had been left to rot on the floor of the hut. But she and Bran had been too small, too injured, to see them properly buried. “I’m alive because of Bran.”

  Renault said nothing for a long stretch of time. Small lines showed around his mouth and his thoughtful blue stare remained fixed on their joined hands. “I can see why you hate the English,” he said finally. The muscles of this throat worked into a swallow. “I should never have pressed—”