He had saved her in a moment when fear had held her captive. Had he not, she might be dead. Surely, she couldn’t leave him to a similar fate.
All through the day, these thoughts clashed against the realization that if he was not as trustworthy as she’d hoped, Bran and his men would be in danger.
She wasn’t sure when she finally won the war waging in her thoughts and resolved to go to him, but later that afternoon while Bran was out bartering with goods he’d stolen, Ena slipped away and headed quickly for the English border.
She had to warn Renault he might be in danger and hope that he would tell no one. She had to do everything in her power to keep the men in her life safe, even if they were enemies.
Walter was alive. The healer confirmed it as soon as Renault settled his friend on the makeshift pallet. The woman was nondescript with her hair stuffed under a wimple. She plucked a vial from one of the many pockets of her apron and waved an acrid smelling concoction under Walter’s nose.
His eyes flew open, bloodshot and wild.
The healer gave a chuckle and stoppered the bottle. “That always brings them back to the land of the living.” She tucked the vial back in her pocket. “I’ll fetch a tea for him.”
Walter followed her out with his wide stare before looking at Renault. “Was it you?” he asked raggedly.
Fear splintered through Renault. “Who dragged your arse back to England? Aye, you’re welcome.”
Walter’s brows flinched with apparent confusion. “Was it you who attacked me?” His unfocused stare managed to pin Renault into place.
Renault could lie, of course, but he’d never forgive himself for doing so.
“I didn’t know it was you,” Renault confessed. “But aye, I hit you. Forgive me.”
Walter frowned, his breath coming in angry huffs. “You could have killed me.”
“What were you doing banging on the door to the cottage like that?” Renault demanded.
“Trying to get her out of there to flee.”
Renault stared at his friend. “Why would you get her to flee?”
Walter groaned and leaned his head back on the thin, straw-filled pillow. “I heard the rumors of your interest in a Scottish lass. I saw you leave that cottage with a scrawny goat the night we reclaimed our cattle. Later, I noticed that the goat had been returned when we came for our next raid. But I didn’t…” he pressed his lips together. “I still doubted the rumors were true. I hoped they weren’t. I had to see. To know.”
“What lass?” Renault asked, panic creeping into his tone.
Walter scoffed. “The one you’ve been seeing.” He surveyed the room surreptitiously. “Do you think you’re the only spy in Lord Bothbury’s employ?”
Renault sucked in a breath and slowly let it hiss out.
Walter cocked a half smile in his direction. “Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone which cottage is hers.”
“Forgive me, Walter. I didn’t mean…” Renault shook his head. “I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly.”
Walter swept a hand at Renault’s torso, batting him away. “We’ve done far worse to each other. Mind the earl though, aye?”
Renault clamped his back teeth together and nodded.
“Leave me to whatever concoction the healer brings me.” Walter waved Renault away. “I feel like the devil’s spawn is trying to burrow into my skull.”
Renault hesitated beside the pallet. “You’re a better friend than I deserve.”
“Aye, and don’t you forget it.” Walter grinned at him, revealing that chipped tooth. “Now go have an ale for me. I’ll join you when the room stops spinning.”
Still, Renault did not move.
“If you don’t go, I’ll be forced to get up and will probably retch all over your fine gambeson.” Walter made a move to haul himself upright.
Renault moved back, hands up. “An ale for you then, fine. Consider it done.” He paused before he left. “I truly am sorry, Walter. From the depth of my soul.”
Renault stepped outside and breathed in the cool February air. He generally didn’t spend much time in ale houses like most other soldiers, but instead chose to save his money to afford a better life. Now, he made his way to the Pig’s Helm, a particular favorite of Walter’s, and placed a coin on the bar.
He took his time drinking the thick, gritty ale, sitting in a corner as his brethren celebrated their victory over the small village of Castleton.
Until the next retaliatory attack, of course. There would always be one from the Scots. Then one from the English. On and on they would go.
But as the revelry continued, he couldn’t help but notice the curious glances toward him, the side-eyed glares. Unease snagged at the back of his mind.
Were they regarding him with distrust?
His mind was foggy from lack of sleep and from what Walter had mentioned about Lord Bothbury’s other spies and the rumors about Ena. He set the remainder of his ale on the table, then stood to leave. Several sets of eyes settled on him and stayed, following his steps from the table to the door he pushed outside. The door swung shut behind him, dulling the loud chatter of conversation.
Doubts invaded his thoughts then, consuming him. Had he been seen when he attacked Walter? Who else was working for the warden?
He found his home quickly as his mind tossed through a hazy stream of thoughts: to run, to stay, to hide, to go to Scotland, to marry Ena and never step foot in England ever again. The latter held the greatest appeal. Except that they’d come for him. It would never be over.
He opened the door to his cottage, stepped into the dark room and froze.
The hearth glowed with a cheery fire. One he had not lit.
He pulled his dagger from his belt.
“Ye willna be needing that,” a feminine voice said, her Scottish accent like a low purr.
He lowered his blade and turned toward Ena. She’d pushed off the hood of her cloak and her hair had been bound back in a braid. His battered heart lifted in his chest, the ache soothing at the mere sight of her.
She rushed across the room and threw herself into his arms as her mouth found his. “Ach, ye’re freezing,” she murmured.
He leaned back and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.”
“’Tis why I’m here.” She studied him. “There’s to be a raid tomorrow night, to retaliate for what the English did to Castleton.”
Renault clenched his fist. The back and forth of hostility was never ending. Violence and loss were given and taken in the name of retaliation. It had been thus since the dawn of time and would continue to the end of time.
He frowned.
“I had to tell ye.” Ena’s hands went to his face, cupping it between her cold palms. “I canna bear the thought of ye being hurt.”
He stared down into her long-lashed eyes. She had risked her life to come to the English side of the border to warn him. More than that, she had trusted he wouldn’t share this news with the Earl of Bothbury. He knew what Bran meant to her and she had put his life at risk by telling Renault.
He pulled her into his arms, curling them around her protectively. “You put yourself in danger coming here.”
“For ye.” Her words were muffled against his chest where she’d buried her face against him.
He bowed his head over her and kissed the top of her head. Her hair was cool and silky under his lips and smelled faintly of sunshine, flowers and sweet hay.
Ena.
She was the balm for the wounds cut deep by betrayal and suspicion. She glided over his hurt, filling the void with the promise of healing. Of happiness.
“Ye havena asked me for my answer.” She leaned back and regarded him tenderly. “About marriage.” Her cheeks colored slightly.
“Are you blushing?” he teased.
“I might be.” Her mouth lifted at the corners. “Do ye want it? My answer, I mean.”
His heart seized in his chest. “Aye, I do.”
He didn’t deser
ve this. He didn’t deserve her. He should tell her to leave, that he’d made a mistake. That she would be happier with another man. A better man. One who had been loyal to his own people.
She bit her lower lip and nodded, showing him a shyness that he would never have suspected from a woman so fierce. “Aye,” she whispered.
And just like that, with one simple word, all the protests raging in his mind fell away and a world of future possibilities took their place. A cottage in Scotland with Ena at his side, their babe in her arms.
A family. A place to belong.
“Ena.” Her name caught in his throat.
“Renault.” She put her hands to his chest and lifted onto her toes.
He kissed her then, showing her with his lips what he could not put into words. How beautiful he found her, how deeply she affected him.
It would be so easy to leave with her and go to Scotland in that moment. He could put everything behind him and only ever look forward from here on out. Except that he was not that kind of man. He had to ensure Walter’s full recovery and he had to do everything in his power to keep Bothbury’s men from coming after Ena and Bran. And him, for that matter.
“On the morrow,” he heard himself say. “I’ll come midday. I want to be with you, in Scotland, in our own cottage.”
“So soon?” she gasped. “I havena told Bran.”
He brushed his fingertips over her soft cheek. “We’ll tell him together.”
The worry smoothed from her brow.
A distant sound caught his attention. A rhythmic thumping. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end before he could even recognize it as the cacophony of several sets of marching feet.
“You need to go.” He pulled her to him and kissed her firmly. “Now.” He guided her toward the door.
Unlike her cottage, he had only one exit from his home. It was at the front, where everyone would see someone enter and leave. She hesitated before leaving. “Something is amiss. What is it?”
He shook his head. There was no time to tell her all now. How he’d attacked Walter, how other men had been spying on him. He only hoped Walter was correct in his assumption that they didn’t know where Ena lived.
“On the morrow,” he promised in a vow he was not certain he would be able to keep. “I’ll tell you on the morrow.”
She nodded without certainty.
“Quickly.” He opened the door a crack and nudged her toward it.
Ena blinked up at him, then kissed him once more, her lips pressing to his own. He memorized her in that brief moment. The heat of her mouth, how perfectly her body fit against his and the brightness of her floral and sweet hay scent.
She slipped out with a final backward glance and was gone. He staggered back from the door and strained to listen. The steps were closer. There was enough time to run, but if he went to Scotland, they would find him there. Ena and her brother would most likely pay for his treason with their lives.
There was nothing for it but to stay and face the consequences of his actions.
He closed his eyes and summoned Ena’s face in his mind. The graceful arch of her brows, the regal line of her cheekbones, her generous mouth. As the steps came closer, regret squeezed in his chest. For he knew with certainty, he would not meet with her on the morrow.
Or any day after that.
9
The marching came closer, the choppy staccato of footsteps matching the frantic beat of Renault’s heart. A solid knock rapped upon the door. Though he’d been expecting it, he flinched at the sound.
The time had come.
He reached for the latch on the door, but it flew open before he could touch it. One of the earl’s guards filled the space with his vivid red livery, his face set in a stony expression.
“You are being arrested for the crime of treason,” the man said.
While Renault could not recall the man’s name, he knew him. They’d fought together in battles defending Kershopefoot. Back to back, brethren in war.
Renault nodded in understanding, a silent indication he wouldn’t fight.
Two men entered the room, men he did know by name. They grasped his arms with force but did not look at him. He didn’t speak as he was led to the castle. After all, there was no justification to offer.
They would have no sympathy for his plight with Ena. Nor could he tell them out of fear they would seek her out and exact retribution. Anyone from the Scottish Middle March was their enemy. Not someone to save.
Certainly not someone to love.
The thought slammed into him as he was led from the brightness of an extraordinarily sunny day into the icy darkness of the castle. Chills prickled over Renault’s skin and the menacing rhythm of wooden-soled shoes striking the floor echoed off the stone walls around them.
He had knowledge that could save him, the information Ena had provided to ensure he remained safe during the upcoming raid. Except that he’d rather cut out his own liver and present it to the Earl of Bothbury than give him Ena’s trusted secret.
Nay, such a consideration was not even an option. Renault would face his punishment.
The English Middle March Warden sat on his dais in the great hall. He set aside the slice of venison he was eating and rose to his feet. “You’ve been one of my primary sources of information for some time, Renault.”
The soldiers who had come for Renault did not leave. Definitely not a good sign.
The young earl came closer with slow steps and stopped in front of him, eyes bright with the blood lust of vengeance. “I trusted you and you betrayed us all.”
Renault said nothing. He’d learned early on in his youth never to concede to a wrongdoing until it was mentioned first by another. Volunteering his transgressions would do him no favors.
“Someone said they saw you attack one of your fellow soldiers.” The earl set his jaw. “What say you to this?”
Renault’s heartbeat thundered in his chest, pumping raw energy in his veins. With nowhere to go, it pooled in his stomach, churning with anxiety against the ale he’d consumed earlier.
“There was a woman in that cottage with no one to protect her,” Renault said.
The earl’s mouth dropped open, incredulous. Whatever he had been expecting from Renault, it was not this.
“She is our enemy,” Bothbury said. “The Scots wouldn’t hesitate to break through the door of a hut where a lone woman cowered in fear.”
“Then why act as they do?” Renault demanded in a fury of emotion. “If you hate them so much and refer to them as barbarians, why do you behave like them?”
Rage flashed in the Earl of Bothbury’s face and Renault knew he had pushed too far.
“Retaliation.” The earl’s lip curled up. “We wouldn’t do it if they did not.”
Renault matched the man’s disgust with his own. “And so, it will continue until the end of time.”
“You attacked one of your brethren.” The Earl of Bothbury’s mouth drew in a thin line. “A man you considered a brother, if I am not mistaken.”
The warden’s words were like a hot dagger sliding between Renault’s ribs and piercing the very center of his heart. Clearly, Walter had told after all. And if Walter had spoken, Ena would not be safe in her home. Not if he had confessed where she lived.
Renault drew in a pained breath. “I did as you said.” His response came without the fire of his previous replies.
The earl nodded, his eyes sharp with ferocity. “Then I sentence you to death. But not until you’ve rotted in the dungeon first.” He addressed the soldiers, “Take him out of my sight.”
Rough hands grasped Renault’s arms. Though he was willing to walk of his own accord, they tugged at him, so his feet tangled against one another and he stumbled. They relished dragging him over the unforgiving stone floors that knocked against his knees without mercy.
He couldn’t blame them. A month ago, he might have reacted with the same vehemence. Before he’d gotten to know his enemy. Before there had been
a face on those they were attacking.
Before Ena.
Something in his chest crumpled with a pain so vicious, it blotted out the physical abuse he endured on his way to the dungeon. He would never see her again. The dank air of the dungeon hit him at the same time as its damp chill. Darkness swallowed them along with the excited shouts of other prisoners trapped within the bowels of the castle.
Renault scarcely heard them any more than he did the soldier’s scorn and hatred. Not when his own thoughts roiled with such anguish. Ena would wait for him and he would never come. Their future together had ended before it could even begin. Because of him.
And if Walter confessed where the cottage was, Bothbury might already know its location. Ena could be in danger.
The door to the cell was locked with a savage wrench of a key and a shower of spittle in his direction. Renault curled into his mind and recalled every moment with Ena, every curve of her face and husky note of her voice. And then he lowered his head and prayed. For forgiveness from a lord more just than the one he had served on Earth, for Ena’s heart which he would surely break, for her womb to remain empty after the intimacy they had shared, and that she be forever safe.
A knot tightened in his throat. He had erred greatly on too many levels and soon he would pay for them all.
The sun sank like a ball of fire into the breast of the hills beyond. Earlier that day, Ena’s primary concern had been bringing up the idea of her marriage to Bran. She’d worked up the courage on several occasions, venturing so far as to strike up a conversation with him.
But as soon as the words formed themselves in her mind, the truth that she had fallen for an Englishman and that she intended to marry him, caused her tongue to freeze in her mouth. Aye, Renault had planned to tell Bran with her, but she was Bran’s sister. She shouldn’t need support to have a simple talk with her brother.
As the day progressed into night, however, those concerns grew into a niggling fear.
Renault was not coming.
And Renault was armed with knowledge that could kill Bran and his men. Yet there was more; she didn’t know what had become of the Englishman at her door. Regardless, it would doubtless be deemed treasonous to his own people. No matter how she considered his absence, it did not bode well.
Ena’s Surrender Page 7