The Penitent: De Wolfe Pack Connected World

by Cathy MacRae

  “I will not be manipulated,” he breathed softly. “Pack your bags and prepare to return to Belwyck Castle.”

  Kaily hissed and snatched her hand away then took a step back. “Lady de Wylde will not be pleased. She is my friend.”

  She whirled in a rage of skirts. Snatching up her belongings, she flung them into the open chest. The room was cleared in a matter of moments, though Simon imagined the dresses would require some care once they were unpacked. Which mattered not a whit to him.

  Kaily grabbed an embroidered cloak. She placed a hand on the door latch and flung a furious look over her shoulder.

  “This is not over between us!” Yanking the door open, she stormed from the room.

  “Oh, yes, sweet Kaily, it most certainly is.”

  “Saint Cuthbert’s wee prick!”

  Iseabal came to a halt on Mary’s heels and peered around her into the gloom of the sheep fold. Sunlight slanted across the floor from an opening where wooden slats lay broken on the ground. Ewes milled about, drifting close to the gap, their loyalty to the flock keeping them from escaping.

  “Help me count the wee blighters,” Mary said with a harrumph of frustration, indicating the ewes with a sweep of her hand.

  Iseabal immediately began counting. She lost track in the sea of white bodies and started over. “I count thirty-eight.”

  Mary bit back a curse. “We’ve a pair o’ lasses missing. The ewes in this pen havenae lambed yet, so they dinnae have a bairn at their sides.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’ll look for the ornery besoms after I get this batch fed.”

  “I’ll do it. It looks as if ’twill rain soon, and I can hope to be back before the weather is too bad.”

  “Och, ye dinnae know yer way about, nor where the sheep are likely to head. Dinnae fash yerself, lass. I’ll see to it.”

  “Dinnae be ridiculous. I can spend my time tramping the moors and the ewes need to be found before . . . .” Iseabal stopped, not wanting to imagine the ewes hunted by wolves. If they lambed in the open, the wobbly newborns could easily fall prey to a number of animals. “Ye are needed here. Aggie can watch Ewan, and I will take Shep with me.”

  Mary shrugged. “Take a bit o’ food with ye and some bandaging cloths. Ye never know what mischief they’ve gotten into.”

  Iseabal nodded, firming her decision to leave Ewan with his nurse. He might find tramping about in the rain fun for a bit, but finding a wounded—or dead—ewe or lamb would break his young heart. After telling Aggie where she was going, she kissed Ewan’s protests away, promising to bake a cake when she returned.

  She collected a basket of the items Mary suggested and draped her wool cloak over her head. She threaded her sling through her belt and hefted a stout walking stick for added protection. Whistling Shep to her side, she set off through the thickening mists.

  The gray spring morning quickly turned blustery. The wind lashed the misty rain. Iseabal headed up the slopes of the moors where the sheep were released to graze after lambing. She slipped once, her boot sucked into a boggy patch. Iseabal clutched her cloak tighter and followed Shep’s bounding gait around bits of scrub and rock.

  She’d fallen quite a bit behind when she heard Shep’s bark.

  “A moment, laddie! I’m coming!”

  Quickening her pace, she climbed over stones and skirted marshy areas, at last reaching the dog. He stood guard over two ewes and a wee lamb that trembled violently in the cold wind.

  “Och, ye poor thing!” Iseabal squatted beside the lamb and grabbed a cloth from her basket. She rubbed the wool briskly, drying the birth fluid from his coat.

  “Which one of ye is his ma?” she questioned, her teeth chattering as a gust of rain-laden air blew her hood from her head. One of the ewes bleated and, lifting her tail, deposited another lamb at Iseabal’s feet. The ewe swiveled about, peering at the new lamb as though startled to see it. She nosed it roughly, pushing it to its feet. The other ewe chuckled deep in her throat in an encouraging manner.

  “Do not have another,” Iseabal scolded, fully aware triplets were not at all uncommon, “if ye expect me to carry yer brood home. Two is all I can manage.”

  She set aside the first lamb and pulled another cloth from her basket. She dried the second lamb as much as she could, then wrapped them each against the cold. Sitting back on her heels to survey her handiwork, she heard Shep’s warning growl a moment before he exploded into furious barking.

  Pivoting about, she swept hair and rain from her face, peering into the gray gloom.

  Two shadows darker than the gray rain and mist shifted, one to either side. Golden eyes sparkled in the gloom. Quivering lips swept back, showing glistening white teeth.

  Wolves!

  Iseabal reached for the sling at her belt, crouching lower, her opposite hand sweeping the ground for stones to fit the cradle. She cursed as one of the ewes bleated, drawing the wolves nearer. Setting a rock in the web of the sling, she leapt to her feet, swinging the sling in an arc just behind her right shoulder as her brother had taught her. The two wolves hunkered down at her threat and growled a warning.

  Seizing the opportunity, Iseabal released the sling, stepping into the throw to give it more power. The rock whipped through the air, striking one wolf in the head. He yelped and drew back. Shep leapt at the wolf and was lost in a flurry of snarling fur. Iseabal, her sling already reloaded, launched a rock at the second wolf. He slunk backward, but the stone struck his body.

  The sheep bleated in fear and the second wolf circled to the side. Iseabal slung another rock, striking him again, but he would not be deterred. Angry and terrified, Iseabal stomped her foot.

  “Get by, ye beast! These arenae yer sheep!” She crouched to the ground seeking another handful of stones. The wolf leapt, clipping her shoulder and sending her stumbling backward. The wolf yelped then fell to the ground and was silent.

  The first wolf faded away into the rain.

  Iseabal stared dumbfounded at the dead wolf next to her then scrambled to her feet.

  “Shep?”

  The dog whined and rose slowly to his feet, one paw dangling above the ground, the white of his ruff stained dark. Iseabal dropped to her knees beside him and hugged him close, tears blinding her eyes. He licked her face then stiffened, a low growl rattling his chest.

  Iseabal spun about, a stone in her hand.

  Dark lines like saplings sprouted where no trees had been minutes earlier. Rain pelted from black clouds covering the sun, dripping over the broad, wool-covered shoulders of a man on horseback no more than a few paces away.

  Iseabal’s throat dried. Her heart beat painfully in her chest. An ewe bleated plaintively behind her. Shep sidled against Iseabal, baring his teeth to the stranger.

  Chapter Nine

  Simon balanced a dagger lightly between his fingers, ready to send it to join the other already buried in the wolf’s body. His horse snorted and pawed the earth, a signal of unease as well as an intent to paw the predator into the ground. Two knights nudged their horses forward, one to either side.

  Iseabal rose, blocking his aim. Her dog stood at her side, blood staining the white of the coat about his neck. Simon glanced past Iseabal and reassured himself the wolf on the ground did not move, then swung down from his horse. Garin took the reins. Steel shushed into scabbards as Garin and Richard sheathed their weapons.

  “Are ye injured?” Simon’s gaze swept her sodden form. Her black hair hung limp on either side of her face, pulling free from the twist of braids wrapped around her head. Raindrops clung to her dark lashes, green eyes sparkling. Mud coated the hem of her cloak. A length of woven cloth hung from one hand and he understood the wolves’ earlier startled reaction.

  “Ye are skilled with a sling.”

  Iseabal glanced down at the empty weapon in her hand then drew the strings through the belt at her waist. “’Twasn’t enough. I have ye to thank for dispatching yon beast.” She rubbed her shoulder. “Had I not crouched for another rock, he would ha
ve struck me full on.”

  Her face, normally pale, whitened further. She wobbled then straightened her shoulders.

  “I must tend to Shep, then return to the croft quickly. The lambs need shelter.” She knelt at the dog’s side and pushed aside the reddened fur, fingers probing through the wet coat.

  “Let me help,” Simon said, stepping forward.

  “I can do it,” she snapped.

  Startled, Simon halted. “I know ye are capable. But ’tis getting darker and I do not know if the other wolf will return or not.”

  Iseabal paused. “Thank ye.”

  Simon squatted beside her and examined the dog’s wound. “It still bleeds, yet does not appear life-threatening. His leg, howbeit, may require attention.”

  “We will travel slowly. I will carry the lambs.” Iseabal reached for the drenched twins.

  “Damned, but ye will not! North Hall is just atop the ridge. I will take ye there until this weather eases. All of ye need shelter, and your dog needs care.”

  “I cannae. I must go home.” Iseabal’s startling green eyes glowed beneath dark lashes.

  “Ye helped me once,” Simon murmured, laying a restraining hand on her shoulder. “This will require little effort and I risk nothing, yet it is a small measure of repayment for a past kindness.”

  She snorted and stood, drawing away. “Repayment? Risk? Ye have no idea.”

  “I have gained a bit of wisdom these past five years. I understand what could have happened should ye have been caught sheltering an English knight.”

  Iseabal shrugged. “I was young and foolish. I daresay I wouldnae risk such again.”

  Simon frowned. “Were ye punished?” The idea infuriated him, yet it would have been well within her father’s right had she been caught in such disobedience.

  Iseabal tilted her head. “Nae.” She shuddered and glanced away.

  Simon’s frown deepened. Iseabal was cold, wet, and there was something between them that needed to be said. Damned if he was going to do it in the pouring rain.

  “Get on the horse, Iseabal. I will hand the lambs up to ye.”

  She hesitated. Simon plowed past her and grabbed the lambs, ignoring the bleats of alarm and Shep’s warning bark. “I’ll not have your death on my hands. Get on the horse.”

  A warning slant of her chin reminded Simon his Scottish lass might not be the pliable young woman he remembered. He tempered the command.

  “Please.”

  There was no fluttery coquettish grin of triumph, merely a slight softening of her posture before she acceded to his request and strode to the horse. She shoved her raised foot at the stirrup, but her aim was poor and she missed. Simon thrust the lambs at Richard then placed his hands at Iseabal’s waist. Her body beneath the cloak was cold, stiff—and only partly because he laid hands on her, if his guess was accurate. Giving her a push, he set her in the saddle. He mounted behind her then nudged his horse into a slow walk, mindful of the injured dog and the sheep he wouldn’t leave behind.

  They wound their way up the slope, picking their way over and around rocks and boulders. The dog limped behind the sheep which clustered behind Richard’s horse, following the bleating lambs.

  The gate to the keep swung open at Simon’s signal. They dismounted next to the door to the hall and two stable boys dashed through the rain to collect the horses. Iseabal insisted Richard give her the lambs, but at Simon’s frown, the young knight carried the twins inside the hall, leaving word for someone to rouse the shepherd. Shep hobbled at Iseabal’s heels, head down, tail drooping. Simon noticed silver grizzling the dog’s muzzle and issued an instruction for blankets to be brought to the hearth for dog and beasts.

  Half-afraid Iseabal would disappear if he left her side, Simon shed his drenched cloak next to the fire and handed his leather hauberk to a squire for cleaning. He stepped to the hearth and pulled Iseabal’s cloak from her shoulders and spread it across a bench to dry.

  She knelt beside the lambs and used one of the blankets to rub them briskly. Shep nosed the pair, licking their coats. Steam rose from Iseabal, the lambs, and the dog as the fire warmed them.

  “Your skin is like ice,” Simon noted, placing the backs of his fingers against Iseabal’s cheek. She flinched as though he’d struck her, then redoubled her efforts to dry the lamb. The creature bleated.

  “I have servants to help. Do not rub their coats away.” Simon beckoned two women to the hearth. With an exchange of glances, Iseabal relinquished the lambs to their care. A third woman laid a tray of bandages and unguents on the bench beside the hearth and stroked the dog’s head.

  “Poor boy,” she crooned. “What a good dog ye are to protect the lambs.”

  Iseabal actually smiled. Relief lanced through Simon. He took Iseabal’s hand and raised her to her feet. “We must warm ye. Your charges are being cared for.”

  “Dinnae fash over me. I will dry quick enough by the fire.”

  “And have a lung inflammation on the morrow,” Simon growled. “I can take better care of ye than that.”

  Glancing about the room, he spied Kaily as she crossed the hall, noting she and Iseabal were of a size. He called to her and waved her over.

  “See if ye can spare a gown for our guest. Then bring her back to the hall.”

  Kaily’s eyes widened, but she altered her course and led Iseabal from the room. Simon took the opportunity to grab the dry tunic Garin held out to him. Shedding his wet shirt left his skin prickling with cold, until the dry one settled warmly over his shoulders.

  Garin bumped his arm then nodded to the doorway where Iseabal and Kaily had exited.

  “I wouldn’t say that was the smartest thing ye ever did.”

  Simon followed his gaze. “What?”

  “Sending the woman ye’re interested in off with yer mistress.”

  “Kaily isn’t my mistress.”

  Garin’s eyebrows rose. “Ye haven’t proposed to the wench, have ye?”

  Simon shook his head. “No. She’s leaving the keep today.”

  Garin grunted. “Ye may be popular with the ladies, but ye do not understand them. Kaily will not be kind.”

  Iseabal followed the Englishwoman in silence. The rigid set of her shoulders spoke clearly of her dislike, though of what exactly, Iseabal did not know. Scottish hospitality would have been much warmer.

  Iseabal shivered and rubbed her arms. The passageway was dark and cold as it wound to the rear of the keep. Torches flickered on the wall, generating smoke but little warmth.

  The woman paused at a closed door, then knocked preemptively. The door opened and a young woman peered out. Her eyes widened and she bobbed her head.

  “Aye, m’lady?”

  “She needs something dry to wear.”

  Iseabal had no liking for the woman’s high-handed manner, but the younger lass hastened to do her bidding.

  Simon’s chatelaine? His wife? A moment of commiserative pity washed over her. He’ll have his hands full with that one.

  A moment later, Iseabal was garbed in a plain brown dress, a slightly frayed surcoat over the top for added warmth. The gown’s hem swung a few inches above her boots, but the relief of dry clothing pushed any dismay over improper fit from her mind.

  “Thank ye,” she said, glancing from the maid to the aloof woman who glared at her unkindly. “I ken what a sacrifice yer maid has made, offering me what is likely her second best gown. The generosity of her gift is much appreciated.”

  Her barb struck home. The older woman’s skin flushed an unbecoming shade of purple. Iseabal shifted her attention back to the maid.

  “My name is Iseabal. I will return yer gown to ye before I leave.”

  “Rosaline, m’lady,” the maid ventured with a short bob of respect. “I thank ye.”

  Rosaline motioned for Iseabal to turn around, then quickly combed out Iseabal’s hair and braided it, tucking an impudent wisp behind her ear. She then tugged and smoothed the gown and surcoat into place.

  Iseab
al’s escort tapped her toe impatiently. She leaned close to Iseabal’s ear. “Don’t bother setting your cap for Sir Simon. He is deceitful,” she hissed. Her nose in the air, she whirled and stalked from the room.

  “Her name’s Kaily,” the maid whispered. “M’lord sent her packin’ this morn.”

  His mistress. Ex-mistress.

  Giving the maid a slight nod of understanding, Iseabal followed Kaily. Her unhurried manner caught Kaily’s impatient wave from the door.

  “He will use ye and toss ye like so much spoiled meat,” Kaily huffed. “Do not think to beguile a pledge from him. He isn’t the marrying kind.”

  Iseabal hated to agree with her, but she’d already had her heart broken by the man, and could have given Kaily the exact same warning. Iseabal didn’t want Simon and could have reassured Kaily of her lack of interest. Unfortunately, it appeared the woman was all but out the door, though it was difficult to imagine Simon’s decision to be rid of his mistress had anything to do with her.

  Iseabal gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Marrying an Englishman isnae something I wish, though I take yer warning as ’tis meant. One woman to another.”

  Kaily halted abruptly, casting a glance up and down the passageway as if to be certain they were not overheard.

  “He was pleased enough to take me to his bed, and now refuses to accept responsibility and marry me.” She tossed her head. “I am a lady, not one of his strumpets.”

  Iseabal wisely kept her rejoinder to herself. She’d lain with the man as well, and had a child to show for it. Not that he’d ever get that information from her.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Ewan would give Simon a son without the need to marry. She could not allow that to happen. Would he suspect Ewan was his son? Iseabal tried unsuccessfully to push aside her rising panic. She and Ewan had no place else to go. Friar’s Hill was now their home, but with Simon lord of the village, Ewan would be too much in his sight. Simon was not a stupid man. It wouldn’t take much for him to consider the lad’s age and begin to ask questions.