by Cathy MacRae
He spoke with authority. Mayhap the laird’s commander? Steward or his magistrate?
Carys halted, leaning next to the window on the far wall. Fresh air whistled through the gap, its fingers cooling her ire.
Could the penalty for poaching truly be death? And, if so, why would this man offer marriage to commute her sentence? Such an action was incomprehensible. He’d shown her no warmth, no interest in her well-being or future beyond marriage. Why would he bind himself to her? What flaw kept him from marrying a woman of his own clan? His own choosing?
An image of the man flashed before her. Tall, stern, unyielding. Her late husband Terwyn had been none of those things. He’d matched her for height, treated her with respect and kindness. Their marriage had been no burden. Carys flinched. Marriage to this MacLean brute? He was strong, obviously skilled with weapons—he’d dodged the blade easily enough. But she’d learned how to protect herself without relying on a man, and her skills were honed through the necessity of war and the struggle to survive.
Mayhap she should agree to this man’s offer, then use the opportunity to escape since she could see no way out of this tower. Carys quickly discarded the idea. The MacLean chief might be lacking in honor, but as a daughter of Cymru, hers remained intact. Any vows she made she’d keep, unlike her traitorous countrymen who’d betrayed their prince at Orewin Bridge the dark day that sent her and Hywel fleeing their homeland.
Was her life about to come to a violent end swinging from a hangman’s noose?
Death follows ye like a hound.
The auld woman’s words sent shivers down Carys’s spine.
I dinnae wish to die. The choice was taken from Hywel. Why is it being offered to me?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Birk opened the tower room door, the faint creak of salt-laden metal hinges alerting the prisoner. Her dark eyes pierced him as he directed a lad inside. The boy placed a small folding table near the window, adding a tray of sliced meat, a bowl of raspberries, and a chunk of warm bread, redolent with yeasty fragrance, and a dish of fresh-churned yellow butter. With a short bow to his laird, he hurried from the room. Birk reached behind him, his gaze steady on the Welsh woman—recalling what Captain Ferguson had known of her history—and closed the door.
She glanced quickly at the portal, telling Birk she knew it wasn’t latched.
Without correcting his apparent lapse, he strolled to the table and set a three-armed candleholder on its surface. The flames leapt about, disturbed by the rush of air from the narrow window. He then placed a flask on an empty corner and waved a hand invitingly over the small feast.
“Eat,” he commanded.
She swept her glance to the table then back to him. “Are you so certain I will accept your offer?”
“I am. There would be no reason to feed ye if ye were bound for the gallows.”
The woman continued to stare at him, steady, fearless. . . and unwilling to back down even one inch.
“Eating doesnae signify yer answer, neither aye nor nae,” he grunted. “Ye must be hungry, and I wish to know ye better.”
“And if you do not like me after you get to know me? What then? Will you stand by your offer? Or send me to the hangman?”
“Ye cannae have it both ways,” Birk replied, his voice rumbling low with exasperation. “Ye cannae ask me to honor my offer and refuse to accept it.”
She strode to the table and, choosing several of the dark pink fruit, popped them into her mouth. She chewed then swallowed. “I dinnae say I would refuse.”
Birk’s ire rose, but he recognized not a woman’s prevarication, but a warrior’s first steps into negotiating a surrender. She lifted her chin, daring him to take the next step in the critical dance.
“The first thing I would like to know about ye is yer name.”
The statement clearly startled her, but the flicker in her eyes settled into a light twitch of her lips.
“Carys.” She lifted a brow, inviting him to respond in kind.
“Birk.”
She edged around the table, keeping him in sight, never turning her back to him. Taking the flask, she sniffed then tilted it to her lips. She emptied half the flagon of ale before setting it down. Picking up the small loaf of bread, she tore a thick wedge from it and topped it with a slice of meat.
“Besides a wife, what do you stand to gain from this?”
“I have two wee daughters who need a ma.”
Her eyelids flickered. Interest? Birk knew of her rumored kindness to his clansmen. Did she like children? She seemed to like Gorrie, and he was clearly besotted with her.
She tapped a toe, revealing agitation. “And allowing a criminal to raise them is your solution?”
Birk shrugged. “As ye said, feeding the laird’s people shouldnae be a crime.”
She took a bite of the meat and bread, apparently giving him the point. “Ye live here?” She indicated the castle with a nod of her head.
“Aye. Part of the time. I have been known to also reside at MacLean Castle.”
Carys swallowed the last bite and brushed her hands on her trews. “How old are your daughters?”
“Eislyn has seven summers, Abria, four. And I will confess I gave them a wee puppy the other day.” His grimace elicited a faint smile from Carys.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” she said. “Little girls love ponies and puppies.”
His frown deepened. “Eislyn wishes to learn to sail and wield a knife.”
Carys’s brow quirked upward. “She sounds like a wise lass not to have to rely on a man.”
Could it be this easy? The woman shows interest in a wee lass with a knife? Dugan’s suggestions have merit, then. How long would I have treated her like a prisoner before it occurred to me to play to her strengths? At least I havenae lied to her. Not directly, that is. For some reason Dugan believes she will want the truth from me. Not endless posturing and sweet lies.
Thank Saint Andrew for that!
“I have an errand to accomplish before I can accept your offer. Will you trust me?”
Birk snapped his attention back to Carys, wary. “What is this errand? I will see it is done.”
“Nae. I wish to do it myself. I cannot agree to your terms if I do not see the task through.”
“If ye were hanged, ye wouldnae accomplish yer goal, either,” he pointed out.
She drew her shoulders back, defiance sketched in her posture. “There is someone who would wish to know my fate—and I, his.”
Birk flinched. Had she formed an attachment with a lad in the area? A broken betrothal was a complication he did not relish. Howbeit, if a single visit solved the issue, it couldn’t be much of a commitment.
“Are ye spoken for?”
Carys’s eyes flashed. “I am widowed this year past. There has been no man in my life since Terwyn died at the hands of the English.”
Another piece to the puzzle of Carys. No wonder she wandered so far from home. Naught to keep her in Wales once Edward swept in.
Then her errand must be to return to Lorna and Fergal. It was plain there was an attachment between her and Dugan’s family. He must keep her from them at all cost. They would know him by name and could be trusted to enlighten Carys of his true title—and his deception—within moments. As Baron of Morvern, he could easily drop the charge against her with no need to secure her alliance. He would have no hold over her. Seizing her for violating an ancient law had been to secure her and force an immediate marriage. To avoid the messy process of convincing family and council to accept a woman with no dowry or clan alliance.
If Carys refused to marry him, his plan was lost and he’d grown weary of searching for a woman he wished to marry, of the eager—and not-so-eager—women thrust at him for inspection. No. It must be this Welsh woman with the pale skin, black hair, and eyes as stormy as the gales that blew down the Strait of Mull.
Carys struggled to keep her hands from fisting and exposing the anger churning beneath her breast. The man gained ev
erything from marriage and left her without even the ability to see her previous responsibilities were met. This was no convenient step away from the hangman’s noose, but one straight into the darkest trap. At least the hangman was honest in what he offered. All the acceptance she’d reluctantly gathered to support this mad scheme scattered like startled grouse at the first sign of a predator.
“I will not walk into this and lose every freedom I have fought hard to possess.” She advanced a step, clenching her fists tight, shoulders bristled forward. “You hold the upper hand with your outrageous law, but if you expect blind obedience from me, I will gladly face the noose instead!”
His brows plunged together. He opened his mouth, but a loud thump sounded at the door a second before it opened. A man Carys did not recognize stepped inside.
“Pirates,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent.
A common enemy.
“I can fight,” Carys stated, stepping firmly toward the door. Birk’s outstretched arm blocked her path.
“No need.”
She bristled. “Do not presume I will retire meekly when I can be of assistance,” she warned. “I will not live beneath the heel of your boot.”
Birk appeared before her in a swift, silent move, scarcely a hand’s breadth away. “Fight whom ye will, so long as it isnae me.”
“Do not give me reason,” she countered, tilting her face upward to meet his hard gaze.
His breath, warm and heavy, betrayed some emotion in him. Carys’s heart sped, not from the threat of pirates, but from his overwhelming maleness. He was a formidable foe—and would make a passionate defender. Or lover.
She swallowed the urge to retreat. With a brisk nod, he broke their impasse, turning his gaze to the man at the door.
“Add her terms to the marriage contract.”
The man startled. “Aye.”
Birk swung about, booted feet striding to the door. He hesitated, then glanced back at Carys. “The pirates cannae breach the castle walls. But they can wreak havoc in the village.”
“I have fought pirates. I will fight at your side or there is nothing between us.”
His eyes hardened, as though attempting to gauge her intent. “Dinnae betray me.”
Carys lifted her chin. “My word is my honor.” She sent the messenger at the door a haughty glare. “Add that to the contract.”
Birk drew a dagger from his belt. “Ye will need this.”
He handed the blade to her, hilt first, then plunged through the doorway, not waiting to see if she would follow or fling the dagger at him. She slipped the weapon into the sheath at her boot and descended the long stairs at his heels.
The bailey was awash with men, their movements concise, hurried yet controlled. Men who knew their jobs well and awaited orders. Birk conferred with the man who’d brought the news to the tower then turned to the stair leading to the parapet. Flames danced smokily at the ends of torches set on the wall, a macabre evening dance.
The door to the hall flung open and two small girls burst into the yard. A puppy bounded at their heels, its tailless rump bouncing.
“Da!”
Birk whirled and advanced on the pair. “Where is yer nurse?” he demanded.
The girls halted, the younger ducked behind her sister. Their dark hair marked them clearly as Birk’s daughters, his alarm confirmed it.
“Ina is screeching under the table,” the elder declared with a toss of her head. “She’s too afraid of pirates to fight.”
The younger hid her face in her sister’s dress, trembling visibly. Carys’s heart skipped a beat in sympathy for the child.
Birk dropped a hand on the taller girl’s shoulder. “Ye must take Abria and go inside. ’Tis not safe here.”
“Amma taught me—”
Birk cut her protest short. “No. Now is not the time.”
Steel rasped on leather as swords were checked and daggers thrust into sheaths. Horses neighed, sensing the tension. Smoke drifted on a breeze as fires were lit on the parapet. Anxious cries flared as other doors in adjacent buildings opened, spilling more soldiers into the yard. Birk’s daughter’s high-pitched argument sent Carys spinning back into a memory she’d thought lost.
Mam! The word was but a whisper through lips paralyzed with fear. Men on horses stormed past, breaching the walls of the peaceful village. Too late the castle opened its gates to the villagers. Too late did Llywelyn’s man dispatch soldiers to halt the raid.
Though related to the prince, Carys and her family did not share quarters in the castle, and this morning, as seven-year-old Carys slipped out of their cottage at the first hint of dawn to feed her new pony, raiders swept through the small town, seizing or destroying all within their grasp.
The pony, frightened by the screams of horses and people alike, and crazed by the billowing smoke from ignited thatch, jerked and plunged at the end of his lead, the far end held in his owner’s tiny hands and wrapped about her slender wrists. He darted from the shed, pulling Carys behind him. She stumbled after him, her strides lengthening impossibly until she fell on her face, unable to release the rope.
He raced down an alley and into the market area. Shying violently to one side, he at last broke free, leaving Carys face down in a pile of debris.
She sat up slowly, her hands and wrists red with painful rope burns. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, a combination of snot, dirt and tears. A different odor assailed her. Sickly, cloying, much like the smell of a freshly killed and gutted deer. Carys peered around her, her gaze finding a bundle of what appeared to be rags—or a dropped basket of clothing. But who would be washing laundry this early in the day?
She crept closer, a flutter in her belly sending warnings she only partly heeded. Reaching the rags, the odor intensified. Hand trembling, she lifted the corner of what might have once been a smock, recognizing the pretty embroidery along the hem as belonging to the baker’s oldest daughter.
Older, more experienced in war and death, Carys clearly knew what she’d seen that day, but she still quaked with the horror in her seven-year-old self. A second mouth blossomed red and black beneath the young woman’s jaw. Her clothes were a jumble about her, distorting her slender figure.
Mam! Carys had crept into a dark corner, drawn her knees to her chest, and waited to be found, prayers merging with her sobs. The nightmares had lasted for months, to be eventually replaced by other harsh realities of life.
Why now? Why remember this raid when so many years and wars had passed?
Birk’s daughter’s voice trembled, pulling Carys back to the present. There appeared to be no one to take the children in hand.
She cast an impatient look at Birk. She was a warrior, not a nursemaid. She fingered the knife he’d given her, running her thumb over the roughened hilt. It would be but a moment’s effort to take the girls inside the castle and find their nurse, though the woman seemed incapable of protecting the wee ones. And there were things no child should see.
Carys moved beside him. “I will take them.”
He sent her a startled look, relief warring with wariness. Would he turn his daughters over to a stranger? Even one he’d proposed marriage to not an hour earlier? Kidnapping and ransom—not to mention using the girls as hostages for Carys’s escape—would not be unheard of.
“They will be safe with me.” She lifted her chin. “Upon my honor.”
The elder girl’s attention diverted and her sister peeked from behind her skirts. “Who are ye?”
“I am from Cymru—or Wales, you might say—come to tell you and your corgi a story of pirates,” Carys replied breezily. “Come with me.”
She gathered the girls and turned to the tower. She glanced at Birk. “Set a guard at the door and do not worry about us.”
“Where are we going?” the older child asked, stooping to pick up the puppy. “And how did ye know she’s a corgi?”
“Corgi simply means small dog in Cymraeg. I have seen many in my country.”
The girl cla
sped the pup to her chest, struggling with its wiggly weight. “Do ye speak Welsh? ’Cause Da says she needs a Welsh name.”
“I do,” Carys replied, deftly plucking the dog from the girl’s arms as she guided them swiftly to the stair. She sent Birk a final reassuring look, then scooped the smallest girl in her other arm, settling her on her hip.
His gaze met hers in a long, assessing stare. With a snap of his fingers, he sent a warrior with a limp to her side. Recognizing him as the man she’d tumbled down the side of the ravine, Carys raised a brow, inviting his loyalty, refusing hostility.
“I am Brody,” he grunted. “Ye are a fair hand in close combat. I willnae make the same mistakes with ye again.”
“I am honored to meet ye, Brody,” Carys replied, unable to suppress a grin at his admission.
Brody’s curt nod of acknowledgement passed for formal acceptance. He swooped the other child into his arms and plucked a torch from a sconce as she continued her excited chatter about the puppy, her amma, and pirates.
Behind them, the protesting creak of the portcullis shrilled over the rattle of horses’ hooves on the cobble stone entry way. Carys noted the generous placement of soldiers along the wall and at the foot of the stair before the tower door closed behind them.
To the last of her breath, they would be safe.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Some hours later, a triple knock sounded at the door. Two rapid taps followed by a slight hesitation then a single rap. The heavy wooden panel muffled the voice requesting entry, but Brody seemed to recognize it nonetheless, and rose stiffly to his feet. Carys noted the large knife in his hand as he hobbled to one side of the portal, opening the door with a cautious nudge.
The man who had alerted them to the pirates stuck his head inside the room. After giving Carys and the girls a swift glance, he spoke to Brody.
“They are wanted in the hall.” He turned and disappeared down the narrow stairwell.
“It appears the pirates have been routed from the village,” Brody said, giving Carys a brief smile.