by Lisa Jackson
“Or us.”
Hagan lifted a shoulder. “I care not what McBrayne thinks.”
“You should. He’s become powerful again and has an army twice the size of ours. He’s sworn to find the outlaws and bring them to justice.”
“As well he should,” Hagan said, though he seemed worried, probably because Sorcha had claimed she was attacked by outlaws, and those lawless men were somehow linked to Darton and therefore Erbyn. Hagan scowled into his trencher. “Who is the leader of this riffraff?”
“No one knows. But the sheriff has been unable to stop him.”
“Mayhaps you should ask your brother,” Sorcha suggested. “I see that Darton is not at the table.”
Hagan reached for a silver salt shaker sculpted into the shape of a stag and salted a piece of venison. “Darton is to remain in his room until I have settled this matter of your sister.”
“This matter of my sister,” she repeated, feeling the color drain from her face. “My sister nearly died, and the blame lies at Darton’s feet.”
“We do not know this yet,” Anne said, her gaze moving quickly about the room, as if she were afraid some of the guests would overhear Sorcha’s accusations.
“She was kidnapped. Held against her will and Lord knows what else. Of course it was Darton’s fault.”
She felt a big hand clamp over her arm. “Not here,” Hagan said through lips that barely moved. “I said I will settle things as best I can. You will have to trust me.”
Trust him? After what had happened? Was the man daft? “Never,” she vowed, knowing that she should simply bow her head and nod, pretend to accept his wisdom, but it was not in her nature to quietly turn a blind eye to deceit and treachery. She took a bite of bread and felt it swell in her throat.
Oh, that she’d been granted patience instead of a quick tongue, it would have served her well.
“More wine, m’lord?” A serving girl wedged herself between Hagan and Sorcha.
He nodded. “Aye, Lucy, a little,” he said, gesturing toward his cup. Lucy had hair like spun gold and she took her time as she filled the cup slowly, bending low, offering the baron a healthy glimpse of her abundant bosom. Like two plump pillows, her breasts rose above the edge of her bliaut.
“And you, Lady Sorcha?” Lucy asked, though her voice had gone flat and she barely moved to pour the wine into Sorcha’s cup.
Sorcha had never before felt jealousy, and yet her blood ran hot as Lucy turned back to Hagan, silently offering him much more than wine. What did it matter how many wenches he bedded? Just because he’d nearly lain with her, almost forced himself upon her, gave Sorcha no right to his affections, not that she wanted his attention. He was a liar, a devil, a murdering beast! Though he’d not slain Henry or Keane, his men had, and as baron, Hagan was responsible.
So why didn’t she want to rip his heart out? Why did her fingers not itch for her dagger so that she could wound him still further? Why did she still think of his lips on hers and the desire shining in his eyes when she’d surprised him in his bed?
She managed to keep still throughout the dessert of plum pudding, and after the pages had brought clean water and towels, Hagan turned to her. “Come,” he ordered, his expression revealing nothing. “I will show you the castle.”
“You said I could see Leah.”
“We will end in her chamber.”
“But I want not to waste time by—” She cut off her wayward thoughts and managed a thin smile. “As you wish.”
Hagan’s face was grim. “Understand this, Lady Sorcha. I will allow you the privilege of freedom within the castle walls. As I said, you are my guest, not my prisoner, but if you disobey me and try to leave Erbyn before I have settled things with your brother, or if you make mischief with the servants, or if I hear of any small argument that arises from you, I will do with you as I have with Darton and confine you to your room.”
“I will never be kept a prisoner—”
He whirled on her then, and his face, so impassive through dinner, was suddenly red with fury. “You shall do as I say, Sorcha. Forget you not that I am still the baron of Erbyn. While you are here, you will obey me!” He yanked on her arm. His boots rang loudly across the floor of the great hall as he forced her to keep up with him.
Seven
jorn had never seen such a magnificent animal. The horse had spirit and fire and allowed no one close without tossing his great head or kicking with enough force to snap a strong man’s leg. Aye, this new animal found in the woods was a fine steed, better than any animal in Erbyn, the first horse that could outrun any of Darton’s soldiers’ mounts, the only horse capable of bringing Bjorn his freedom.
“Come, boy,” Bjorn coaxed, his voice low and soothing as the horse, tethered in the stable, shifted in the straw and rolled his eyes. “For you …” He held an apple in his fingers, but the stallion snorted and pawed the floor.
“What do you think you’re doing? Get away from that beast!” The stable master’s voice echoed to the rafters, and the horse reared as far as the tether would allow. “Christ Jesus, Bjorn, I don’t know what goes through that stupid ’ead of yers!”
Every muscle in Bjorn’s body tightened. A shovel was propped against the wall, and it would take nothing to snatch it up and club old Roy over the head. The thought was pleasant, like forbidden wine.
“Get back to mucking out the stalls, and be quick about it,” Roy insisted, muttering under his breath about good-for-nothing peasants. “Lazy Viking or whatever the ’ell y’re.” He snorted and spit. “I’ve ’eard the stories about you, laddie. Think y’re somethin’ y’re not. What is it? The son of a princess from the North and some German soldier who raped her?” He snorted and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “That’s a good one, it is. Face it, son, y’re a bastard, boy; that’s what ye are and it’s all ye’ll ever be.”
Bjorn clamped his jaw shut. He picked up the shovel and again thought about bashing Roy’s skull. The old goat’s eyes would pop out of his head, but Bjorn resisted the urge and held on to the handle of the scoop until his knuckles showed white. At eighteen, Bjorn was taller than Roy, though not as heavy, and he was quick on his feet and stronger than anyone in the castle imagined.
Soon the time would be right. Bjorn glanced at the horse again, then threw his shoulders into his task and scooped out the dung. Some day old Roy would see the fire of his wrath. Viking! Ha. If the old man only knew.
“… and these are the stables. You are not allowed use of any of the horses without my approval.” The baron’s deep voice filtered through the open door. Bjorn glanced through the crack and looked into the bailey to see Lord Hagan, who was showing the grounds to the most beautiful woman Bjorn had ever seen.
She was small, a full head shorter than the baron, but she tilted her fine chin up defiantly and she glared at him with fierce blue eyes. Her tiny mouth was turned down at the corners. “You promised I would see my sister.”
“You will. First I thought you might like to see the keep.”
“Where I am to be kept prisoner?” she spat, tossing back her witch-wild hair.
“You are a guest.”
“Ha! At Prydd I am allowed my freedom. I go where I please and ride any horse I want and—”
“You’re not at Prydd any longer,” Hagan cut in, his jaw tense, his lips flattened against his teeth. Obviously this tiny woman vexed him, and that thought brought the hint of a smile to Bjorn’s lips. Though he didn’t despise Hagan, not the way he hated Darton, Bjorn still enjoyed seeing the baron bested, and this little woman was doing a fine job of it.
“As you said, I am your guest, and as such—”
“Do not push me, woman,” Hagan said in a voice that made all the peasants in the castle tremble. However, this woman didn’t appear to be afraid of him or any power he had over her. She tossed her thick mane of black hair over her shoulders and held him in her imperious gaze.
“What will you do to me that you have not already?” she demand
ed as she crossed her arms under her full bosom, lifting her breasts slightly in her ire. “Will you hold me prisoner? Kill my family? Steal my virtue? What?” She inched her way closer to him, her blue eyes slitting. “I saw my horse being led into the stables this morning—”
Bjorn’s heart nearly stopped. He glanced at the stallion. This great horse was hers? This woman’s?
“—and I remind you that he belongs to Prydd. I’ll not have him mistreated or ridden without my knowledge.”
Bjorn sucked in a quiet breath. For the love of Jesus, did she not know to whom she was speaking? Had she not heard of Hagan of Erbyn’s savage temper? True, Hagan was not as cruel as his brother, but he was stubborn and used to being obeyed without question.
Hagan grabbed her roughly and seemed as if he wanted to shake some sense into her. “Here you are a guest …a very treacherous guest. You are not the savior of Prydd, nor are you the enemy, but I warn you, Sorcha, while you are here you will do as I say.” A muscle ticked violently near his eye as he took hold of her arm and forced her to turn and walk back toward the great hall.
Bjorn leaned on the handle of his shovel. That little mite of a woman was the savior of Prydd? She was the enemy who had tricked the guards and the cook? This slip of a woman had nearly killed the baron with her knife? Bjorn had already heard the gossip that was racing through the castle as fast as frightened horses.
“ ’Ey, you! Get to work!” Roy yelled as he poked his head through one of the windows. “By the gods, you’re a lazy one!”
Bjorn didn’t mind. He smiled to himself and scooped a shovelful of dung. From the corner of his eye, he watched through the crack in the door and saw the great baron shepherd Sorcha up the steps of the keep, treating her as if she were a wayward child.
So the grand animal was her horse, eh? Good. Finally it seemed as if his patience was to be rewarded. Not much longer would he have to suffer at the hands of Darton or Roy.
Bjorn whistled softly under his breath and started plotting his revenge.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Hagan demanded, his hand firmly on her elbow as he half shoved her up the stone steps to the keep. “Arguing with me in front of my men?”
“I’m only speaking my mind,” she replied. “I want to see my sister and—Oh!”
He turned abruptly, kicked open the door, and hauled her up the stairs. For a second she thought they were going to see Leah, but he shoved her into a room she recognized—his chamber. Her heart nearly stopped. The huge bed where she’d nearly lost her virtue mocked her, and she inwardly shivered.
Hagan’s face was the color of wine, his eyes dark with fury. Both of his hands were clenched. “While you’re here you will do as I say, Sorcha. You will not argue with me, nor will you disobey me.” Frustration etched his features and he stared for a second at her lips before dragging his gaze back to hers.
The room seemed to grow still, and all she could hear was the thunderous beat of her heart. She licked her lips, and his skin stretched taut over his face. The fingers around her arm tightened for a second, and as she gazed into the golden embers of his eyes, her breath caught in her throat.
They were all alone in his room, and because of his power and strength, he could do anything he wanted with her. No one would care if he threw her on the bed and took her by force. No one would help her if she screamed. To lie with him was considered a privilege and an honor. She swallowed hard and forced words from her suddenly breathless voice. “You said you would take me to see my sister. Are you now a liar as well as a kidnapper?”
He ground his teeth as his patience shredded. “I will take you to Leah.”
“And you promised to contact Tadd.”
“A messenger has already been sent,” he said curtly. “I expect his return within the week.”
“What if he does not return alive?”
“You borrow trouble, woman.”
“Have you no plan?” she asked, determined to be mistress of her own fate.
His eyes flashed like lightning. “I will wait a few more days; then, should he still not appear, I will assume he has been captured and we are at war with your beloved Prydd.”
Her stomach turned to dust. “You will mount an army?” she asked.
“Aye.”
So Prydd’s fate rested on the shoulders of one messenger. She sent up a prayer for the soldier’s quick return.
“Now, if you will keep your sharp tongue to yourself, we shall see your sister.”
Leah’s room was at the other end of the corridor, a small chamber with a huge fireplace, whitewashed walls, and tapestries that hung on the wall over her bed. Pale as death, her chest barely rising, Leah lay beneath covers, her eyes closed, her lips dry.
Heart in her throat, Sorcha approached the canopied bed. “Leah?” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” She touched her sister’s hands. They were warm, but lifeless. Sorcha had hoped that her eyes would flutter open and she would smile up at her, but Leah didn’t move, and Sorcha sat on the edge of the bed, tears gathering in her eyes, fear twisting her heart. Live, Leah, she silently prayed, hoping to see some signs of life in her sister. You must live!
The room wasn’t empty, but Sorcha, in her worry, barely noticed. Nellie was changing the rushes, keeping a distance between herself and Sorcha. As she scooped the old straw, she tossed worried looks in Sorcha’s direction. Hagan propped himself near the door, arms folded over his massive chest, eyes trained on his “guests.”
Time moved slowly and still Leah didn’t move. Sorcha fell to her knees, still holding Leah’s hand, praying to a God who didn’t appear to be listening.
When her prayer was finally over, she stared into the still, white face of her sister. “Leah?” she whispered. “Oh, please wake up.”
Nothing.
“Please. Lord Hagan’s sent a messenger to Prydd, and we are allowed to go home,” she added, not caring if Hagan heard her lie. Desperately she rubbed the backs of her sister’s hands. “Wake up, Leah. I need you.”
Still nothing.
Her heart was a weight. She linked her fingers through her sister’s. “You can do it, Leah.”
“ ’Tis time to go.”
“Not yet.”
Hagan’s voice was gentle, but firm. “You can do nothing for her. Let her rest.”
“Nay. ’Tis my fault she is here, and I will stay with her.”
“Why is it your fault?”
“Had I not begged her to take my place and give alms in the village, she would be safely at Prydd.”
“You forced her to go for you?” He was skeptical.
“Nay, but—”
Leah’s eyes fluttered open for a second, only to close again.
“Dear God, please …”
Sorcha felt a moment of triumph, then experienced a wave of defeat. Oh, if she could only hear Leah’s laughter, or see her green eyes sparkle with mischief. Never again would Sorcha think ill of her sister, or consider her a ninny for not being able to keep the castle records or shoot an arrow straight. She sent up a silent prayer and stayed at her sister’s side.
“Come, we should let her sleep,” Hagan said softly, but Sorcha didn’t budge.
“Not yet.”
He didn’t argue but stood by the door. Only when Rosemary entered with fresh linens and a bowl of stew did he become restless.
Clucking her tongue, Rosemary walked to the bed and set the food and sheets on a bedside table.
“She doesn’t wake when I speak to her,” Sorcha complained.
“Give her more time,” Rosemary said, touching Leah’s forehead and brushing a dark curl from her brow. “She is healin’ well. There is no fever and—” she looked at Leah’s bound wrists “—her wounds are healing. She will awaken,” Rosemary predicted, “and soon. I will call for you when she does.” Her kind gaze met Sorcha’s. “Remember, child, it has not been long since she … since her wounds were new.”
Sorcha knew the nursemaid was right, yet she felt useless and gui
lty and wished that God would hurry up about this healing. There was much to do, and she needed to know that her sister would be well again. Her fingers closed over Leah’s hand and she willed Leah to open her eyes and smile. “Leah, can you hear me?”
No movement.
“It may be best if you leave her be,” Hagan said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
“I’ll not leave her,” Sorcha whispered. Dejectedly she stared at the blood-soaked strips surrounding her sister’s wrists. If only she hadn’t begged Leah to take her place, if only she hadn’t been so desperate to meet with Keane and tell him she loved him not, if only they were both alive and well! Oh, wretched, wretched fate!
“Well, brother,” Darton said when Hagan strode into his chamber. Seated on a ledge at his window, one leg drawn up, he finished his wine in one gulp. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction—much like a lion who knew his prey had no way to escape. “What think you of our little savior now?”
Hagan tried to keep his temper, though he was still furious with his brother.
“Is she not the most beautiful woman ever to walk this earth?”
Hagan shrugged. “I see not that it matters,” he said, though in truth, he could not wedge her from his mind. Beautiful did not begin to describe her. When he was around her he was torn between a desire so deep, his blood seemed to singe his veins, and the knowledge that had she had more time, she would have killed him. The memory of her lying naked in his bed seared through his brain, but he knew she was still treacherous and could not be trusted.
“Ha! Of course it matters. But not as much as the power that surrounds her.” Darton walked to the fireplace, where his sheathed sword was mounted, and yanked the weapon from its resting place. “Last night when she stood over her sister and began to chant, Christ, Jesus, I swear the power in that room could have destroyed a hundred castles.”
Hagan shook his head, still disbelieving. “I know not what happened last night—”
“She called up the spirits. The gods of the old people. Don’t try and deny it, Hagan. I was there. I felt it. That empty room was filled with the souls of dead Welshmen—an army of Cymru!” Darton’s eyes gleamed in anticipation. “Last night when she drew back the spirit of her dead sister—”