by Tarah Scott
Another, more distant shout went up amongst the men, this one followed by a clash of steel. Was it truly St. Claire who accosted them? Anger whipped through Rhoslyn. The death of her grandfather’s knights would be on Edward’s head. He would pay. Oh, how he would pay.
The sounds of fighting faded. She could make out the murky shadows of trees alongside the road, but didn’t know where they were. The pounding of her protectors’ horses’ hooves beside her should have given comfort. Instead, she knew the sound would haunt her forever. It was the sound of cowardice. The sound of defeat.
A large silhouette abruptly appeared in front of them.
“My lady!” Aland cried.
He tore to the right and Rhoslyn followed while David galloped left. She heard a thwack, but couldn’t guess the source, and forced her horse back onto the road. She pulled on the reins. A man’s grunt sounded and a horse gave a shrill cry. Rhoslyn turned her mount toward the sound and one of the knights appeared nearby.
“Aland, is that you?” Or was it David?
He brought his horse up beside hers. Something struck her as odd, but before she could understand what, an arm snaked out and around her waist. She yanked the dagger from its sheath and drove the blade downward toward the arm gripping her as she was dragged from her horse. The blade snagged on her attacker’s armor and he muttered a curse as she slammed into a wall of muscle protected by chainmail.
Fear sent a wave of dizziness through her. She raised the knife for another blow, but iron fingers clamped around her wrist. She cried out in pain and her grip faltered. He shook her wrist hard and she dropped the dagger.
Her legs dangled against the horse’s flanks and she gave a vicious kick to its ribs. The beast started forward, then the arm around her tightened as its owner pulled back on the reins. She kicked again—harder—and the horse reared. Her attacker crushed Rhoslyn between his chest and arms as he leaned forward in an effort to force the animal’s front hooves back onto the ground.
She gasped for breath through crushed lungs. The horse’s hooves hit the ground so hard her teeth jarred. Rhoslyn clawed at the arm that pinned her. Her fingers slipped on a warm, slick substance, and satisfaction surged through her at the realization that it was his blood. She must have cut him below his chainmail. His hold, however, did not weaken, despite the wound.
With a grunt, he seized her arms and trapped them against her body. He threw a leg over her thighs, pinning them against the horse’s side, before the horse shot forward. Tears of rage stung her eyes even as she arched and twisted. Her grandfather’s men had died for nothing. Aland...David, had died without ever seeing their executioner.
Rhoslyn’s legs cramped and she struggled harder. She would plunge the first knife she found into the heart of Talbot St Claire. He was a fool to have acted so rashly. He would not have her, her lands, or the goodwill of his king. Nay. He would die.
Minutes passed in growing agony before her captor at last slowed his horse’s pace. Rhoslyn couldn’t deny her relief when he released the pressure on her legs. He shifted her bottom across his hard thighs, and she straightened, stretching her legs. One large hand pressed her thigh in what she knew was a warning not to incite the beast again.
Pinpricks of light dotted the foggy darkness ahead. Was this Dunfrey Castle? She hadn’t seen lights to indicate they had passed Castle Glenbarr. So her captor had wisely circled around her home to avoid detection. Once they reached Dunfrey Castle she would become a prisoner. Dunfrey Castle, nicknamed ‘Dragon’s Lair’ by the Highlanders who had competed against St. Claire in the tainchel, the Great Hunt, was smaller than Castle Glenbarr, but no less fortified. St. Claire would defeat any who attacked him, just as he had his competitors in the games. Truly, the castle was appropriately nicknamed Dragon’s Lair, for the knight, like the mythical dragon, decimated his enemies.
They drew closer, and an eerie yellow glow haloed the torches in the fog up on the battlements. Despite her resolve, her belly clenched with fear. She mouthed a silent prayer to Saint George for strength to bind her dragon as St. George had his a millennia ago.
The keep loomed, a shadow in the fog that became a visible wall when they stopped. Something familiar niggled at her.
“’Tis I,” her captor shouted, in a cultured English accent.
No simple man-at-arms had been sent to collect her. Only a knight of the first order would do to kidnap Sir Talbot St. Claire’s wife.
“Open in the name of peace,” he called.
Peace? St. Claire represented anything but peace.
Fury swept through Rhoslyn. “Ye speak of peace when you kidnap innocent women and slay men in the dark? Neither you nor your master shall know peace the remainder of your days.”
Her captor gave a low laugh that sent a chill down her spine.
“What man knows peace when he takes a wife?” he said.
Rhoslyn stiffened. The man was a dog. How fitting that a dog should serve a dragon.
Wood creaked as the gates began a slow swing inward. He spurred his horse forward when the opening was barely wide enough to accommodate entrance. The fog obscured their surroundings. He stopped and hugged her close as he swung his leg around the pommel. She threw her arms around his neck for fear of falling as he slid from the saddle. Rhoslyn jolted when his feet hit solid ground. Another warrior appeared beside the horse as her captor strode away from the animal.
“Put me down,” Rhoslyn demanded.
He lengthened his stride in response.
“Did ye hear me, Knight? I am Lady Rhoslyn Harper—”
“St. Claire,” he cut in.
“What?”
“Lady Rhoslyn St. Claire.”
“How dare you?” She slapped him.
They reached the castle. He stopped short and she tensed. Would he strike her back? Did his master countenance the abuse of women?
Her heart pounded. “Have ye something to say, Knight?”
“What should I say, my lady?”
“Put me down,” she ordered.
He pushed through the door and Rhoslyn drew a sharp breath upon realizing why she had experienced the sense of recognition. They weren’t at Dunfrey Castle. This was Castle Glenbarr.
“What thievery is this?” she demanded. “Your master has no right to claim my property. We are not yet wed.” But she knew the vows—and consummation—were a mere formality. Edward’s decree held as much power as did the priest’s benediction. Still, that gave him no right to occupy her home before even meeting her.
The monster carrying her gave no answer. She had expected none. He was an Englishman, and Englishmen considered their women chattel. St. Claire would soon learn that Lady Rhoslyn Harper, granddaughter of Sir Hugo Seward, Baron Kinsley, daughter of Ihon Seward, was no man’s property.
At the far end of the room burned a low fire in a large hearth. Flickering tongues of flame cast light across the room, revealing the forms of warriors sleeping on the floor. English men-at-arms, she would wager. Where were her men? Had there been a battle? Rhoslyn thanked God she had sent her stepdaughter to stay with her grandfather while she resided at the convent. The girl would have been terrified if she’d been at Castle Glenbarr when St. Claire took possession.
Her captor crossed left, to a narrow staircase. Rhoslyn expected to be put down on her feet, but he threw her over his shoulder and took the stairs two at a time.
“Beast,” she muttered, but kept still for fear of hitting her head in the narrow space.
He reached the second level and ascended another set of stairs to the third floor where lay the too-familiar private quarters. He took several paces, then pushed through a door that opened upon her late husband’s bedchambers. Rhoslyn was abruptly tossed from his shoulder. She cried out and tensed for impact with the stone floor, but bounced on a mattress.
The bed’s thick canopy curtain closed behind her. Surprise immobilized her for an instant, then the tread of boots on stone penetrated her stupor. Rhoslyn scrambled to the edge of the bed and threw back
the curtain. She drew a sharp breath at sight of her abductor’s broad shoulders. His large body had nearly crushed her, but seeing him, she now understood how he had dispatched her protectors so easily—and why St. Claire sent him. He was even larger than the Dragon was rumored to be. That didn’t mean she would allow him to leave her in the bed where her husband died.
Rhoslyn leapt from the bed and stumbled before catching herself, then lunged toward the door. The knight reached it several long strides ahead of her and passed into the hall. He slammed the door shut behind him and she collided with the wood.
Chapter Two
A hard rap on the solar door alerted Talbot to his captain’s return.
“Enter.”
Baxter D’Angers stepped into the room as Talbot splashed water on his face from the bowl on the table then grabbed a clean cloth to wipe his face.
Baxter crossed to him. “I am gone three days and everything goes to hell. Alexander tells me your bride fled her convent.” His attention caught on the bloodied cloths scattered about the table, then his eyes shifted to the bandage Talbot had wrapped around his wrist. “What in God’s name happened?”
“Lady Rhoslyn decided Melrose would make a better husband than me.”
“Melrose?” Baxter blurted. “What the devil? He is a supporter of Balliol. Seward openly supports Bruce—perhaps even William Wallace, if gossip is to be believed. He cannot possibly want to ally himself with a Balliol supporter. Seward’s support of Bruce is one reason Edward chose her as your bride.”
Talbot lifted a brow.
“I am not an idiot. Even I can see the obvious.” Baxter shook his head. “Is Seward fool enough to defy Edward—or you—and think he can succeed?”
“Had his granddaughter reached Longford Castle it would have been very possible. I understand the castle is well fortified and could likely survive a siege until Lady Rhoslyn bore him a child.”
Baxter shook his head. “Kinsley is a fool. Edward’s edict cannot be disputed. You have even taken possession of this hellish place.”
“Glenbarr Castle is no more hellish than Nightwell Hold.”
“Nightwell Hold is in England,” Baxter replied. “I told you the old baron was not to be trusted. How did you know—”
A knock at the door interrupted Baxter, and Talbot bid them enter.
Thom, one of his men-at-arms, entered and stopped just inside the room. “Her men are on the way here, including her two escorts. Three died in the fray.”
Talbot tossed the clean rag on the table. “Seward will have to explain to their wives why his treachery got them killed.”
“We lost one of our own,” Thom said.
Talbot cut his gaze to him. “Who?”
“Valance.”
Talbot wanted to find the old baron and beat him senseless. “Valance had a young wife. Seward will pension the widow.”
“You might take it out of his granddaughter’s hide,” Baxter said in a rare flash of anger.
Talbot was inclined to agree. “Inform me when the men arrive,” he ordered Thom.
Thom nodded, then left.
Baxter nodded at Talbot’s wound. “Which of his men wounded you?”
Talbot gave a harsh laugh. “Not a one. It was the lady.”
Baxter looked taken aback. “She was willing to go so far as kill you?”
“Aye, and she came closer than I care to admit.”
“A month chained in the dungeon will give her time to remember her wifely duties.”
“She will be chained, but to me, not the dungeon. She is in my bedchambers awaiting the priest who will officiate the vows.”
“Your bedchambers?” Baxter blurted.
Talbot nodded. “I sent word that Seward can attend us this week—at his leisure—for the wedding feast.”
“You are playing with fire.”
“With that woman?” He snorted. “Aye, that I am.”
He remembered his surprise—and shock—when her blade sliced the flesh of his wrist. He also hadn’t forgotten the feather-light weight of her body across his thighs. He hadn’t met her before tonight, hadn’t cared if the sight of her shriveled his bollocks to the size of peas. She represented the possible end of constant warring, the birth of sons, and daughters he would have to heavily dower if they, too, turned out to be horse-faced like their mother.
But Rhoslyn Harper wasn’t horse-faced, and her body—her body belonged to a woman who hated him. He would have no trouble consummating the marriage, but he would have to tie his wife’s hands to the bedpost to keep her from plunging a knife into his back while he drove into her. He felt himself harden at the thought and grimaced. It might not have been as pleasurable if she had been horse-faced, but it would have been safer.
“Is the king’s favor worth allying ourselves to such vipers?” Baxter’s voice disrupted his thoughts. “She will cause you misery all your days. I would not ask it of you. No one would.”
Talbot crossed to the table near the hearth where a pitcher of ale sat and poured two mugs. He returned to his friend, handed him a mug, and motioned for him to sit on the bench in front of the fire.
They sat and Talbot took a long, fortifying drink of ale before he said, “My marriage is not about incurring favor, as you well know. I can no more ignore Edward’s command than Lady Harper can ignore her duty.”
Though she had done just that tonight. That was unfair, he realized. What Scottish noblewoman would willingly marry an English knight, and a bastard knight at that, even if he had been legitimized?
Lady Rhoslyn Harper was not stupid, as he had learned tonight. Clearly, she didn’t agree with the pervading Scottish sentiment that the extended period of relative peace between Scotland and England meant that Edward wasn’t trying to bring Scotland under his rule.
Baxter finished his ale and set the mug on the bench beside him. “You have enough land and wealth to live well the remainder of your days. You no longer need please Edward.”
Talbot took a draw on his ale. His wrist ached. He would need several mugs to ease the pain, but not so much as to dull his wits when he was finally alone with his bride. He glanced at the door connecting the solar to the antechamber that led to his bedchambers. He had expected more shouts when he’d slammed the door in her face. She was too quiet. Had she accepted her fate? He snorted. Not that one.
He took another gulp of ale, then said, “You are naive if you believe Edward will ever release me from service.” Talbot flashed a tired smile. “I have made myself too valuable.”
“And this is how he rewards you? Exiled in this God forsaken country.”
Talbot stretched his legs toward the inviting fire. “God forsaken, perhaps. But also far from the certain trouble brewing in England.”
“And if the Guardians cannot maintain peace in Scotland?” Baxter demanded. “How much peace will there be here, even this far north? Wallace has no intentions of letting Edward rule Scotland, even if the Guardians are fool enough to let him seize power.”
Talbot sighed. He could always count on his captain to name the worst of his fears. “The Guardians chose Edward to arbitrate because he can break the deadlock, and he has the power to enforce his decision. No one wants war in Scotland. Not the Guardians, not Edward—nor I. You put too little faith in our king.”
“I know our king,” Baxter shot back, but with no real malice.
“No matter,” Talbot said. “Any rebellion that breaks out here is preferable to war with Wales or France.”
Or England, for that matter.
If Talbot could maintain order, here in Buchan, Edward was unlikely to call him to service for anything short of a large campaign. He tired of killing. Seventeen years was enough.
“Let us pray the problems here in Scotland remain small,” he said.
Baxter regarded him from the corner of his eye. “Your betrothed tried to kill you.”
Talbot barked a laugh. “Women are troublesome.”
Baxter gave him a sidelong glance. “I
have often wondered that he doesn’t worry that your mother’s Scottish blood might sway your allegiance.”
“Edward believes that I will be accepted because my mother was Scottish. I never knew her. I am no more Scottish than you are Flemish.”
“I am loathe to admit it, but the place suits you,” Baxter said.
“And the rest of Lady Rhoslyn’s property will suit me as well.”
Whether the lady liked it or not.
* * *
Rhoslyn faced the room St. Claire thought was her prison. Fool. She knew this castle as well as the one she grew up in. A sudden chill threaded through her. There was but one reason St. Claire would lock her in his bedchambers. He intended to skip the wedding vows and consummate their marriage.
So why hadn’t he forced himself between her legs when he captured her? The contract was solid enough that no priest need validate their union. The marriage would stand. Another—more devastating—truth hit. He need not lay a hand on her. The mere fact she was in his bedchambers was enough to seal her fate.
Rhoslyn hurried to the bed. She stuffed the pillows beneath the blankets, then arranged them to look like a sleeping body. She lit a taper from the fire in the hearth then slid to the right and groped about the paneling for the hidden latch. A small click sounded and the panel opened to a secret passageway leading to a guest bedchamber on the far end of the castle’s west wing. Stepping inside, she pulled her mantle close around her and drew the panel shut.
Candle extended before her, she navigated the narrow passage. Anger coursed through her. Two men she had never met controlled her life: King Edward and his puppet knight Sir Talbot St. Claire.
Knight.
The word echoed in her mind on a wave of disgust. What did a man like St. Claire know of honor, truth, or loyalty? Loyalty. Aye, perhaps he did understand that precept. Loyalty to a king who would fill his knights’ coffers with coin dripping with blood—Scottish blood, if need be.
What a fool she’d been to spend fourteen months grieving. He hadn’t said it, but she’d read the worry in her grandfather’s eyes when he agreed to her request. Before he died, he wanted a grandson to inherit the home and land that had been passed down in his family for generations. She’d been too grief-stricken to care about the future. Her selfishness had lost them everything, including, she realized, her stepdaughter. St. Claire would replace her grandfather as their protector, and would decide who Andreana married. Another English knight, no doubt, who would secure more of her dead husband’s wealth for his English king.