by Paula Quinn
They stepped off the stairs and into the corridor.
“Brute,” she ground out and yanked her arm away. “What is the matter with you?”
That was what he wanted to know. He doubted she had the answer, and he wouldn’t ask Father Timothy in front of her.
“We need yer Holy Book,” he told the priest, ignoring her question. “I need to swear on it.”
As he’d suspected, Father Timothy didn’t appear pleased, but he finally nodded and waved his hand. “Come.”
He led them to the keep’s small chapel and waited while Cain took the Book in his hands.
“Now what?” he asked, turning to her after he swore. “How will ye bring them back?”
She closed her eyes while she inhaled a deep breath. He knew she didn’t want to do this, but she was going to have to trust him. They needed people to farm the land. They needed whatever livestock they had brought back.
“I expect you will not be letting me out of your sight,” she said with a spark in her eyes and a snap in her tongue. “So prepare to climb a tree or two.”
The priest smiled. Cain did not.
“And I’ll need arrows.”
The two men exchanged a skeptical glance.
She slapped her palms on her thighs. “How else do you expect me to contact them?”
“How many d’ye need?” Cain asked her, feeling as if he were giving in yet again. What kind of madman gave his enemy weapons?
“Three. And I also need three strips of blue linen or wool.”
“Why?”
“’Tis a code,” she explained. “Blue for safe. Red for unsafe. Anyone could be coerced into penning that ’twas safe to return when ’twas not. Besides, many of the villagers cannot read.”
Cain nodded, but he was busy marveling at how thoroughly she had planned everything out. “What if red is fer safe, and blue fer unsafe? How would I know if ye wished to deceive me?”
Her eyes shone in the candlelit chapel. “I do not wish to deceive you, Commander. I wish to kill you. Do not forget that. As for the villagers, you can throw me to your dogs if they do not begin returning in a few days.”
She dared threaten him again, and with amusement in her eyes! She had courage and confidence to do so—or she was completely mad. Keeping her close was more necessary than ever. Truly, she hated him.
Why then, was he tempted to pull her back and kiss her saucy mouth when she brushed past him? Damn him. “How d’ye know I willna throw ye to the dogs anyway?”
She paused and turned to look over her shoulder. She smiled as if she knew something he did not.
She was deadly. That was all he needed to know.
Chapter Ten
The forest was alive with the calls of ospreys in the distant trees and red squirrels leaping from alder to birch and elm. Below, roe deer and smaller critters scurried away from the two people walking the narrow planks and branches above them.
Aleysia trudged onward with a lowered head. She didn’t need to see where she was going. She’d practiced this run thousands of times over the years. She knew it well. She hated herself now though. She wanted to bring the villagers back to their homes, but not with the Scots here. She’d wanted the commander to swear on the Holy Book, and he had. But she still didn’t believe that her friends would be safe. And what about Mattie and Elizabeth? They resided in the castle! They would return with the rest. She didn’t have a colorful ribbon to indicate that only some should return.
Oh, she lamented on the way, what was she to do? She couldn’t get rid of the commander long enough to plot anything. He walked close behind her, keeping up when she leaped from one branch to another, being a constant distraction. She’d thought about sending red ribbon, but they’d been away for two months. They had little. They needed to come home.
“Ye truly prepared to take on an army alone,” he said now, his voice a rich blend of deference and astonishment. “I have never seen such dedication in any man I know.”
She stepped out onto a thick branch and turned, wrapping her arm around the trunk to face him. She liked his words and the liquid, lilting way he said them. She liked more than that about him. She wished she didn’t. Lismoor was hers. She wasn’t giving it up. She couldn’t.
“What other choice was I given?” she asked him when he stopped walking. “I learned about what your armies did to the villagers in Berwick. My people are not fighters and I would not have them perish under a Scot’s blade.”
He stood on a plank a few inches away, tall against a backdrop of leaves and blinding rays of sunshine. He carried on his broad shoulder a quiver of arrows, a bow, and a sword. He moved to block the sun. His gaze on her was potent, taking in every angle, every shape all at once.
She took in her fill as well, noting his fit, ready body with appreciative eyes. He was her equal. A man she would consider giving herself up to. Pity he stood in the way of her home and her freedom.
“My men had no part in what took place in Berwick,” he said with disgust while he took a step closer.
She moved away, sure-footed and quick. She paused, squatting in the cradle of two branches and watched him hop closer.
“Nonetheless, your arrival has robbed me of every choice I have ever made and will make in the future.”
He looked like he might offer her some more pretty words, but he closed his mouth and reached out his hand just before she jumped.
She landed on a lower branch and clung to the trunk for a moment, thanking God for making branches like steps, and that she hadn’t missed the first one. She had to do it again. She didn’t want to. Her heart pounded like a drum in her ears.
She heard the commander somewhere above and she let go of the trunk. She jumped again, closer to the ground.
The bastard fell and hit her on the way down. Or perhaps, she reasoned when he landed on his back with her on top, unscathed, he meant to fall.
She looked down at his face, scrunched up in pain, and didn’t waste a moment to examine him up close, but leaped up and ran.
She stopped after a moment when she realized he wasn’t behind her. Had the fall hurt him more than she realized? Why did she care? She didn’t, but if he was injured, it might be the perfect opportunity to kill him.
She turned and looked back and saw him lying on the ground where she’d left him. She returned slowly, taking cautious steps while her heart thrashed against her ribs. Was he already dead? Dying? Could she stab him until he stopped breathing? She took her dagger from her boot and moved closer. Tears filled her eyes and her hands shook. She had no idea it would be like this. Shooting a man with an arrow was bad enough. This was different.
She came upon him. “Commander?”
Perhaps God saw fit to kill him in a fall and save her the trouble.
He didn’t answer or open his eyes.
She crouched beside him and poked him in the side. “Cainnech?”
She saw him open his eyes. She had a split second to leap away. But relief startled her and he caught her before she could flee.
In the space of her next breath, he disarmed her, pulled her down, and rose up atop her. He held her wrists over her head and gazed into her eyes, at every inch of her face and smiled, just a little.
“Ye came back.”
“To kill you,” she let him know, staring back. She prayed he couldn’t feel her heart pounding against his.
“Ye dinna want to kill me, lass,” he said on a low, seductive growl that made her blood boil.
It was true! She hadn’t wanted him to be dead. She didn’t want to kill him. How could her own heart betray her this way? How could she want to kiss his succulent mouth? If she did, would it stop her from telling him that he was correct? She was a traitor.
His breath stole across her cheek. She closed her eyes, clenching her teeth to keep from sighing with delight. His lips scored her chin, her jaw. She became more aware of his weight and dominance, making her forget her promises and her plans.
And then, just as quic
kly, he bounded away.
“I dinna know what ye are doin’ to me,” he had the audacity to say, “but I demand that ye stop it now!”
“Are you accusing me of enticing you?” She threw back her head and laughed, not waiting for his answer. She stood up and wiped herself off. “You were the one on top of me, Commander.” She looked around for her knife or something to throw at him.
“Then I think it best if we keep a good distance from each other.”
“I agree. Farewell.” She pivoted in her boots and began to walk away.
“Miss d’Argentan.”
She stopped at the power in his voice.
“I canna let ye go.”
“You mean you will not,” she called out without turning. “You are the commander. You can do what you wish.”
“And ye know the moment I free ye, ye’ll be comin’ after me.”
She turned and quirked her mouth at him. “Not if you leave Lismoor.”
He didn’t smile, but his gaze on her softened enough to make her heart pound. “Ye can stay here, lass,” he said, moving closer. “No one is throwin’ ye oot. The villagers will be safe, safer than before, because their land belongs to King Robert now.”
“No!” No, it wasn’t too late! She hadn’t lost everything! She rushed toward him as he reached her and pummeled him with her fists. Surprisingly, she caught him in the jaw before he closed his arms around her. “I will not lose my home!”
He held her while she fought against him. She didn’t want to be pressed so closely to him and not hate him as she properly should. She managed to rotate around so that her back was pressed to him. His arms, just tight enough to hold her, hadn’t budged. “I canna leave,” he breathed into her hair. “The king ordered this and sent me. He knows I am here. He knows aboot ye. If ye manage to kill me, he will send someone else. A bigger army. Ye will die, lass. Everyone will die.”
“No!” she cried, “King Edward will not allow this!”
“He has done nothin’ aboot Berwick. Think ye ’twill be different with Rothbury?”
Dear God, was this truly it? Was her fight over so quickly? Was she just supposed to give up now?
“I will harm no one,” he whispered against her ear. “Ye have my word.”
She closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from weeping. What if she killed him and his men and the Bruce sent more? What kind of war had she started? How long would it last?
The commander vowed not to harm anyone and, so far, Sir Richard seemed well taken care of. In fact, she’d seen him laughing with the Scots. And…she hadn’t been treated poorly, even after she tried to kill her captor several times.
The commander. The man who brought this all upon her, who looked at her with eyes of steel one moment and oceans of regret the next. His confidence was sure. The shelter of his presence was, she would admit, oddly comforting.
He might be her best option, but she couldn’t give up.
She stopped struggling and rested her head on his upper arm. “’Tis my home being taken,” she told him in a quiet voice. “My life that is going to change. I will never give up, and I will never forgive you.”
She moved out of his embrace when he loosened his hold on her. She didn’t look at him. There was nothing more to say.
He followed her back up the tree. They remained quiet while they traveled through the boughs and across planks until they reached the crest of a wooded hill.
From their vantage point, they could see in every direction.
She took the bow he offered her and an arrow with a blue ribbon secured to the tip. She nocked it and aimed.
She would never forgive herself for bringing them back now. But even if she was able to kill these Scots, more would come.
Defeated, she let her arrows fly, one toward the east, one toward the west, and one toward the south. When she was done, she turned to him and wiped a tear from her eye.
They returned to the keep in silence. She wasn’t surprised to find it being searched for daggers. They hadn’t found them all, but the commander seemed a bit more at ease with her. He even left her alone with Richard in the great hall while he spoke with red-haired Amish and some of the others at a table on the far end.
“You did what is best, my lady,” her old friend told her.
“Did I?” she asked softly and looked at him with teary eyes. “If Matilda and Elizabeth do not die of fright, they will never forgive me when they see what I brought them back to.”
“You cannot win this, my dear,” her knight told her—probably for the thousandth time over the last few years. When it came to fighting for Lismoor and Rothbury, Richard had never been the one to go to when she needed encouragement. He’d wanted to take her to Normandy as soon as he learned of Giles’ death.
Normandy might be safer for her than the English border, but she was a d’Argentan and, like her brother, she would never flee from a fight.
She looked around at the few soldiers who were lingering at the tables with their whisky. “I could have won if it ’twas just them. But he is correct. The Bruce will send more. It seems all is lost.”
There had to be something. Something she could still do.
The priest joined them with a friendly smile and a tankard in each of his hands. He offered one to Richard. Aleysia took the other, assuming it was for her. She took a deep drink. She shivered in her spot and squeezed her eyes shut while the fire burned. Pure Highland whisky. She thought her eyes might have just changed color.
She coughed into her hand and looked into it for blood. There was none. She set the empty cup on the table beside them, and then held on when the room moved.
“Fergive me, my lady,” the priest said steadying her. “The whisky wasna meant fer ye.”
Aleysia took a moment to wait until her vision cleared. “Father, do you hear the commander’s confessions?”
“No,” he replied, surprising her. “He doesna go to confession.”
She raised her brow. “You are friends with a heathen?”
The priest nodded and softened his smile. “Who else will point oot to him the goodness of God when he canna see anythin’ but his past?”
His past? Her interest piqued, Aleysia darted her glance to where the commander sat with his men. He was hard and well disciplined. He demanded obedience from his soldiers and, as far as she could tell, he had it. How many men had he killed in battle? What else had he done? What was so terrible about his past that he couldn’t see beyond it?
“I’m sure he will tell ye aboot it if he sees fit.”
In other words, the priest would tell her nothing else. Not that she had asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. It made the hall spin in circles. “Everyone has a past—” she paused thinking of Normandy, “—or a future they wish they could change. He is no different.”
“What aboot ye?” the priest asked her.
“Future. What…ehm…what will happen to the people who live in the castle, my staff, my friends, Sir Richard and the other knights?”
“They can stay on if they wish,” Father Timothy told her. “Cainnech doesna want to remain here. He only needs to stay until the king chooses who will permanently hold Rothbury and Lismoor in his name.”
He’d taken her home and he didn’t even want to live in it. She felt a rush of heat wash over her and knew her blood was boiling. He told her she could stay—but with who? She would have to wed whoever it was. Robert the Bruce would be a fool not to require it.
She looked across the cavernous hall and let her scorching glare burn into him.
The bastard thought to marry her off! He thought she should be grateful! She hadn’t realized it when he’d first mentioned her staying even though her land had been seized by the Scots. Her choices were to leave and be married in Normandy, or stay and marry someone worse.
She cursed herself for not killing the commander when she had the chance—many chances. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She muttered an oath and rolle
d up her sleeves.
He met her gaze and rose from his seat. His unblinking stare almost shook her to her core, but whisky fired her temper and kept her from running when he charged toward her.
He reached her in less time than it took his men to realize what was going on. They remained looking confused, as did Sir Richard and Father Timothy, when the commander took her by the arm and pulled her away.
“Come with me,” he growled and dragged her out of the great hall while she pounded on his arm.
“Let me go! I will not marry him!”
He stopped on the three small steps and spun her around to look at him. “Who? What are ye sayin’ and what d’ye mean by comin’ at me in front of the men?”
“I did not come at you!” she argued, feeling quite dizzy. She pulled on her arm to no avail.
“Ye were aboot to,” he corrected. “I willna have ye—”
He stopped and easily avoided a fist to his jaw. She swung so hard she nearly fell over.
His arm was there to catch her. He said something that sounded indulgent but she couldn’t be certain because everything went black.
Chapter Eleven
Cain caught her in his arms before she crumpled to the floor. “Miss?” He knelt on one knee and supported her limp body in his arms with the other. What the hell was the matter with her? Why did she appear so small and fragile in his big hands? What should he do?
“Father!” he called out into the great hall.
He fixed his gaze on her again. “Lass, wake up.” He gave her a slight shake.
Where the hell was the priest?
When she didn’t respond, he gave her cheek a soft slap, and then felt rather sick for doing it. He might be one of the most feared warriors in the kingdom, but he didn’t strike women.
“What happened, Cainnech?”
Thank God. Cain looked up into Father Timothy’s concerned eyes.
“She fell faint. I attempted to awaken her to no avail.”