Elspeth realized he must be teasing her, but she wasn’t in the mood, and the farther she traveled from Wales, the more she fretted about her sisters. And nevertheless, it wasn’t as though she wasn’t grateful; she was. It was more that now that she was out of immediate danger, she didn’t know what to do or where to go. She couldn’t very well ask him to put her off right here, could she? Where would she go? She tried to consider possibilities but couldn’t think with him whispering at her ear. “Only humor me,” he suggested. “How can ye know for sure?”
Elspeth huffed a sigh, shrugging him away, again. “Because. If I snored—if I ever snored—my sisters would have told me so.”
That answer seemed to mollify him for a second, and then he asked, “Sisters? From the priory?”
“Aye.”
“Nuns?”
“Nay.”
“Aha,” he said now, but did she imagine a note of relief? Silence for a moment, and then he proposed, “So, tell me, Elspeth… how many sisters have you?”
The way he spoke her name, so gently, gave Elspeth a quiver, and no matter, she didn’t wish to tell him anything more than she must. “Four,” she said, because he asked.
“Living?”
“Aye.”
“And where are they now?”
“Precisely where we are not,” Elspeth returned, and this, once more, inspired a low rumble of laughter from her reluctant champion.
Ye gods, his mirth was unshakable.
As a matter of fact, she’d already acknowledged that she’d left four sisters at the priory. She didn’t feel particularly compelled to repeat herself. If he couldn’t properly hear, he should clean out his ears. By the cauldron! Was it possible that all Scots could be so annoying?
For most of her years at court, the Scot’s king’s son had teased her mercilessly. It was only after being warned about the possibility of incurring Morwen’s wrath that he’d ever deigned to stop. It was unthinkable now that that man should be made the Earl of Northumberland—particularly so, since Elspeth wasn’t the only one who didn’t trust him. Much like Stephen’s son Eustace, he was a petty tyrant with an eye for his father’s laurels. As far as she was concerned, with the likes of Eustace so close to her father’s throne, England was descending into darkness. And the most infuriating thing of all was this: David of Scotia had once knelt before her sister Matilda. He swore his love and fealty while her father watched, and now he and all his barons paid homage to Stephen instead of Matilda. So, then, did he, or did he not, support Matilda?
And what about this Scotsman at her back? How could he support Stephen, when her sister was the rightful claimant to the throne?
Be nice to him, Elspeth. You need him.
The voice was fainter now, and Elspeth couldn’t, in truth, be certain it belonged to Rhiannon. It could well be her own voice of reason. Because it was true; she did need him.
For love of the Goddess, she didn’t want to need this man, but she did. And nevertheless, she knew so little about him, save that he mustn’t be lowborn. Her first clue was the ring on his finger—the one on his left hand that by now had slipped to her thigh. She’d allowed it to remain there, if only to study the ring. Casting her gaze down again, examining the signet, she studied the golden two-headed falcon and read the maxim: Altium, citius, fortius. But she couldn’t recall whose standard it could be. She had been gone from court so long now that she didn’t know anything about Stephen’s new barons. There were hundreds of them, all building adulterine castles her father would have smashed with his fist.
Lulled once more by the lazy trot of his horse, Elspeth found herself leaning back against his sturdy form, and mostly because he didn’t protest, she relaxed. After all, it was going to be a long, long journey to wherever they were going.
North, he’d said.
How far north was north?
It did not escape Malcom that she’d yet to ask him to put her down… and regardless, it was past time to discover who she was, and more importantly, her destination.
North was not enough to go by, and as much as he was warming to the notion of taking her all the way to Aldergh, it was also past time for Merry Bells to rest. He’d been watching the horse closely for signs of exhaustion. But strangely, he suspected the mare was championing Elspeth as he was, putting as much distance between her and her pursuers as possible. But how much sense did that make? As much as he liked to think Merry his companion and friend, she was only a simple beast who rested when she must, ate when she must, slept when she must. And subsequently, only a cruel master would push her beyond her endurance. Therefore, as much as he relished the notion of spiriting the lass all the way home, it was past time to discover who she was.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she returned her head to his shoulder, and he shut his mouth again, because the gesture inexplicably pleased him.
He couldn’t deny that he was drawn to her in ways he hadn’t been drawn to any woman in far too long, and yet, he felt an obligation to keep her safe, even from himself.
Was this what his father had felt for Page?
God’s truth; he didn’t know the girl. How could he feel anything for her at all?
“Elspeth,” he prompted, and then, because she didn’t seem to hear him, he nudged her awake. “Elspeth?”
She straightened, but didn’t respond, and Malcom thought perhaps she must have fallen asleep again, so he gave her a moment to regain her bearings, and said, louder, “Elspeth.” Her head bounced off his shoulder, and he tried not to laugh. Reaching up to wipe the smile from his lips, he said, “Now that Wales is behind us, it occurs to me that you should know I mean to ride all the way to Northumbria.”
She swiveled to glare at him. “I knew it!” she said. “You are a reaver!” And then she leaned forward as far as she dared, so that Malcom couldn’t possibly touch her—which was entirely ludicrous, because her arse was nestled sweetly between his thighs.
And nevertheless, her reaction vexed him. Whilst so many of the northern lords were fickle in their loyalties, seizing opportunities where they may, he’d never once even considered raiding north or south. “I am no reaver,” he maintained. “I am Malcom Scott, rightful Earl of Aldergh.”
“Aye, well,” she said stiffly, quite sourly. “I am quite certain you won your title by honorable means.”
Malcom’s good humor came to an abrupt end, for nay, he had not. As far as he knew, it was quite the opposite of honorable to sink a blade into one’s kinsman’s heart, and despite this fact, that detail was none of her concern—neither was his worth as an Earl. “God’s love, woman. Must everything be a quarrel?”
Malcom shook his head, tugging the reins, urging Merry Bells to a halt. He’d had more than enough of the girl’s temper. Whatever bond he felt to the lass, she obviously did not share it, and he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. She was out of danger now; it was time to put her off.
“What are you doing?”
“Considering the wisdom in leaving an impertinent lass on lands belonging to a man I detest. Perhaps a good, long walk will settle your ire.”
She stiffened, and he heard her swallow. “I-uh… I’m sorry,” she said. “Tis been a while since I have conversed with anyone save my sisters.”
Malcom’s tone no longer held any trace of amusement. “You mean the four sisters you left behind at the priory?”
“Aye.”
“And did you speak to them so rudely?”
“Nay.”
“Well, then, lady, allow me to enlighten you. When one is asked a question, the proper response is not to answer with another question—or worse, with rudeness. The proper response is to answer politely.”
She answered now with silence and Malcom sensed she must be warring with her pride—something she had in abundance. No doubt, she longed to gnash her teeth at him, but she couldn’t argue with his logic, and neither had he impugned her, save to say she was rude. And, by God, she was. Her chin lifted, but slightly. “So, my Lord Aldergh
… what is the proper response if a stranger intends to pry? I was taught it was bad form to ask a lady intrusive questions, and therefore how should one answer rudeness but with rudeness?”
Malcom blinked. She was right, of course. Given normal circumstances, he’d never have approached her, even to ask her name, much less more personal questions. And nevertheless, these were not normal circumstances and he couldn’t let it go. “My lady, I do believe we ceased to be strange after hearing you snore.”
She stiffened, and despite his pique, Malcom felt the urge to laugh. God’s teeth, what was it about the lass that called to his better nature? Certainly not her temper.
“You are the one who is rude,” she said, sounding injured, and Malcom felt contrite, though try as he might, he couldn’t quite keep the quake from his shoulders, and she turned to cast him another evil-eyed glare.
“Dear lady, I am… not… laughing… at you,” he reassured. “I am simply… overcome… by… your… mettle. Where I come from, ’tis precisely the way a woman ought to be—fearless. Only, tell me, despite your attempted thievery of my property, have I yet to treat you dishonorably?”
Her answer was given ruefully. “Nay.”
“Why, then, do you persist upon despising me?”
“I do not,” she confessed.
“Art certain?”
She hesitated. “Quite.”
Malcom didn’t budge. He held his ground, urging Merry Bells to stay. Although he was refreshed by her forthright nature, he was also bound and determined to earn not merely her trust, but her good manners and gratitude as well. He waited for an apology.
“Very well,” she said, obviously expecting it to be the end of their discourse. She leaned forward, pressing her knees into Merry Bells’ withers, but the horse, like her master, remained steadfast. Nibbling at tufts of grass, she, too, stood stubbornly, and after a moment, she urinated where she stood, squatting so that Elspeth was forced to lie back against him.
Malcom smirked. “Very well what?”
The lass sighed louder than she snored, and Malcom suppressed another chuckle.
“Very well! Very well!” she snapped. “If you will not abandon me on this detestable man’s land, I will endeavor to be…”
“What?”
“Less rude.”
“Thank you, madam,” he said, still waiting. “And perhaps even agreeable?”
“Aye,” she said. “I will.”
“Thank you,” Malcom said, and clicked the reins, prompting Merry Bells into an easy canter, despite the lack of proper apology. It was enough that she would cease and desist with her temper.
Chapter Six
Feeling chastised, with good merit, Elspeth lapsed into silence, listening to the clop, clop of the horse’s hooves—a sound that was slowly, inexorably, lulling her back to sleep.
Sweet fates. What was this terrible languor?
Even now, seated before this stranger, she fought a new wave of sleepiness as her gaze scanned the vaguely familiar landscape—less mountainous now, with light and airy forests.
She had no idea what lay ahead, but she did know what she was leaving behind, and she swallowed her grief like a glob of sticky porridge, her emotions bedeviling her.
It wasn’t merely her sisters she was taking leave of. It was Wales itself, and the spirit of the land, which was even now shedding itself from her like a mantle being stripped from her back.
If she was cross, it was because her heart ached, and Malcom seemed far too ready to taunt her. If only he understood how devastating this was. If only he could comprehend what travesty had befallen her the last time she’d arrived in this land—mayhap then he wouldn’t tease her so mercilessly. It was more than twenty years later now, but she knew too much as a woman of four and twenty to feel aught but trepidation over returning to England.
She remembered only too well that journey she’d taken to London with her grandmamau. Less than six months later, she was dead.
Remember, Elspeth, never forget…
I will not forget, she promised Rhiannon. I will never forget.
And yet, unlike Rhiannon, Elspeth dared not make revenge her raison d’être. It was far more honorable to fight her mother by championing all that was good. It was for that reason she must remain Matilda’s champion. Like Robert, she would do so until her dying breath. And, if, in truth, Elspeth was more invested in Matilda’s cause than her sisters, it was because she believed with all her heart that if Matilda won this untenable war, only then could justice ever be served.
It aggrieved her so much that Rhiannon could not understand and forgive their half-sister. Instead, she huffed and fumed, and the more she did so, the harder grew her heart—and if there was one thing Elspeth feared in this world, it was the thought of Rhiannon following in Morwen’s path. It was a terrifying visage. Already, Rhiannon had too much of their mother. In fact, but for the color of her hair and eyes, she was the spitting image of Morwen. Like their grandmother, Rhiannon bore the mark of the Mother—the crossed, amber-lit gaze that distinguished her as the regnant priestess, and the Craft was stronger with her than it ever was with Morwen. But if her sister ever learned to use her gifts with such a bitter heart, Elspeth loathed to think what might become of her.
Of all her living sisters, Rhiannon loathed their mother most, with good reason. Nestled in Morwen’s womb, she and a twin had suffered a mother’s worst betrayal. Having sensed the bounteous gift their grandmamau had bestowed upon the unborn twins—strong Welsh magik, powerful enough for two babes—and realizing she’d been deprived of her birthright, Morwen had concocted a potion to still their beating hearts. Rhiannon lived; the twin did not. And now, Goddess save anyone who came between her sister and her vengeance.
Insomuch as Morwen seemed to defy the tenets of their coven, and as horrible a mother as she was, the Goddess had certainly blessed her womb well enough. She’d born two sets of twins in her lifetime, and she hadn’t a nurturing bone in her body. Elspeth hoped with all her heart that Rhiannon would rise above such meanness, but only time would tell.
One thing was certain. Ersinius had better stay out of Rhiannon’s way. Contrary to what folks believed about witches, she couldn’t turn him into a toad, but she could easily mix a powder to sprinkle in his robes and rot away his manhood, and that she would do.
Doddering old man. Annoyed by the stupidity of men and thinking about the way Ersinius used to cross himself every time they chanced to breathe the same air, Elspeth shook her head.
Really, it wasn’t as though any of them could raise the dead or bewitch the living. Not even Morwen had that kind of power—then, again, perhaps she did. After all, it was said she’d beguiled Henry, and whatever sway she’d held over Elspeth’s father, she now appeared to hold over Stephen as well. In truth, Elspeth didn’t know what her mother was capable of. She’d heard rumors of glamour spells and shapeshifting, such as was done by the Death Crone, but she’d never once witnessed any of that manner of hud du. When pressed, her grandmamau had said that all knowledge of those dark arts—if ever they’d existed—had passed away with the fall of Avalon. But, in truth, unless Elspeth ever got her hands on her grandmother’s grimoire, she would never know for sure. Whatever spells she and her sisters knew, they knew by rote, after watching Morwen or her grandmother perform them. But witchcraft was not so much what people supposed. To her own people it was better known as the Craft of the Wise. And, in their native tongue they were known as dewines, not witches. Translated more precisely, they were, indeed, enchantresses, but also bards, prophets and seers, and, as with any art, not everyone had the same skills. Certainly not all were dark. Her people held the earth in great esteem and believed all beings were connected—living and otherwise. Magik was but another word for transformation, conjuration and creation and life was filled with these things—a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, a child born of a woman, a seedling emerged after a long winter, life born from a drop of water. But people were simply no longer open to mi
racles, even when proof existed before their eyes. Only now, in this time of persecution, this was their saving grace: People no longer believed in the Old Ways.
Elspeth cast a glance over her shoulder at her dubious savior—a minion of Stephen’s. Whatever gratitude she felt toward this man, it was tempered by resentment over his unswerving loyalty to the pea-brain who’d cast their nations into war.
In truth, she was not usually so ill-mannered, but she didn’t wish to like this man, even though she needed him. So, aye, it galled her that he, of all people, would endeavor to educate her about rudeness—even ruder yet was faithlessness. Whether or not he’d come to his titles after her father’s death, and whether or not he’d reneged on his vows, anyone who was an enemy of Matilda’s should rightfully be an enemy of Elspeth’s.
Forsooth, how could he possibly approve of the way his Scots king had agreed to aid his niece, then so conveniently abandoned his support? Did he have no care at all that Stephen had no right to rule any lands, less Wales? Did it never concern him that “their king” had forced his own brother to deliver him the support of the church? Or that he’d seized the treasury without right?
The bounds of Stephen’s treachery infuriated Elspeth to no end. And yet, she felt painfully ambivalent about Malcom, because, aye, she realized he could have easily abandoned her to the mercy of Ersinius’ men, and if he had, he might have been justified in doing so. After all, he didn’t know her, and she could have been fleeing a rightful persecution. But nevertheless, once the moment arrived, he’d pulled her onto his mount, with nary a hesitation and swept her away, holding her close—so close that she’d dared to feel… safe.
Certainly, it was the last thing she’d expected from a man she’d attempted to rob—or from a professed minion of Stephen’s.
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