“Do ye think I can teach the earl’s daughter how to sing?” Embla set the sacks side by side and then she lined them into a row. “I only had those few lessons before Mother took to her bed.”
“I think ye be the best teacher here at Kilburren Castle, and the little girl be lucky to have ye.” Unaware the countess had listened while Embla took a spin around the hall, Thordia was astounded at the woman’s offer to hire her sister’s services. Now, Embla had a purpose, and her sunny outlook would translate well to instruction.
A sharp rap sounded on the door. Thordia’s heart raced. She thought she’d spotted Rory on the field today. Had he come to call? She pulled open the door to find Cormick Slaven on the doorstep.
He swept off his cap, mussing his brown hair, and dipped his chin. “Afternoon, ladies. I’ve come to place an order for a scarf to be weaved—or woven—er…for you to make, maiden Thordia.”
“A scarf?” She could weave anything, but she’d never had an order for such a small item. “I could probably knit ye one much faster.”
He shrugged. “Only need something to keep my neck warm when I’m riding. My favorite color is green.” The tall man turned to leave, and then called over his shoulder, “I’m obliged to you.”
Shaking her head, Thordia shut the door and shot a glance at Embla who just shrugged before arranging the food onto a small table. Thordia moved to the small crate where she stored her supplies. Before she located an adequate ball of yarn, another knock was heard.
This time Peadar stood on the other side. “Afternoon, maiden Thordia. I’m here to offer a trade.”
“Pardon me?” Frowning, she waved him inside. Except for the day these men participated in the serving of the warrant, they’d never visited her cottage. “What type of trade?”
“I’m handy with a carving knife. Thought you might need a new sign outside.”
“And what would I be makin’ ye in return?”
His thick eyebrows popped high. “I could sure use a new tunic. Mine’s so threadbare the wind goes right through to my skin.”
“I need to borrow the old one for a pattern. What color do ye want?”
“Gray or brown are best at hiding spots.” He pulled open the door. “Thank you.”
Baffled at what had taken place, Thordia walked to her sleeping pallet and reached for the paper scratch pad she kept there. Writing down the details while they were new seemed like a good idea. An element about the conversations nagged at her mind.
Another rapping sounded on the door.
“Is this a parade?” Embla swung the door wide and sucked in a breath. “Lonn—um, soldier Ciardubhan…what a surprise.” Color rose in her cheeks.
“Good day, maiden Embla.” The black-haired man stared, his mouth sliding into a wide grin. “Oh, and good day, maiden Thordia.” He glanced back at Embla, and his mouth went slack.
Thordia rose and crossed the floor. When had this relationship started? “How may we help ye, sir?”
“I wish to request a…” His gaze flashed between the women, then his shoulders sagged. “I plumb forgot what to say. I’ll be back.” He stomped to the end of the walkway before yelling, “Appreciate your time, ladies.”
Realization struck like the clouds had opened to allow a sunbeam to reach the earth. Thordia reached for her cloak.
“Where are ye going?” Embla stood, still rooted to the door.
“To get to the bottom of this.”
“What?”
If what she suspected was true, neither of them would have long to wait. “Follow me.” Pulling the hood over her head to ward off the chilly breeze, she walked the length of two houses before she heard a deep, whispered conversation. Behind her, Embla’s steps slapped through the slushy snow. Thordia rounded the corner of the soapmaker’s house and spotted Rory with his back to the road, shaking a finger at Lonn.
Almost as one, the soldiers stood taller and then make small gestures to alert their captain.
“What is the meaning of this, Rory MacGuignard? Are ye forcing yer men to contract me services?” She added to the appearance of outrage by planting both hands on her hips.
For a moment, Rory hunched his shoulders then he relaxed and faced her with a big smile. “Forcing is such a strong word. I only reminded them of the lack in their wardrobes that might be fulfilled by your handiwork.”
His words shot warmth straight to her heart. What a caring gesture this was to increase her revenue. She could not muster a spark of resentment at his overbearing attitude, because in fact, she welcomed his support.
He stepped close and bent his knees to look her straight in the eyes. “I see you’re wavering. You’re not as angry as you seem. Before you shoo us all away, hear me out.”
Thordia took a long look at the rugged face that had become so dear to her over the past month. “All right, have yer say.”
Rory clasped her hand and squeezed. “The earl has need of your cottage. He’s arranged for a new smithy to move in next week.”
“A week?” Thordia sucked in a shocked breath and yanked back her hand. “Ousted with such little notice.” She braced herself against whatever he might say next. She thought his appearance meant he was ready to mend their split.
“Tell her the rest.” Orren slashed a hand through the air.
Cormick took a step closer. “Come on, Rory, don’t keep her hanging.”
Scowling over his shoulder, Rory muttered. He clasped a hand around her elbow and marched her a rod down the road. “Now, to finish my news. You’re not to worry about the cottage. The countess encouraged the earl that enough bare walls existed in the castle to have need of an apprentice weaver. I heard her praise of the tapestry.”
“Ye heard?” She lifted a disbelieving brow.
His lips pressed tight then he smiled. “Rumors. You’ll learn soon enough how gossip flies in the castle.”
“I will?”
“The loft in the master weaver’s house is available for you and Embla. Living there will put you both close to your jobs, and you’ll be safer inside the palisade.”
And put me closer to ye. Her heart skipped a beat. “Such a solution would lessen me worries.” She tapped a finger on her chin, as if she still pondered an answer.
“All your needs would be taken care of.”
“Not all.”
His brows dropped into a scowl, and he ticked off items as he spoke. “Roof over your heads, food on your table, an occupation, safety. What did I miss?”
“A handsome beau.” She stretched on her tip-toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Iffen I knew I had that, I could add happiness to me heartfelt gratitude for all ye have done.”
He cupped her cheeks and lowered his head to capture her lips.
Thordia started at the unexpected contact and then pressed back, enjoying the warmth and tingles that danced along her lips. She hoped they were in agreement, for she never intended to let him go.
He lifted his mouth from hers and gave her a smile that made her heart leap. “Ah, lass, bein’ your beau is a sure promise.”
About the Author— Linda Carroll-Bradd
As a young girl, Linda was often found lying on her bed reading about fascinating characters having exciting adventures in places far away and in other time periods. In later years, she read and then started writing romances, and achieved her first publication—a story for a confession magazine. Married with four adult children and two granddaughters, Linda now writes heartwarming contemporary and historical stories with a touch of humor and a bit of sass from her home in the southern California mountains.
See more of Linda’s work here:
www.prairierosepublications.com
The Chalice
Beverly Wells
Might the quest for the Chalice finally bring these two lonely, longing hearts together?
Chapter One
Scotland’s Border Country, 1297
The heavy plodding of hooves breaking the silence of the forest as wagon wheels rumbled
and creaked along the uneven hard-packed dirt road brought a tentative smile to Ahna Murray’s lips. Her heart drummed in her throat in anticipation of her goal while beads of sweat slickened her loose grip on her bow as she questioned the wisdom in what she was about to do.
From the same southern direction, birds of various sizes soared upward taking frantic flight from their perches and quietude, some squawking their outrage as the approaching disturbance grew louder. She had left the borrowed palfrey, Patience, far enough away and behind a large rock formation so the horse would not become restless with the approaching clatter and possibly neigh. When Royce’s mounted men scouting the way had passed, she had held her breath. Patience remained silent. To her great relief, the sweet girl had done well. She would make sure she received extra oats tonight.
Her mind, again, questioned the logic of wounding the one who still held her heart. Could she really release the arrow? Cause him pain and grief? Her conscience badgered ’twas a terrible, unforgiveable sin. Desperation to aid her mother compelled the overwhelming necessity. Her heart wept for true love denied—and so painfully lost—so very long ago.
As the vehicle drew nearer, she laughed at how easy it be to predict Royce. He ’twas a hulk of a man, brave and skilled in warfare, a proud knight of honor who battled from atop his powerful destrier, but be there a wagon or cart needs be driven, Royce resembled a youthful lad in his eagerness to play at the reins instead of a twenty-six-year-old warrior.
Spotting movement through the trees too far off in the distance to take aim, she inhaled slow and steady to battle back her persistent, nagging conscience. ’Twas to her benefit the soft breeze held only a wee bit of chill, and but a dusting of snow lay on the ground so she could avoid wearing heavier clothes over her woolen tunic that might encumber her.
Rich peat, laced with fresh pine, rose from beneath the thin white sheet of snow upon the ground to calm her nerves and help ease her tense muscles. The sun hung overhead. Her shot needed to be straight on to fully penetrate his chain mail. Having left her water skin tied to Patience, she now wished she had it to quench her dry throat. She flexed her shoulders, straightened, and patiently waited to prepare. Closer, closer…now.
Ahna reached over her shoulder and pulled a two-feathered arrow from her leather-covered quiver. She planted her feet in a familiar broad stance, laid the nock of the arrow on the ox hide bowstring, and pulled both back as the wagon came into view. Closer, almost there…wait…
Whoosh!
One moment, she stood poised as an expert archer. The next, a strong band of steel circled her neck to cut off her air. Helpless, her feet flew upward as she was toppled backward. She landed with such force her teeth rattled. As her jarred mind cleared, she realized ’twas no’ hard-packed earth beneath pine needles prodding her bruised shoulder blades. ’Twas her attacker’s muscled body, equaled to hard rock.
Joggled senses recovered enough to feel a thick, muscular forearm encased in chain mail ease back a bit from her abraded neck. Blood trickled in warm rivulets to pool into her tunic’s neckline. Only then did she realize how chilled she had become, not only from the wet snow, but most likely from shock, and almost losing consciousness.
Braving a small swallow before daring a deeper breath, her throat rebelled from the raw injury as if a hot poker had been thrust down her gullet. Though she questioned how she would fare against her assailant, she thanked God her neck had no’ been snapped in two. Now, she needs must face penalty for becoming a misbegotten scoundrel. Oh, sweet Mother Mary, please let them be merciful.
Chapter Two
It took Royce Hayden a few seconds to catch his breath after crashing onto his back with his prey held tight against his wide chest. Cautiously, he straightened his elbow enough to ease the pressure against the villain’s throat so the man could breathe. Yet, realizing the secrecy of his transport of the Chalice—possibly the Holy Grail itself—had been breached, he seethed with mounting rage. Nothing was sacred among servants, peasants, or villeins, it seemed.
Shortly after entering the dense forest—just as a precaution since he doubted anyone would attack a furniture-loaded wagon manned by a knight and his captain—he handed over the team’s reins to Geoffrey so he could scout for any foul play. He had ridden Valiant a short way off to the right when, much to his surprise—and it seemed more than pleasing to Valiant—he came upon a lovely tan palfrey tethered to a bush. Instructing Valiant to remain and knowing the destrier would not roam, Royce turned to tracking the palfrey’s rider who had left a path of trampled leaves and disturbed bushes that stood out like a beacon on the dark coastline.
Now, his captive moaned, coughed, then wiggled as he gasped for breath. How thin and fragile the culprit felt! Royce recalled slim long legs encased in brown hose below a tunic of green, held taut in an archer’s stance, bow at the ready with arrow nocked, just as he plowed down the puny menace. Could this be a mere youngster he thought a threat? Could the boy have been aiming at game? He felt more the villain. Saints preserve this noble knight of ignorance if ’tis so.
“I needs see how much damage I have done. I would have your word you will not flee before I ease my hold to turn you.” His captive stiffened, took a quick breath. A breeze caught a strand of deep, red-brown hair that had escaped the captive’s eschewed tight knit cap. Its silkiness tickled his chin. He tried to not think of such a shade haunting his dreams; its long length gave him a moment’s pause.
“Aye,” the captive said in a hoarse, graveled gasp between staggered pants.
Taking heed in turning him over while offering support, Royce’s forearm skimmed the right side of the boy’s chest. Royce froze, releasing his gasp. Boy’s chest? Not bloody likely.
’Twas a female breast—and not just a little budding mound of a sweet young maid. Firm, rounded, a bloody-well full handful…lusciously all-woman. Somehow, she felt right in his arms, and he longed to continue to crush her against his full length. His face flamed hot enough to cook a haunch of beef to a crisp. Had he ever encountered such a sweet breast? Aye, he had, once upon a long time ago. He had been plagued by memories of holding her within his crushing embrace while sharing a tender but potent kiss ever since. He shook his head to rid the past’s haunting memories.
To gather his wits, he took a slow, deep breath. He must apologize, honor her as was a knight’s duty, and grant her fondest wish to atone for such an irresponsible and offensive act. Confusion jostled his mind. This girl—no, this woman—had intended to kill him. He had not yet cast eyes upon her face, but be she an ugly old hag ’twould not matter. To his embarrassment, he already stood strong and tall below his belt. He obviously spent far too much time pleasing his king and not nearly enough time curbing his own needs.
Royce placed his right hand on her waist, supported her neck with his left, and rolled her to her side while he slithered from underneath her. He gently eased her to her back so she lay flat on the ground, and stared into the most beautiful emerald eyes that haunted his dreams. Royce was a man who did not allow much to surprise him, but for the second time today, he gasped.
Chapter Three
Springing back as if a bee had stung him in the seat of his hose, he roared, “Ahna! Why?”
Wide-eyed, Ahna gazed up at him as he rested on his haunches. The moment her senses started to function once more, she realized the familiarity. With his first word, her heart had taken flight. A cap of chain mail hid his light brown hair he usually kept cut just above his shoulders, and encircled his high cheek-boned face. She longed to reach out, to caress the slight cleft in his square, clean-shaven chin. Utter surprise held his lips agape, brows arched, eyes rounded in bewilderment seeking a hundred questions. Within a breath’s time, those smoky blue-gray eyes she had fallen in love with so very long ago turned cold and hard as the ice upon the lochs in the dead of winter.
“You hate me so much, you would kill me?” The torment radiating from those now anguish-filled eyes bludgeoned Ahna’s heart, striking nary less th
an an ax to the chest.
Her throat raw and burning, the open cuts on her neck smarting as if acid gnawed at her skin, she sat up and swallowed. “I…dinna intend to kill ye, only maim ye a wee bit…I…needed the Chalice.” She swallowed and grimaced. “My aim…’twas no’ fer yer heart, but yer right shoulder.” She gagged, panted short and shallow to ease the searing pain.
She eyed him as her words registered. His hostile gaze bore into hers, and she be sure the flames from hell would reach out and consume her. She had forgotten how expressive his handsome face could be, how quickly it could change. ’Twas said, however, when this determined knight fought in battle, he held an unreadable expression most enemies dinna ever want to face. He appeared baffled, now. Thank you, Holy Mother, for disarming his temper.
Truth be known, he had never shown any violent temperament, but always rationalized issues out strategically, then dealt with the problem. Even now, she failed to fear him. How could she no’? She loved this proud man with all her heart…though he had torn it to shreds when he chose his status both as knight and earl apparent over her. He had turned his back during her blackest moments as if she had been no better than a shunned grotesque leper.
He glared at her, then levered himself up to tower over her. “Let us stand you up, and then retrieve our horses.” He held out his large hand for assistance. She grasped his palm and gained her footing. Her heart fluttered as if a butterfly had entered her chest and sought escape. She took a moment to admire his broad shoulders, wide, thick-muscled chest she knew lay beneath his mail and brown tabard, arms strong enough to wield a broad sword yet so very gentle when cradling her within his embrace. The top of her head did not quite reach his shoulders, and she longed to press against him, feel his heat, have his strong arms hold her once more.
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