Warrior's Bride

by Gerri Russell

  A renewed spark of anger flared inside Wolf at the damage Grange had caused one of his own warriors for failing to win a battle. Hiram looked at him, and his face paled. "Forgive me, my lord. I dinna mean tae displease ye."

  Wolf cleared his expression. "It is not you, Hiram, who has me angered. Thank you for your service."

  Hiram bowed, turning to leave, when a gasp from Isobel stopped him. He turned fully toward her, then just as quickly hid his face and raced from the room.

  Isobel stared after him before her gaze swung to Wolf, her accusation clearly written there. "The man fears you." Her gaze sharpened. "You hurt him."

  Wolf clamped his jaw tight, trying to stall the slash of anger that surged through him, opening a wound he thought had long since healed. Why did they always assume the worst about him? He wanted to explain the truth, but he'd learned long ago that his defense often fell on deaf ears. The sins of his past, sins forced upon him long ago by his father, were a curse he would always bear.

  Still, he had hoped for something more from her.

  He was oddly relieved when Mistress Rowley stepped into the room, bearing a wooden tray laden with smoked meats and crusty brown bread. Four maids followed in her wake, carrying buckets of steaming water. They filled the bath, then left as quickly as they'd come. Only Mistress Rowley remained behind.

  "A bath and a meal for master and his bride." Mistress Rowley offered him a knowing smile. "'Bout time you decided to settle down and start giving me some bairns to chase after. How else am I to keep myself young, don't ye know?"

  All the color drained from Isobel's cheeks. She looked utterly terrified. Of him.

  He clenched and unclenched his right hand, imagining the solidness of his grazing iron there. His work helped him think, helped him vent his aggressions into something more productive than anger or worry. It was where he needed to go now.

  He looked at Isobel, and then Mistress Rowley in the fading light of the evening that forced its way through the colored glass. "Isobel, you will be safe with Mistress Rowley. I shall expect you below stairs shortly to join me for dinner, and when you do, please see that you smell of something other than seaweed and salt. I'd have my bride smelling of sweet flowers and not the sea."

  Alone in the rooftop watchtower of his keep, Wolf rolled the long metal rod in his hands, heating the glass at the end in the clay oven he had built himself.

  By day he wielded a sword, by night a grazing iron. Destroyer and creator. It was the sum of his life thus far.

  Twisting motions took the unformed glass in and out of the flame. In the heat the molten mixture left behind obscurity to become something more. A phoenix rising from the ashes to bathe the world in light.

  As the glass heated and changed its shape, Wolf glanced about the enclosed space of the tower. His private lair. No one dared enter here, at least no one who valued his life. The members of his household respected his warnings to stay out. He knew they whispered among themselves, wondering what he did in the darkened space at the edge of the keep, but no one had ever violated his edict in order to find out.

  There was a time when he had deserved their fear. He had been the nightmare his father had named him— dark and ravenous. But those days were behind him. He had changed since that first meeting with Master de Joinville in Vienna.

  That first glimmer of liquid fire had become for the Black Wolf of Scotland a beacon of light to a brighter future. In the dark and dusty hovel where the master created miracles with glass, Wolf had found the salvation he so desperately sought. He'd risked it all and turned away from his father, gathered his own men, and tried to serve his people as best he could.

  Wolf tightened his hands on the warm metal rod, rolling it once more in and out of the flames. Yet nothing had changed. His love for his brother and his misguided compassion for Isobel had shackled him into service once more.

  Wolf paused, the rod hanging slightly above the greedy flames. What would happen if he let whoever was after Isobel find her? With her death he'd be free. But even as the thought formed, he knew he could never be so cruel. The nightmarish beast he had once been could have done such a heinous thing. But he was that man no more. He protected life. He did not destroy it. And he would protect her.

  Resolved to his fate, Wolf removed from the flames the grazing iron with its liquid ball of blue glass at the end. Carefully, he reached for a second grazing iron and transferred the ball of glass from one rod to the other. Once that task was complete, he drew his dagger and, with a flick of his blade, sliced open the end of the glass ball.

  With slow, even movements, he rotated the rod between his hands. The cut glass elongated and stretched, forming a cone with each passing rotation. The weight of the rod pulled at his arms and beads of sweat dotted his brow. The controlled movements worked his arms in ways his sword never did, as well as easing the tension from his shoulders, neck, and soul.

  In creation he found peace.

  He allowed the sensation to pass through him, to draw away his worries of the day. Even the troubles he had gained along with Isobel no longer seemed as overwhelming or discouraging. Someone had tried to kill her. He had to figure out not only who, but why.

  Brahan could help. He could demand Brahan use the Seer's Stone to reveal the culprit But at what cost to his friend? Each time Brahan used the Stone to predict the future, a piece of his life drained away.

  Renewed tension tugged at Wolf’s neck. He stepped back to the oven and returned the glass to the flame. He had to keep the glass fluid and supple until he achieved the desired shape.

  Once again lost in the process of creation, the tension in his neck eased. Neither Brahan nor the Stone were the answer to this situation. Nay, Isobel knew who was after her; he had seen that knowledge in her eyes after the attack in the courtyard. He did not blame her for withholding the truth. She had very little reason to trust him.

  Perhaps once she became more at ease in her surroundings, she would confide in him. Wolf tightened his grip on the grazing iron. Forcing her to marry him would not aid his cause. But what other choice did he have?

  None.

  Wolf returned his attention to the rod in his hands. Neither of them had a choice about the marriage. Yet perhaps he could make her see it was best for both of them if they peaceably gave in to the king's demands, for he knew all too well what could happen if he disobeyed his father.

  Wolf pulled the glass from the oven. Holding the rod at waist level, he quickly spun the metal between his hands. The elongated cone responded immediately by transforming into a flat, circular shape. He continued to spin the circle until it became a thin, iridescent blue disk from which he would cut the windowpanes. He moved to the oven. With one hand he grabbed a wire brush and dusted the coals into a semicircle around the edges of the oven. Using a metal cutter, he removed the formed glass from the rod and set it on the heated surface to cool along with the coals.

  With a sense of satisfaction, he placed the grazing iron against the wall and stepped back to admire his work. The glass piece would be perfect for the window he was creating for the solar—a room he and his bride would share.

  His bride. He barely knew anything about Isobel. Yet he could hardly turn his thoughts away from her.

  It was abuse he saw in the depth of her eyes, her fear, her trauma. He recognized the shadows that lingered there. Some part of him connected with her, felt sorry for her, wanted to help her. And that was the very reason he should avoid her. She would be nothing but trouble. Had she not been that and more already?

  He brought his hand up to massage the bruise on his chest left by the unknown attacker in the courtyard. If he had not heard Brahan's warning replayed in his mind before they'd reached land and dressed in mail, he would be dead. Just as Brahan had predicted.

  Once again Brahan's abilities as a seer had given him an edge, a warning, another chance to change the outcome. Wolf was certain Isobel was the reason behind the attack. The girl had secrets, secrets he would glean from
her one way or another.

  Wolf turned away from the clay oven that held his Creation, feeling suddenly eager for the challenge that lay ahead. He knew how to get Isobel to talk. An intimate dinner, a goblet or two of his favorite wine, and he'd have her singing like a nightingale in spring. He felt his lips pull up in a smile. Such wooing had always worked on the women in his life before; why would Isobel be any different?

  He'd have her secrets, and his answers, before the night was through.

  Chapter Nine

  His bride.

  Pleasure and terror collided at the thought. Izzy clamped her arms around her waist, trying to contain the turmoil inside her. The action brought neither comfort nor ease.

  How could she feel such conflicting emotions for a man who could destroy her life as her father had destroyed her mother's?

  Izzy pressed her wrists against her waist. Memories filled her mind of her mother's wild eyes, endless hours of rambling and thrashing at the manacles that bound their arms. Each tug upon the manacles had only pulled the metal encircling Izzy's wrists, cutting into her flesh. Her mother never realized that fact, and Izzy never told her.

  It was the sacrifice a seer made. Sanity for the visions, her mother had said. Izzy wanted no part of seeing into the future. What purpose could knowing the future have for her? She preferred to know naught of the torments that awaited her. Dealing with the present was difficult enough.

  A gentle touch on her shoulder startled Izzy. "Let us get you into the bath before the water cools."

  "I appreciate your help, Mistress Rowley, but I'm so tired. I just want to rest."

  "You'll feel more comfortable if you bathe first," she said, her gaze moving to the newly poured bath. "The water is here. 'Twould be a waste of the maidservants' efforts to let it go unused."

  Izzy frowned. She detested wastefulness. Still she hesitated.

  Mistress Rowley must have taken silence for acquiescence. She bent and grasped the hem of Izzy's dress, intending to help her remove the garment. Izzy stepped to the side, pulling the coarse fabric from the woman's fingers. "What are you doing?"

  " 'Tis my job to assist you, my dear." The look she gave Izzy brooked no argument. Mistress Rowley clutched the hem of the tattered dress and with skillful efficiency lifted it up over Izzy's head. A moment later her shift rested on the floor in a pile along with her dress. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

  Izzy fought to keep from covering her bare self with her hands. "I am not used to having help with my personal needs."

  "As lady of the castle you will eventually grow accustomed to such things. Now to the bath," Mistress Rowley directed.

  Izzy remained where she stood. "I'm not certain."

  "Of the bath, or of the master?" Mistress Rowley asked. "He only wants what is best for you, my dear."

  Izzy frowned. Before she could object, the woman scooted her toward the steaming tub. "Get in."

  A moment later, Izzy found herself chest deep in water. Instant heat seeped into her, warming her clear to her core.

  The older woman knelt beside the tub and gathered Izzy's long hair in her hands before she rubbed the ends with a cake of soap. The scent of evening primrose coiled with the steam of the bath, growing more intense as Mistress Rowley worked her way up the golden strands to Izzy's scalp. "Relax, my dear. Have you never had anyone wash your hair for you before?"

  "Nay."

  The hands stilled in her hair. "Not even by yer own mother?"

  Izzy dropped her gaze to the surface of the steaming water, examining the clear liquid with sudden intensity. "I have no family."

  "None at all?"

  Tightness filled her throat. She did not want to lie to this woman, yet she could hardly tell her the truth. "I am an orphan and have been for many years." That much at least was the truth.

  A loud tsk issued from Mistress Rowley, and her hands moved more gently against Izzy's scalp. "Well, my dear, you are here with us now. I'll take good care of you."

  Her response was kind, gentle, accepting—and not what Izzy had expected. Not trusting her voice, she simply nodded, hoping the motion communicated her gratitude. A warmth that had nothing to do with the bath centered in her chest. This was what it must feel like to be cared for by a mother. Even though she'd had a mother, Izzy had always offered the comfort, never received any for herself.

  Humming a soft tune, Mistress Rowley began rinsing the soap from Izzy's hair. She pressed her eyes tightly together blocking out the light or anything that could break this moment. She drew in a deep breath and held it—desperate to surround herself with the sensations of being cared for. What harm could there be in imagining she belonged here in this castle and in this room, pretending she could confide in and trust Mistress Rowley with her deepest fears?

  For years Izzy had confided in her pet chicken, fully aware that the animal was merely a proxy for the human companionship she wished she had. What would it be like to reveal her fears and her hopes for the future to this compassionate woman?

  A hesitant smile came to her lips. What would it be like to have a true friend? But one did not lie to their friends. At the thought her smile faltered and she released her pent-up breath. Fantasy had no place in her life, and it never would.

  "Where are you from, my dear? We know so little about you." Mistress Rowley dipped a soft towel into the bathwater and rubbed it with the sweet-smelling soap, then handed it to Izzy.

  Izzy scrubbed at the dirt that clung to her body. "The isle of St. Kilda," she admitted. There was no harm in revealing that small truth.

  "Then how did you meet the master if you lived so far from here?" Mistress Rowley frowned. "Certainly it wasn't at court." The older woman took the dirty towel from Izzy's hands. "I beg your pardon, my dear, but you are more the sort of woman my lord Wolf brings home to serve in the household, not the sort he would bring home with plans to marry."

  "It was the king who decided that fate for us."

  A flicker of surprise passed over Mistress Rowley's face. "The king, you say?"

  Izzy nodded.

  "Heaven help all of us then," Mistress Rowley said in a dire tone as she retrieved a fresh towel and patted Izzy's hair dry.

  "I don't want to marry him."

  "Truly?" Mistress Rowley arched a brow, her expression skeptical. "How can you hope to defy the king's command? Not even Wolf, his own s—" She cut off her words, a frown once again in place. "Not even my lord Wolf can defy such an order." She draped a fresh towel at the side of the bath, then turned away. "Regardless of how you were brought together, I hope the master gives you a reason to marry him. 'Twould be best for both of you—you'd have a family and there would be one less way for him to be manipulated by his king."

  Izzy stood and wrapped the cloth around her body. Her skin tingled at the slight chill in the air. "What do you mean, manipulated?"

  Mistress Rowley sighed. "Forgive me, dear. I'm just a rambling old woman." She led Izzy to a chair next to the hearth where she'd laid out clean clothing. She scooped up a kirtle of leaf-green damask and held it to Izzy's face. "You'll be a beauty in this. Despite that 'tis one of Fiona's castoffs, the master will be pleased."

  Izzy stared at the luxurious fabric. She could never wear something so exquisite. Doing so would bind her to him. "I do not wish to please him."

  "Then wear the dress." Both women turned toward the door at the sound of Fiona's voice. "Wolfie hates green. He will detest you on sight in that rag." She stood inside the doorway, holding a wooden serving platter bearing slices of apple and a wedge of yellow- gold cheese.

  "Have a care, Lady Fiona," the older woman said as she tossed a silken smock over Izzy's head. The sheer undergarment fluttered over her waist and hips until the hem hung just above her ankles. "The master does not want you here in this chamber."

  Fiona came forward and set the tray on the table in the center of the room. "I'm not here to make trouble. In fact, I came to make peace." She waved her hand at the food. "And to offer my
services, now that I've decided not to leave the castle."

  Mistress Rowley frowned.

  "What kind of services?" Izzy asked hesitantly, suspicious of the woman's motives.

  Fiona plucked a slice of apple from the tray and delicately nibbled on the pale flesh. Her movements were polished, cultured, dramatic, yet quite civilized. And nothing Izzy had ever been taught. "Mistress Rowley might be able to clean you up and make you presentable, but I can teach you things only a well-bred woman knows. When you are ready to learn, you will come to me." Fiona's beautiful features were set with less than attractive hardness.

  "Lady Isobel needs no lessons from you." Mistress Rowley picked up the kirtle and gently pulled it down over Izzy's head, then worked her arms into the long sleeves. The older woman ignored Fiona as she set about buttoning the small buttons at the sleeves of Izzy's dress. With that task completed, she moved behind Izzy to grasp the gown's lacings, pulling the garment tight across her ribs and waist.

  "We will see about that in time, won't we?" Fiona said tersely. "And, as I suspected, that dress does nothing to augment your looks." Fiona swept back the skirts of her own richly embroidered kirtle and surcoat, then left the room.

  "Don't you listen to her, my dear," Mistress Rowley soothed. "You look enchanting." A smile came into the older woman's eyes as she fussed with the fabric that molded itself to Izzy's waist and hips. "Aye, my lord Wolf will definitely approve." She picked up a comb and began working her way through the damp length of Izzy's hair. "Once I plait your hair, you'll be a vision indeed."

  Izzy stood perfectly still, feeling like a stranger in her own skin. Her breath hitched in her chest as she spread her fingers open across the rich thickness of the clothing. The fabric embraced every curve of her body, making her feel suddenly exposed. "This gown is not right for me." She could not hide her feminine curves in the folds of this garment as she did in her plain homespun gown. The loose fabric had allowed her a certain amount of obscurity. The silken texture of this new gown draped against her flesh, caressing her in the most intimate of ways. "I want my old dress back."