by C. C. Wiley
Nathan squinted, trying to see over his friend’s sleeve. “By all the saints,” he said. “I trust that it will be to return to France and continue Henry’s good fight.”
“I fear not,” Darrick said. His mouth barely moved as he spoke. “Someone must ride north. Toward the debatable land.”
“But is not Carlisle’s keep nearby?” Sabine asked. “Surely they are closer.”
He slid his thumb over her lip. “’Tis not what the king desires. He wishes for information.”
The gray in Darrick’s eyes turned the color of ice chips as his jaw worked to release the rest of the message. “We are to ride to Fletchers Landing.”
Nathan grunted. “’Twas one of Vincent DePierce’s holdings.”
“No.” Elizabeth and Sabine’s gasp wove its way through their little group.
The messenger gripped his hat and pulled a leather packet from his cape. “If you please, my Lady Sabine, our king wishes to return this. He believes there may be clues in the land to the north and he asks that its meaning is discovered.”
He slapped his woolen cap back on his head and waited for their reply.
Taron stepped forward. “Go to the kitchens. Ask Cook to find something to tide you over until this eve. If you wish, you may bed in the stables. On the morrow, we’ll have a message for you to deliver.”
“Aye, my lord, I thank you for your hospitality. ’Tis a fair long ride.” Making a bow, he hurried off, a hungry look widening his eyes as he searched for the cook.
Sabine held out her hand. “Father’s journal.” They stared as she unfolded the leather wrapping. “’Tis the one that speaks of treasure that Rhys and DePierce were willing to kill for.”
Nathan suppressed a shiver and lifted his chin in defiance. “I’ll go. Alone.”
“You can’t,” Taron said.
Nathan felt the boil of rage begin to hurl its way through his limbs. He tamped down the beast that he feared he may become. If he did not do something he knew it was only a matter of time before his friends’ worries were confirmed. “And why not?”
“The memories,” Elizabeth said. She caught her lip with her teeth. “Will you be able to manage them?”
Her concern warmed his soul. There had been a time in his boyhood, when he thought that his heart would break should Elizabeth never notice him. He knew that it was no longer possible for her love to be his. She had given her love to Sir Taron, Lord of Clearmorrow. But in those moments that he wandered the halls of late, he did dream of someone to care whether he lived or died. And he had come to decide that someone could only be found in another place other than Clearmorrow or Lockwood Castles.
“I am stronger than I look.” He bent low, lifting her fingers to his lips. A bit of mischief made him linger over long until Taron shifted his feet into position so that his fist might make contact with Nathan’s jaw.
Appreciating an uninjured face over the torment that he caused Elizabeth’s new husband, he released her hand and ducked. The thought of being on the lands connected to the villain DePierce was nearly obliterated from his mind. At least until he closed his eyes. Time would reveal whether he could keep his sanity a while longer.
He pressed down the whispered questions that normally only tormented him in the dark hours of the night. He had to place his attention elsewhere, and swiftly.
“Darrick. Taron. ’Tis too soon to leave Castles Clearmorrow and Lockwood untended. The lands need your care. They are still recovering from that bastard DePierce and his nephew Hugh.”
“Did our king state who should go?” Taron asked.
Though the movement was slight, Nathan noted Elizabeth’s hand slide over her abdomen. Ah, so yet another child to fill her arms was on its way, too. Did the others notice?
“No,” Darrick growled as he searched the king’s words. He fisted the missive in a stranglehold. “In fact, it mentions to forgo troops on this mission.”
“Your families need you here.” Nathan itched as all four pairs of eyes stared, pouring out their concern. “I’m the best knight for this quest. And I vow, as a Knight of the Swan, to hold my sanity together.” Despite the trail of panic streaming down his back, he released a slow wink. “Mayhap I will even find the king’s treasure.”
* * * *
Meg stomped through the meadow. She, Margaret Grace, may technically be the lady of Fletchers Landing, but she certainly did not receive deference for that station. A heavy sigh whose source seemed to come from deep inside, and she felt clear to the soles of her shoes, whispered past her lips.
The milk cow ambled along the path, mindless of the trouble it was for someone to chase after her. Meg danced out of the way of the bovine’s lumbering hooves. ’Twas not the first time Maisie had taken off through the open gate, but not before knocking over bee skeps. It took three days for the bees to find their queen and return to the hive. Not to mention the villagers’ complaints of stings and swelling. Her sister, Anna, was kept busy creating poultices and calming the disfiguring knots left by the angry hive. If it weren’t for their need of milk, Meg would be tempted to let the beast wander off to some other poor soul. She feared that one day the contrary thing would next knock over a lantern and start a fire. But their little sister, Phillipa, swore Maisie produced the sweetest milk. And Anna needed the cream for her unguents, and her potions brought coin to Fletchers Landing. So who was Meg to argue? Her ire shifted. Actually it was their brother’s carelessness that took her from her chores. If there was blame to be placed it should be on Baldric’s head. Again.
“How many times must I remind him to ensure the gate is closed properly?” she muttered to the blasted cow. Her brother was old enough to complete the task of tending the beasts in the barn. Had they the funds and connections he should have been sent off for fostering three years ago. But thanks to that damn Vincent DePierce and having to pay the others for protection, their coffers were as empty as last year’s bird’s nest.
“’Tis for certain Baldric has had plenty of warnings.” She jerked off her veil and swatted at the annoying gnats attacking her head. If only someone would take him in hand and teach him the ways of being a lord.
Maisie paused to snag a mouthful of grass and released a plaintive grass-scented moo.
“Come along, now,” Meg urged. The stick she used to tap along the cow’s backside no longer had any effect. She dodged Maisie’s tail as it swished the flies sticking to her roan coat. The cow refused to take another step.
“Poor beastie,” Meg crooned. “Have you worn yourself down to skin and bones?”
She swiped at the hair escaping her braid. Tendrils stuck to her cheek like vines climbing a castle tower. The summer heat had begun to sweep over the countryside. Usually the breeze blowing off the firth was enough to cool the air. But the infernal Maisie had strayed farther than usual and now they faced a long walk home.
Meg folded her arms and searched the shaded path while she waited for the stubborn cow to fill her many stomachs. It appeared both of them were hungry and exhausted. She dared not shut her eyes. Could she?
The space between her shoulder blades twitched and burned. The payments for protection may help their village and keep the reivers from crossing the land between England and Scotland, but it did little to protect anyone outside Fletchers Landing’s walls. If only she had someone to help shoulder the weight of all that fell on her. It felt like ages since she sat down and took her ease.
A butterfly flitted by, its gossamer wings brushing her cheek before settling on a bush. The lapis and black wings opened and closed as if finding a cooler spot to rest. Meg tilted her head to listen. The sound of water rolling and crashing, polishing rough stones until they were smooth, came from the grove of trees. The promise of a refreshing dip.
Spring had come early this year, and with it came the melt of ice and snow. She had forgotten the small stream that meandered through th
e meadow and down to the firth. The melt had filled the banks and now left behind an oasis that called to her.
The butterfly lifted from its perch and led the way.
Who was she to ignore a sign to follow? She tapped on Maisie to gain her attention and cut a path between the bushes to reach the stream.
Meg tied the cow to a nearby tree and left her to graze. Unwilling to lose another minute, she stripped off her hose and shoes, then dipped her toes into the water. The chill tore her breath from her lungs and left her giddy. She could not let this opportunity pass her.
After scanning the banks to make certain only she and the cow were by the stream, she tucked the hem of her skirt under her wide belt and pulled it through. Hot air caressed her calves. A groan of pleasure escaped her lips before she tamed it back where it belonged: to the cage where she chained it and kept it under control.
She stepped into the water. It lapped and licked her legs and she went in deeper. A finger of ecstasy slid down her back, reminding her that she was not always its master. She nodded, and let the carefree sensation roll over her. “Just this once,” she whispered. Then she would climb that hill and return to her responsibilities.
She dipped lower to splash her face and dampened a corner of her skirt, using the soft wool to drip cool water over her neck. It lapped at her collarbone, trickling down her bodice.
A song she heard one of the boys singing the other evening popped into her head. First it was just a hum, then a whisper. Before she knew it she was belting the song out at the top of her lungs.
And suddenly, a baritone joined in the chorus. Meg stumbled and nearly fell on her bottom. She splashed about like an unhappy duck until she could solidly plant her feet on the streambed.
“Who’s there?” she cried. DePierce’s marauders? Smugglers? Reivers? How did she manage to forget all the possibilities of danger she could encounter out on her own? She slowed down the rapid heartbeat that shook her body. It would never do to let anyone see her fear. No matter whom they might be. The distance to the keep yawned farther away than she would like.
The singing had stopped. Only the babbling stream answered her query. Its contents continued to slide over the rocks and occasional tree limb. She sucked in a breath to slow down the pounding in her head. Eyes narrowed, she searched the trees on the opposite bank.
What was that behind the old birch tree? Feet? Male bare feet. Strong. Striking. And manly.
“I see you,” she croaked. Heat rose until she thought her ears might catch fire. Dear God, she actually found them to be attractive. “Come out from behind that tree.”
There was movement and then silence. Did he travel alone? Biting her lip, she prayed that DePierce had not returned.
Fear kept her rooted to the streambed despite the relentless attack of icy needles against her feet and legs. They were becoming too much to endure.
There were no signs of other traveling companions. Nor did she see a horse nearby. If she moved swiftly, she could be out of reach before he came close.
She scrambled up the bank and pulled the little knife she carried in her belt. In her other fist, she clutched the stick she used to direct the cow. It would probably do little to scare the man off, but she had to do something. She was the protector of Fletchers Landing. Who did he think he was to scare her half to death?
“Show yourself, damn you.”
Long legs encased in leather chausses stretched out as languorous as a cat awakened from a nap. Bare toes curled, his feet arched. Then his legs folded out of sight. Meg waited, her arm outstretched as if she thought to stab him from across the stream. Realizing how ridiculous it might look, she brought her arm in and reared her shoulders back.
The stranger who emerged from the tree nearly stole her breath. A mane of auburn curled about his head like a halo. Even from their distance apart his height made her tip her chin. He was tall and broad shouldered. The muscles in his arms and across his chest stretched the jerkin’s material. Yet it hung neatly over his belly and hips. Metal studs gleamed from leather gauntlets wrapped around his forearms. Her attention caught on his leather chausses encasing his thighs. And sweet lord, his bare feet. His toes curled into the moss, like a cat playing in meadow flowers. Dear God, when did she give a fig about a cat’s habits?
She tore her gaze away, forcing it back to his face. A square jaw framed his mouth. It appeared to be twisted in something resembling a smile. She couldn’t be sure because it kept shifting behind the scruff of his copper-colored beard. His brows arched then furrowed into a frown.
She shivered. Probably nothing more than going from snow-chilled water to late spring sun. Something caught in her belly, swirling around like that lapis-painted butterfly. She pushed the pleasure back in its cage. Dear God, she nearly growled.
Chapter 2
Nathan blinked into the sun. The maiden. Nay, the woman, stood in defiance of the fear he knew was coursing through her veins. A grin tugged at his mouth. Ah, what a sight to behold. A servant, with obsidian hair, stood before him, threatening him with a stick and a blade so small that most would think it unworthy of its name. But he had seen firsthand that the weapon need not be great in size. Sometimes small and unwavering caused more damage.
Shite. Waves of memories returned in a flash. Lightning in a storm. Except this was in his mind. It took all that he could draw from the depths of his soul to stand strong. Thank God his legs did not give out under his weight. Sweat beaded and slid down his neck. The betrayal of his body made him want to weep. He fought back the demons that scoured his soul. When would it cease?
Freeing his thoughts from the stranglehold, he focused on the warrior woman. The hem of her skirt still tucked under the belt wrapped around her narrow waist, exposed her flesh, rosy from the stream. She stood, shapely legs braced. Protecting…a bovine of dubious descent. He’d never seen so bony a cow present so swollen a bag. He almost pitied the beast.
The maiden’s raven tresses had escaped the braid that kissed the swell of her back. A tender spot he had always found enthralling. Her eyes, the color of the most entrancing obsidian, glittered back at him, promising a most challenging fight. Memories of her pale, perfect skin flashed behind his eyelids. And when he tried to remove the vision, it returned to him, her nipples exposed through the thin material covering her breasts.
He hated that he had fallen prey to her seductive voice. She had carried him to a place of peace he’d had little experience with after the oubliette. Her voice drew him from one of those dark places that seemed to cling to his spirit. She freed him. And when she poured out her heart in song, he could not stop himself from joining in.
He should have kept quiet. Enjoyed the scenery. Then search for her later. The maiden wore a serviceable dress of wool. No lady here. Only a servant. In truth, no threat to him. He should have found her in the village. Persuaded her to spend some time with him as he searched out the information that his king commanded.
Ah, but the flesh is weak and the spirit is willing. Or was it the other way around? Either way, he had made a mess of things. Was there a husband to whom she would run? Demand payment for his rude behavior? By God, he hoped not. He wanted to get acquainted with the maiden from Fletchers Landing and that did not include anyone with claims on her person.
He blinked as his nether region tightened. It had been nearly a year since he’d last lain with a woman. And that did not end on the best of notes when she wrapped her arms around him. The fear of suffocating had caused him to withdraw, retreating for fear of harming her.
And yet, here he stood, his…need, standing full, erect, and very proud.
Nathan shook his head, feeling like a piece of his soul, something as small as a dust mote, had returned to him. He blinked as he tried to gather his thoughts that were like goose down in a storm. Aye, there was a duty to perform, but Henry’s edict did not say that he could not partake of the Fletchers Landin
g delectable fare.
He moved forward and swiftly questioned his plans when she jabbed her blade in his direction.
“Who are you?” she shouted from the opposite bank. Her voice carried over the rushing water. “What do you want?”
As soon as she opened her mouth, he was relieved that at least a portion of his upper brain still worked.
What did he want? His thoughts would terrify her. Even though the one in his lower region wanted to take control. Why didn’t the bastard stay as quiet as it had the last several months? He needed to prove to himself and to his friends and those in higher places that he was still a Knight of the Swan. Nay, he was better than he ever was. His hands flexed as if searching for the protection of his sword. Still, he had to work to form words that would not make him sound like a madman.
“I’m in search of Fletchers Landing.”
A wary tip of her head reminded him of a wren as it prepared to take flight.
“Village is that way,” she said, pointing in the direction he recalled he had already come. And nay, there were no villages to receive him.
How interesting. She had pointed him in the opposite direction. “You’re from here?” he asked.
She gathered her cow and clambered up the bank. In that simple space that stretched farther away, he felt like he was losing grasp of something he might never regain.
Eager to not lose her, he grabbed his meager possessions from behind the birch tree. His horse, Madrigal, nickered as Nathan unloosed the reins from the tree. The horse and he loped across the rushing stream.
In her haste, the maiden left behind her hose and shoes. He scooped them up, imagining her reception and the gratitude that was guaranteed to follow.
“Wait,” he called. Relief filled him as she paused, a question arching her eyebrows. He came closer to her and presented her shoes. The thin woolen hose wrapped around his arm like tentacles on a sea monster he’d seen on one of his missions for the king. It had taken both hands to pry the things from his skin. Did her cheeks just flush the color of pomegranates?