by C. C. Wiley
Lord, when Anna said her name it sounded as heavy as the responsibilities felt. She rolled her shoulders as if to free herself from all the worries that continued to plague her. It was useless. They stuck to her like a bur.
She hated feeling unsettled by the gnawing demands of change. She hadn’t been able to shed it ever since she met the stranger by the stream. She should have sent men off to deliver a warning. His presence was not encouraged. But she had been unable to make the command. When she opened her mouth, all she could think of was what his lips might taste like. She was certain he meant to steal a kiss. She’d been prepared to inform him of the cur that he was. Heat infused her cheeks. And yet, she did neither. In truth, she had hoped he would step closer, infuse the air with his strength. Ah, to sip from the powerful nectar of confidence. To lean on someone who gave her strength instead of taking it; to ease her needs.
The flesh between her legs throbbed with heat, swelling until she had to press her thighs together. The innermost core of her being ached, searching like a ship lost at sea, as if her life depended on his return. She snorted at the ridiculous way her mind tried to explain away her reaction to this Nathan Staves.
“Meg,” Anna persisted. “You’re not even listening to me.”
Meg set the hive smoker aside and stared at her sister. The scent of smoking wood and sweet honey lost its ability to soothe her nerves. She ignored the tug of wistful thinking. Besides, ’twas certain he had already forgotten their encounter.
Anna was correct. There was more to concern herself with than the handsome stranger she had sent away and directed to Carlisle.
She had been lucky that it was not one of DePierce’s mercenaries. The last time they came ashore they made it clear that they intended to return and wanted payment for peace. She expected to see them around every corner. Their message rang in her ears until she could not distinguish it from the sound of her pounding heart. Without payment, their patience would disappear. She needed time to figure out what to do, how to free them all from this tangled mess.
The meeting with the others would have to take place. Tonight.
She shook out her skirts, mindful not to agitate the bees buzzing nearby. The number of hives had increased once she started having more skeps built. If only it was enough to pay for everything they needed. She stretched the low arch in her back and licked a drop of honey from her finger. “And what would you have me do instead?” she asked, to appease her middle sister.
“You could marry.”
“Marry? To whom?”
Anna ducked her head. “There are some in the village who would give you their hand in marriage. I suppose, Mother and Father would have wanted you to marry first, you being older than the rest of us.” She raised her head, her eyes bright, nearly outshining her honey-colored hair. “It would solve our problem. ’Tis all I’m pointing out to you.”
Meg folded her arms across her middle. Would the pain of loss never cease? “And what good would it do me? One more mouth to feed and nothing in return. That’s what it’d be. You know as well as I that no man in this village has the coin to send those vermin packing. Nor the muscle, strength, or weapons. Even if they were sent off, I fear they’d return again. No, my opportunities for making a fine match are long gone.”
“Then we should look elsewhere.” Anna paced the small space where Meg kept the apiary. “We could spend a season at the royal court. Someone is bound to remember our parents and help to make an arrangement. I am of age and Phillipa has but a few years. Mayhap you would catch someone’s eye. A merchant or…” She twirled her finger in the air, aggravating not only Meg but also the swarm of bees. “Someone not too old. He should at least have most of his teeth.”
“How kind of you,” Meg muttered. She could not believe she was having this conversation, let alone actually giving it a second’s thought. “And how would I pay for fitting you and Phillipa out in the proper attire? And what of Baldric? He needs fostering more than you need dresses for dancing and finding your leisure on someone’s arm.”
“Opportunity.” Anna ducked her head. “Education. More benefit would come for us if we were to make our situation known.
Meg felt the blood drain from her face, her head woozy at the thought of anyone finding out the trouble that they were in. The king would see them ripped from their home.
“If you would at least consider it,” Anna snapped.
Meg tugged off her leather gloves. She shoved the wisps of hair frolicking against her dampened cheek from her face. What did her sister really desire? “We cannot just leave for London. Arrangements must be made. Introductions. Of which we have no one to speak for us now that Mother and Father are no longer with us.”
“Unlike you, there are those of us who have thoughts of marriage and…and a life elsewhere.” Her lip caught between her teeth as if in concentration. She bent her neck and managed to avoid meeting Meg’s gaze. “Phillipa, for instance. ’Tis certain.”
Meg folded her arms. She narrowed her eyes, divining her sister’s motivation for concern for their little sister. “And what would you know of it?”
“If you were to marry, then I would be next in line. Then Phillipa.” Anna swatted at the bees flying near her head. “’Tis all I’m saying.”
Ah, so there was a motive. Meg suspected as much and searched Anna’s face. There was a flush to her cheeks. Meg had never noticed that before. Anna was now ten and eight years old. When had her middle sister grown into the bloom of a woman? She would have to watch her more closely. But to marry? To whom? To a stranger? Impossible. They would marry for love or not at all. Was that what her sisters wanted? Anna had her medicines and her garden. Phillipa had the animals to mend. The horses to breed. Did they choose to let all that go for a life of marital servitude?
And Baldric. Did he wish to abandon her too? He had yet to realize his strengths lay hidden in the courage to ignore the frailty of his young body. He was born to one day be lord of Fletchers Landing. But that was stripped from him when the reptilian lord of Balforth, Sir Vincent, appeared and threatened them with King Henry’s edict that the land needed a lord’s hand at the helm, not a young woman such as herself.
As for Meg, that one kiss shared with the man she had been betrothed to had been a disaster. It sent their family on a course never imagined. No, she would never desire to find love again. And love, was the only reason to tie yourself to another person. If anything came from the death of their parents it was the lesson she learned five years ago. No one should ever be forced into a marriage. No matter how badly one needed financial gain.
She shook free of the darkening thoughts. “Anna, you have your gardens and potions. Surely, you have no desire to tend a man.”
Once again, her thoughts betrayed her. No desire for strangers with broad shoulders and tall as an oak. Lush lips. Or strong masculine feet.
“I know ’tis better than working harder than most of the villagers. Look at you. You are Lady Margaret Grace of Fletchers Landing. Not some…” She paused, searching as she waved her hand. “You are dealing with smugglers,” Anna hissed as she took another angle. “They bring nothing but trouble. And put you in harm’s way.”
“Hush.” Apprehension made Meg glance over the field. “They bring us money to pay our taxes and the tithing fees that the ones from the north are charging for protection.”
Why was her sister so insistent? Their safety depended on secrecy and payment. In that order. As for marriage, Meg was not about to take another chance and cater to her own happiness. She was kept busy watching over her family and Fletchers Landing. It’s what her parents would have expected of her.
Anna swished her skirt as if she had practiced it a hundred times. Meg knew better. It was not in her sister’s nature to act the wanton wench. Hers was a heart that sought out those in need of healing.
“’Tis time for me to find a man. He’ll be strong and
virile. Passionate, and…” Anna added in a rush, “he’ll kiss me until I swoon.”
Meg’s neck heated. There was a time when she too had those same desires; to be kissed until her legs gave out. But then that was before one kiss brought disease and death to their family.
And what of the man at the stream? her conscience asked. Since he would never return and she would never have to speak to him, he did not count, she argued.
What did demand her attention was Anna’s open desire for a mate. She feared her sister would find herself in deeper trouble than anyone could imagine.
“You’ll do well to keep those thoughts to yourself, Anna. There are men aplenty who will be happy to do your bidding, but a marriage vow won’t be part of the bargain.”
“Nonsense. Just because you failed at love doesn’t mean that I will do the same. Perhaps you aren’t created for love.” She spun around, finally able to look at her. “I know already in my heart that I am ready for love.”
Meg gasped, whether it was Anna’s sharp tongue or that her sister came dangerously close to bumping one of the hives, she did not examine it. The skep, made of wicker and straw, was a fragile thing compared to a person’s foot striking it in anger.
Mayhap she wasn’t made for love. There was never another who took her breath or made her willing to take a chance on a new life.
What of the stranger?
No. The cost was too high and she had too many responsibilities to keep everyone safe. Even now, she faced a heavier price than she had anticipated. It was one thing to put her person in peril of the demands the smugglers continued to make. She had thought that she could bargain with the devil’s demons and then send them on their way.
Now she feared she might lose everything that she’d fought so hard to keep safe.
Her knees folded, forcing her to sit on the low wall. Breathing became more difficult under the weight of so much responsibility. How she missed her parents, wanted them back.
Tears burned as she forced her eyes open. Fletchers Landing was surviving, indeed, she was certain that if not for the ridiculous price set for protection, they would be thriving.
The grove of trees grew tall and straight. The gardens were ripe with fruit and vegetables. The hives produced honey and from that she made the mead and candles. Anna saw to it that sickness did not visit them. Thanks to Phillipa, the beasts of the field were strong and healthy.
She barely noticed as Anna sat beside her and stroked her back.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Anna whispered. “I fear for you. Being lady of this village, of the keep, managing all that you do. ’Tis too much to ask of you.”
The sound of the surf crashing into the shore cast a soothing rhythm. It broke apart the fears that threatened to take over.
Perhaps she should make inquiries and send her sisters to safety. But which was worse? A season filled with stolen kisses or coerced bargains made with smugglers and those who promised to protect but took what they wanted instead?
“Meg, make haste!” Brother John raced into the field. His halo of gray curls bounced as he trotted toward them. “A stranger rode through our gates on a destrier. They say he is as big as a mountain and carries a sword so fine, the like of which none have ever seen.”
* * * *
Wisdom called for Nathan to ignore the cries coming from outside the smithy’s building. He set down his mug of ale. He missed the heady taste of wine served at Lockwood and Clearmorrow. The fruitful drink they brought back from Calais held the ability to carry him far from the lingering dark thoughts.
Leaning back, he managed to see what drew his attention. Of all things, Nathan never expected to see Baldric grappling with the blacksmith. His dust-covered tunic showed signs of having rolled on the ground. He pushed himself up on all fours and stood toe-to-toe against the large man. A squirming bag lay on the ground between them.
“You can’t do this,” Baldric wailed.
Red-faced, Wayland held the boy off with one hand and dodged the swinging arms aimed at his body. His whitened knuckles were like dried bones against the raven hair. He grunted as one of the lad’s fists made contact with his nether regions.
Nathan winced as the giant of a man took offense at the blows to his body.
“I’ll be returning, Harrigan,” Nathan said. He flipped a coin toward the alehouse keeper’s direction. “We still need to discuss my night’s stay.”
The stout little man caught the exchange outside. His brows rose. “Best get out there and put a halt to it before his sister gets word of it.”
Who was this sister who put the fear in men and boys?
Nathan downed the watery ale and raced out, feeling like he was about to take a stand between David and Goliath. He came to a skidding halt. What did he have to offer as a stranger?
Baldric turned, his eyes swollen with tears. “You can’t let him do it,” he cried. “You can’t.”
“It’s a runt of the litter,” Wayland growled. “Probably won’t live past the night.”
Nathan surveyed the scene. “What’s in the bag, master blacksmith?”
“Nothing,” he grunted. “Not important for someone as yourself.”
“Well, I wouldn’t rule me out. You never know what I might be interested in.”
“Please,” Baldric pleaded, clinging on his sleeve. “Make him let it out.”
Nathan skirted around them until he backed Baldric. “Suppose we talk about this as men.” The boy gave a grunt and Nathan added, “The three of us as men.”
The bag began to wriggle on the ground. A muffled yip worked its way through the canvas.
Nathan stepped closer, putting Baldric behind him. His sword unsheathed, his arm was stopped by the small hand wrapped around his wrist.
“Don’t hurt him,” Baldric cried.
“Baldric, where have you been?”
Nathan jerked his sword arm aside as the wench ran toward them. She reminded him of a smaller, younger version of the maiden at the stream. Her hair flew behind her in a wave of ebony. The expression on her face was even darker.
“You were told to watch the cow.”
“He’s going to kill it, Phillipa,” the boy cried.
“He saw what I aimed to do and wouldn’t listen when I told him to get,” the smithy said. An air of satisfaction brought a gleam to his already rosy cheeks. “’Spect you’ll want to take him on to the keep.”
Although she could not be more than fifteen years of age, she stood with her hands to her hips and continued with her lecture. “Smithy, you will do well to remember yourself.” She turned on Nathan, removing the odd hope that she intended to ignore him. “You will stay that sword,” she ordered.
Seeing that he was the only one holding an unsheathed weapon, Nathan turned his attention away from the fiery maiden. The sack writhed at his feet. Something fought to be free. “Aye, in a moment.”
Panic, fear, heart pounding in his head, Nathan sucked in a breath. He was as hungry for air as that poorly treated beast. With a flick of his wrist, the blade whipped through the sack. Wide-eyed and panting, a pup of questionable lineage stuck its head out. Mottled shades of brown and black collapsed on its belly at Nathan’s feet.
Flashes of torture in dark, dank holds, empty of fresh air, collided in his body. Could something as simple as an unwanted puppy actually take him to his knees?
He braced his legs, refusing to fall over on his face. Sweat streamed down his jaw, trailing a path down his chest.
A small hand pressed his sword arm down until the tip of the blade touched the earth.
Grateful for the distraction, Nathan clung to the contact. It reminded him of the present and allowed him to break free from the past.
The admiration glowing from the maiden’s face made Nathan itch under her watchful gaze. “My sister will thank you.”
Baldri
c knelt on the ground beside the little puppy. It climbed into his lap on three legs and licked his neck. Its fourth leg was missing a paw.
The tranquil village was a façade. At some point the villagers had come to surround them. There was apprehension in their untrusting eyes. So much for slipping in and gathering information. His plan to send a missive at first chance became a little more difficult. Someone was bound to note if a stranger hired a messenger.
“Told you the cripple needs to be put out of its misery.” The smithy glowered, his tree trunk forearms pumping with anger. “Put it back in the sack, my Lady Phillipa. I’ll finish what I started.”
Phillipa bent down to take the small animal from Baldric’s arms. Nathan’s chest clutched. Did she intend to hand it over?
“You will never lay another hand on my brother or this pup again,” she snapped. “Where is its mother? We’ll take them both to the keep.”
“Bitch is dead.” The man’s eyes bulged with rage.
Nathan admired the way the girl did not blink. She reminded him of the raven-haired maiden at the stream. Instead, the warrior princess stood taller, drawing the boy and puppy in tow. “All the more reason for us to take the little mite.”
“I expect payment,” he growled.
“Take it up with Lady Margaret,” she snapped.
“Bitch’n wenches,” Wayland muttered as he turned on his heel and stomped away. “You’ll get yours. ’Tis for certain.”
Warning flares heated the back of Nathan’s eyelids. It took discipline to keep from running the fool through with his sword. The blacksmith would be someone to watch.
Nathan found his way back to the alehouse and finished the mug of ale in one long drawn-out swallow. The bitter liquid, slid down his parched throat. He had thought a change of scenery would keep the darkness at bay. Mayhap the memories would prove too strong to silence. But he had to try.
“My lord,” whispered Harrigan. “’Tis certain, you’ve made yourself an enemy.”
“I wager I will have to find another building to house Madrigal.”