by Bale, Leigh
Disbelief filled Malcolm’s eyes. Blood ran down his belly and left thigh. He dropped to the floor, his body motionless like a slaughtered cow. Blood stained the emerald carpet in an ever-widening pool.
“You’ve killed him.” Ysabelle rushed to Malcolm’s side.
As if from a tunnel, Nicolas watched her press her fingers against Malcolm’s nose, searching for breath. Laying her cheek against the man’s flabby chest, she listened for the beating of his heart and movement of life.
Finally, she drew back, her face pale, her golden-white hair fanning over the naked man’s body. Surely she didn’t have tender feelings for the old knight.
“He’s dead. King William will be furious,” she exclaimed without looking up.
Nicholas stood, bracing a hand against the bed to gain his balance. Because she was a woman and vulnerable, he didn’t blame her for fearing her king’s vengeance. But her father had given her into Nicholas’s care and he would now protect her and Sutcliffe from harm.
Alex held out a placating hand. “I know you ordered no killings, but I had no choice, brother. He would have hacked you to pieces.”
Ysabelle whirled about and glared at the two men, her hands covered with blood. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Nicholas reached up and felt a slight dent in his helmet. Malcolm had delivered a solid blow. If Alex hadn’t interceded, it would have killed him.
Nicholas clasped his brother’s shoulder. “My thanks.”
Alex grinned. “I’m happy to repay you for saving my life so often.”
“You fools,” Ysabelle hissed.
Turning to face her, Nicholas saw her delicate allure through a haze. Her lips parted as she breathed in short gasps. Dismay glimmered in her blue eyes, her porcelain skin flawless and flushed. She had an ethereal beauty, delicate and so fragile he thought her a fairy princess of ancient lore.
Exquisite.
Walking to her, he extended an arm. “Come, lass.”
She refused his hand, her gaze fixed on his face.
“I will return to Sutcliffe alone, Scotsman. I will wed no man,” she insisted.
Clenching his hands, he lowered his arm. “Your father betrothed you to me. It’s verra important we leave now.”
As Alex scurried about the room gathering her clothes, Nicholas watched Ysabelle press a blanket to Malcolm’s wound. What did she think to accomplish? “The mon is dead. Leave him be.”
She shook her head. “To assume I will be your wife now is beyond arrogant. You’ve brought the wrath of King William down upon us all.”
“I didna plan for this mon to die,” Nicholas said.
“How kind. You can explain that to King William.” Her voice sounded shattered with unshed tears.
Nicholas prayed she didn’t cry. A woman’s tears tore at his heart like nothing else.
Scowling, he pulled her away from Sir Malcolm’s corpse. She fought him, staining him with the blood on her hands. Her blows did little damage, no match for his greater strength.
Nicholas had no doubt as to how her clothing had become torn. He tensed his jaw with anger. “Did he hurt you?”
Her gaze darted to where the dead man lay and her color heightened. She must be too embarrassed or too upset to answer. Thank the heavens Nicholas had arrived before the marriage had been consummated. If he didn’t wed Ysabelle soon, his claim to Sutcliffe would be lost.
Bending, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She was light as a goose down pillow and smelled of heather. Her scent filled his senses and he breathed deeply as he carried her out of the room and down the stairs to the hall below.
She yelled with fury and pounded his back. When he stepped into the main hall, he placed her on her feet. His armed warriors stood around the room, wearing chain mail and helms, their blades drawn as they rounded up the castle guards.
The manor belonged to Ysabelle’s uncle, a weak man if ever one lived. Otherwise, he would never have stood by and allowed the English king’s emissary to force Ysabelle into marriage with Malcolm de Litz. No doubt her father would howl with fury if he were still alive.
The king’s soldiers had been disarmed, rubbing burgeoning bumps and bloodied noses as they slumped against the wall. The long tables had been knocked over, dishes smashed, food spilled. Hounds scurried out of Nicholas’s way, growling as they fought over a meaty bone. A woman crouched in a far corner, her desolate sobs filling the void. Nicholas tensed, and ignored the urge to offer them clemency.
*
Ysabelle took a deep breath. She tried to step away from the Scots Ram, but he held her close by his side. She wished he would remove his helm so she could read his expression. An urgency to flee almost overwhelmed her. She must escape. But how?
Guilt nibbled at her, yet she could not prevent the relief that flooded her. Praise the saints she would not be forced to tolerate Sir Malcolm’s loathsome touch. Now, she faced a greater foe.
Dread shrieked inside her mind. What would her king do once he found out Sir Malcolm was dead?
Nicholas Ramsay glowered at the chair where her bridal wreath lay. The Ram’s expression darkened and his eyes narrowed with fury. Drawing back a long arm, he proceeded to smash the chair with a single blow. Ysabelle flinched as the wood splintered and the fragrant heather lay crushed upon the stone floor.
Would he turn his anger on her?
One of her uncle’s men approached, a determined look on his face. “You cannot take Lady Ysabelle.”
Without breaking stride, the Ram backhanded the man hard across the face. The man fell to the floor, knocked unconscious.
Ysabelle recoiled. She tried to help the man, but the Ram pulled her back. A foreboding gripped her. She couldn’t understand why her father had betrothed her to such a cruel man. Today’s events were a premonition of evil.
The pinch-faced priest who had happily spoken the words binding Ysabelle to Sir Malcolm stood before the fire, wringing his hands. The silver cross hanging at his waist glimmered in the fireglow. “Heathen. Vile demon. It is a sin for you to take another man’s wife.”
With barely a glance, Nicholas Ramsay brushed past. The priest tottered back on his heels, sputtering with outrage.
All of the Scots warriors wore somber frowns, their weapons glittering in the shadows. How simple the task had been to take possession of her uncle’s manor house when all within were drunken. It was a terrifying sight for a mere woman wearing nothing more than her torn bridal clothes. As she stood in the firelight, they stared at her with lust. The cads! Her father would have taught them some manners with his sword.
Clasping her arms in front of her, she glared her defiance.
“Take the prisoners to the stable,” the Ram barked the order to his men.
Their laughter ceased as they scurried to usher the manor guards outside.
The man named Alex trotted down the stairs, carrying her woolen cloak over his arm. “This was all I could find.”
With a disparaging frown, Nicholas Ramsay took the cloak, then whisked it over her shoulders, pulling it snug beneath her chin. Breathing a sigh of relief, she clutched the voluminous folds about her like a sanctuary, wondering at his territorial kindness.
“Ysabelle!”
She looked up. Uncle Ewen stood at the end of the hall next to Lord Marshal, the king’s emissary. Marshal’s face whitened with rage. His gaze darted to where spears and swords hung upon the wall over the vast fireplace. Surely he was not fool enough to test the Ram’s anger.
Nicholas Ramsay’s hold loosened and she tried to run to her uncle.
“No!” The Ram caught her, his left arm wrapping around her as he pulled her close against his side. Jerking at his solid grip, Ysabelle fought him. It did no good. His hold was as strong as steel.
“There will be nowhere you can hide if you continue this outrage,” Marshal vowed. “Lady Ysabelle has been wed to Sir Malcolm de Litz. King William will send more men to destroy you and your clan of rabble.”
The priest nodd
ed his head in agreement. The Scots Ram raised his sword and Marshal’s eyes widened. Ysabelle stiffened, prepared to watch yet another man die.
Tension pulsed from Nicholas Ramsay’s powerful body. She could feel it rushing at her, engulfing her in a tide of fury. Would he thrust Lord Marshal through? Angry fear glowed in Marshal’s eyes as he stared warily at the Ram’s sword.
The Ramsay shot him a look of scorn. “The marriage was not consummated and I will have it annulled. Malcolm de Litz is dead. Lady Ysabelle is free to wed once more, so be warned. Her father betrothed her to me. She and Sutcliffe are mine.”
Marshal snorted. “A Scotsman rule Sutcliffe? King William will never stand for it. You’ve come here without provocation and murdered Lady Ysabelle’s husband.”
“No provocation? Be verra careful what you say. Your king is a thief and tried to steal what is mine.” Nicholas’s chilling tone raised the hair on her nape.
Turning, he swept Ysabelle along as they left the hall and entered the bailey. A host of Scotsmen mounted on strong warhorses awaited them. They held torches to light their way through the darkness. In the shadows, their eyes appeared grotesque and cruel.
The manor guards and the king’s knights lay upon the ground, groaning and nursing bloodied lips and heads. The Ram had spared them all, and Ysabelle wondered at his mercy. It was contrary to everything she’d been told about him.
When he tried to place her on his black destrier, Ysabelle panicked. As she flailed about, the ill-tempered stallion snorted and swung its massive head and sidestepped them.
“I won’t go with you,” Ysabelle declared.
Nicholas grappled with her, his hands gentle but firm.
Alex sat his horse, leaning his forearms on the prong of his saddle as he watched them. His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Are you having trouble with your betrothed, brother? Perhaps I might be of assistance.”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the man. Ysabelle raked her fingernails across the Ram’s neck and he roared with anger. Raising her arms, she prepared to dodge his heavy fists, but no blow descended.
Without a word, Nicholas took her by the waist and lifted her into the saddle, then came up behind her in one fluid movement. She sat stunned, clutching the edge of the saddle with whitened knuckles. With his right arm, he held her firmly before him, taking the reins in his left hand. As she squirmed against him, she felt him clutch her in a vise she could not break. Instinctively, she knew this man was no bumbling fool like Sir Malcolm.
“Sit still,” he urged in a growling whisper.
She gasped as the warhorse pranced anxiously beneath them. When the animal reared and pawed the air, Ysabelle clamped her hands onto the Ram’s forearm. As the horse settled its hooves on the ground, Ysabelle’s grip tightened. She had no desire to be trampled by the beast.
With her back pressed tight against his chest, Nicholas Ramsay lowered his head and spoke against her ear. His voice was a low rumble that accented his Scottish burr with rolling R’s. “What manner of mon would you think me if I ignored our betrothal and allowed your king to wed you to another? Think what Lord Maston would have to say on the matter. He would be verra displeased.”
How dare he bring her father into this? “My father would want his people safe.”
He smelled of spice and leather and his warm breath sent tingles of sensation up her spine.
“Maston would have fought any king that tried to force him against his will. You’re mine, lass. I willna let you go.”
Ysabelle stilled. Though she hated to admit it, he spoke the truth. If the situation were reversed, she would never stand by and allow another to wed her betrothed without a fight.
Looking up, Ysabelle saw Lambert, her dead husband’s corpulent son, standing in the doorway of the great hall. Lambert’s fat lips tightened, his gaze hateful as he stared at her. A younger version of his father, he was closer to Ysabelle’s age and a better marriage choice. But she knew Lambert had no liking for her, except for her vast lands, which he had hoped to inherit upon Malcolm’s death. At the wedding feast earlier that evening, he’d told her as much, when no one but her could hear his words. With the Scots Ram stealing her away, it looked as though Sir Lambert would once again be landless and poor.
“My lady!” Ada stood twisting her fingers together, her face drawn in a mask of anguish.
The handmaiden ran toward Ysabelle and almost threw herself at one of the mounted Scots warriors, trying to climb into the man’s saddle. “You will not take Lady Ysabelle without me.”
Ysabelle cringed. “Please don’t harm her.”
Nicholas Ramsay barked a command and one of his soldiers snatched Ada. The woman uttered an indignant screech as the Scotsman plopped her onto the back of his horse. Following the Ram’s lead, they all turned and galloped off into the night.
Chapter Two
The thunder of horses charging across the moors pounded in Ysabelle’s ears. Though she hated to touch her captor, his solid forearms offered the most security on the galloping horse. As her fingers tightened around his muscular arm, a blast of memory filled her mind. Not from the past, but a dream of her future. A dark, handsome man smiling at her, followed by screams of pain, the spray of arrows and an inferno of fire.
Shaking her head, she focused on the present. The brutal speed of the destrier left her weak and shaking. Even having lived here all her life, she had no idea how the men saw their way across the dark moors and into the formidable Cheviot Hills. They seemed to know every knoll, every twisting path of this desolate land.
Numb with cold and shock, Ysabelle stared ahead. Thick clouds scuttled across the sky, hiding the moon from view. Hours passed as they traveled over the barren ground. The pace proved no hardship for these men and beasts seasoned for war. But for Ysabelle, a staggering fatigue overwhelmed her.
Blinking her weary eyes, she slumped against the Ram, drawn to his warmth in spite of herself. The rocking motion of the horse lulled her to doze, then jerk awake. She had no idea how much time had passed when they finally rode into a wooded valley. Shrouded in the dark night and shuddering in the wind, the birch trees appeared sinister.
Ysabelle shivered and tried to speak through chattering teeth. “We must stop.”
“Not yet.”
“I’m cold, and I must stop.”
She could feel him looking at her, his gaze boring into the back of her head like heated irons.
“You need to relieve yourself?” he asked.
The horrid man. Did he think her made of iron? Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as she nodded, praying he would relent.
With a sharp whistle and a wave of his hand, the Ram signaled his men. He slowed his stallion near a sheltering copse. The sloping specter of hills protected them from the frigid winds.
“We’ll rest here a few moments only,” he said.
Keeping hold upon the reins, he dismounted. Ah, he was shrewd. He must know how she longed to catch him unaware and kick his horse into a gallop that would speed her on to Sutcliffe and freedom.
Turning to clasp Ysabelle’s waist, he pulled her down against him. She had no choice but to place her hands against his shoulders for support. She was unprepared for the shock of contact with his solid strength. The heat of his body through the chain mail seemed to burn where it touched hers. As he set her on her feet, Ysabelle longed to move as far away from Nicholas Ramsay as possible.
Pulling away from his embrace, she cried out as she tried to stand on her left foot.
Ouch! A splinter from the shattered washbasin had imbedded itself near her toes and there had been no opportunity to remove it.
He pulled her close, taking her weight against himself. She looked into his eyes, which were visible beneath the darkness of his metal helm. She blinked and tried once again to move away. He held her firm and Ysabelle stood transfixed, intimidated by his size as he towered over her. A myriad of thoughts scrambled in her brain. Tales of ravished women left to die alone in the w
ilds, their bloodied and broken bodies never found on the desolate moors.
Would that be her end?
Taking a torch from one of the men, he handed it to Ysabelle and she held it like a dumb child. She was uncertain what he would do next, but his calmness certainly was not what she expected. He lifted her and she fought him, almost dropping the torch, thinking he planned to beat her.
“Hold still if you want your foot tended to,” he barked.
She had no choice but to trust him. For now.
Looping one arm around his corded neck, she held the torch high to light their way. He carried her to a boulder and set her on it, then removed his gauntlets. His long fingers appeared graceful, and strong. As he flexed his scarred hands, Ysabelle could just make out the hard calluses on his palms. No doubt he’d earned them wielding a sword. As a girl, she’d admired strong men who fought courageously in battle. Men like her father. Now, she felt intimated by such daring, highly conscious that she was a woman and could be used as nothing more than chattel.
His gaze locked with hers and she flinched at the coldness of his eyes. He didn’t speak. With more than a little trepidation, Ysabelle watched as he removed his helmet. In the next moment, she sucked in a breath of surprise.
His unruly hair was damp around his forehead and black as pitch. The length spilled to his shoulders like ribbons of water. Cheekbones high and saber-sharp graced his face along with a full, sculpted mouth. A slight cleft centered his blunt chin. Ysabelle could not help staring at it. Never had she seen a more handsome man and her throat tightened.
Ah, but his eyes! Dark as evil, they seemed harsh and cruel. Surely he had no kindness in his soul. Malcolm had repulsed her with his cruelty, but Nicholas Ramsay’s power and savage conduct were enough to make even the most valiant of men tremble.