British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  Though as a serf, she was far below him in station, Kenneth sought not to take advantage of her. He wouldn’t be so bold as to hold her more closely than necessary for her safety. Since he could only see the back of her head, he had to content himself by forming a portrait of Fayre in his mind. Long, reddish blond hair, unencumbered by hats and jewels, was appealing in its free style. No woman he knew, whether maid or titled, would think of letting her hair catch a breeze. Perhaps that is why when wisps flew away from Fayre’s face, they framed it in such a way as to make her seem fresh. And fresh she was. He could tell by her countenance, her innocent and questioning looks, that she was not yet cynical, not yet acquainted with the ways of the world. Perhaps such a young spirit wasn’t meant to become as hard as some of the women of his acquaintance. He let out a breath. Was he wrong to expose the virgin to the wiles of the king’s courtiers?

  Yes. Yes he was.

  But what of the roses? Without Fayre, there was no hope that he could ever impress the king or his courtiers with such brilliant orange blooms.

  I shall just keep her away from King David’s castle, that is all. I will keep her confined to Kennerith. That will be easy enough to do.

  He nodded once. Even as he made his resolution, he drew a second internal portrait of Fayre. This time she was dressed in the ornate clothing of a member of the court. He pictured her in blue. No, not blue. Gold. Yes, cloth the color of gold would suit her and would reflect the light brown of her eyes. Her hair had disappeared under a conical-shaped hat decorated with a crimson cloth that hung from its tip and was caught up again on the back side of the corded brim, then allowed to flow partially down her back so that it blended with the red girdle she wore in his imagination. And shoes. Fayre couldn’t be permitted to run barefoot in the castle, as he had found her in the fields. She would wear wooden clogs or shoes tailored of kid leather. One pair of each would be in order.

  A pang of guilt lurched through his belly. When he first glimpsed her that morning, Fayre had seemed happy enough amid the squalor that she called a life. Not that her surroundings were worse than any other serf’s. If Kenneth could have provided grand houses for all of his people, he would have done so gladly. If only he weren’t obligated to extract what little money the serfs had to finance this war.

  “My laird.” The knight with hair the color of ebony pulled up alongside them.

  “Yes, Ulf,” Kenneth answered and drew Dazzle to a halt. He heard Walter, the other knight, stop his horse not far behind them.

  Ulf followed suit. “We are just upon another house that is delinquent in tax payment.”

  Kenneth knew the house of which Ulf spoke without even looking. Like Witta Shepherd, these serfs were poor, too poor to pay what the king wanted. No surprise that Ulf pointed out the hut. He always viewed the prospect of a conflict, even a joust with an unarmed serf, with more vigor than Kenneth liked.

  “We might stop there upon our next journey, perhaps,” Kenneth answered.

  “But my laird, we didn’t spare Witta Shepherd. Or his daughter.” Ulf peered at Fayre in a bold manner. Kenneth controlled the urge to give him a lashing with his tongue. Most men of Kenneth’s rank wouldn’t care in the least how his vassal looked upon a serf maiden.

  But he did.

  “Ulf is right,” Walter, his second knight, agreed.

  “Right,” Kenneth blurted. Walter’s observation brought him back into the present, a present that was none too savory.

  Kenneth let out a sigh that he knew all around him could hear. Of the two knights, Walter was the one who didn’t let emotion rule the day. If passing the next house offended Walter’s sense of fair play, then Kenneth had no choice but to stop. Especially since Fayre was privy to his actions and decisions.

  “All right, then.” Tiredness colored his voice. Not only was Kenneth in no mood to undertake a disagreeable task, but also he was eager to return home. The longer they journeyed, the more he noticed that Fayre leaned more heavily upon him. Obviously, the long ride was taking its toll upon her body and spirit. But he couldn’t ask her if she wanted to stop. If he did, his knights would never let him forget that he let a woman make his decisions for him. No, they would have to visit the cottage.

  He pulled on the bridle. Obeying, Dazzle veered to the right. As they neared the house, a young woman exited the hut. Kenneth imagined she wasn’t much older than Fayre, but her sunburned countenance and rough hands suggested her physical appearance had been hardened by work. She held an infant, and four children followed behind her. The smallest clutched at her drab wool clothing. Judging from the heights of the children, the woman had given birth annually over the past five years. A protruding belly suggested another new arrival was imminent. Despite her girth, she managed to drop a curtsy.

  “Good day, lass. And where is your husband?” Kenneth asked.

  Her face clouded and she tilted her head toward the ground. “He is ill in bed, my laird.”

  “I am sorry. May he soon gain robust health. Shall we pray for him?”

  Her eyes lit as she looked up at him. In her obvious gratitude, years seemed to melt from her face. “Would ye?”

  Kenneth nodded. He bowed his head, along with the others, and made a brief petition to God.

  “Thank ye, my laird,” the woman said after the prayer’s conclusion. She paused.

  “But ye dinna come here tae pray. You are here tae collect the taxes we owe.”

  “Aye. But I can return when your husband is better.”

  She shook her head. “But I ha’e the money. We sold a sheep at market just this past week tae pay ye.”

  Her words caused him to feel a pain no less sharp than that of a piercing lance. Yet he had to do his duty to his king.

  “May I approach?” she asked.

  Kenneth nodded. Still holding the child, the expectant woman took a few steps toward the horse. The effort left her winded, her breathing audible. She extended her hand. When she opened her palm, he counted the coins owed by the master of the house. He extracted them from her sweaty palm and then secured them in his pocket. “Very good. Tell your husband he owes no more for now.”

  She nodded and curtsied. The woman’s glance darted to Fayre. The light in her eyes bespoke curiosity, but she didn’t ask questions.

  Guilt caused a lump to form in Kenneth’s throat. Would the whole kingdom believe he was apt to steal women away from those who didn’t pay? Yet every time he felt regret about his decision, a feeling of gladness that she was with him soon washed it away. Kenneth had a nagging feeling that God planned for Fayre to come to the castle. Divine intervention or wishful thinking?

  “Twenty farthings and a pretty lassie,” Ulf declared two hours later into their journey, as twilight fell. “Not much to show for a day’s ride.”

  Fayre shuddered as she felt Ulf’s stare bore into her. Yet his boldness seemed the least of her problems. Her precious rosebushes, gathered earlier when they stopped by the garden next to her father’s cottage, had made an arduous trip. How could they survive?

  Against her will, her thoughts returned to the prospect of her own survival. How could she elude Ulf while she lived at the castle? And were the other men even worse? What about the laird? Was he hiding his true reasons for wanting her to come and live in his castle?

  No. He was not that type of man.

  Fayre had been touched by the laird’s gesture to the woman whose husband lay ill in bed. The idea that such a great man would bother to pray for one so far below him in station was sobering to her. Perhaps the laird really was sincere in his love of

  God.

  She wondered about the spiritual state of his vassals. They seemed so different from one another. One was eager to collect all he could from each house, while the other expressed no feeling one way or the other. Fayre resolved to pray for them both.

  If stopping at the first cottage wasn’t enough, Ulf had convinced the laird to make yet another stop. The last cottage they visited had been in even worse condi
tion than the one she and her father shared. She couldn’t imagine the laird and his knights could collect any coins from its inhabitants. When they could find no one at home or in the nearby fields, she had breathed an inward sigh of relief. The knight called Walter seemed reasonable enough, but Ulf was too quick to draw his lance. Fayre could only pray that she and her party would arrive safely at the castle, despite her fear and dread.

  She had selected four of her best bushes in hopes of transplanting them in the laird’s garden. Fayre had no idea that the journey to the castle would take so long. The break for a meal had taken up a good part of the day. Not that she minded; her stomach had been begging for food for a full hour before they finally stopped. Her belly was rewarded for its wait. Rather than a humble meal, the men had in their satchels delicacies she had never seen, let alone eaten. Breads and meats flavored with exotic spices and herbs she could never afford to buy. They tasted odd to her palate at first, but she quickly realized she enjoyed the pungent flavors. She hadn’t expected Laird Kenneth to share his fruit tart, but when he offered her half, she didn’t hesitate. Such sweetness! The expression on her face must have shown her delight, for as she let the pastry melt in her mouth, the knights let out bawdy laughs. She didn’t mind that she appeared unwise to the world. Let them laugh. Truly, the lairds and ladies feasted upon delicacies fit for the Lord above.

  Perhaps the scrumptious food was but little reward for their travels. After bouncing for hours on a rugged pathway that could hardly be called a road, Fayre’s backside reminded her with an unrelenting ache that it would not soon forgive such abuse. Fayre had clung to Laird Kenneth as though her life depended upon it during most of the journey. When the horse’s hooves hit ruts and stumbled over rocks, she thought she might be tossed to the ground. She had no intention of falling so the knights could laugh and make sport of her, even though that meant holding the laird more closely than she wanted. At least he didn’t flinch at the touch of a mere serf.

  A waterfall flowing out of the gray rocks caught her ears with its sound. Since her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she could still discern its beauty. She pointed. “Might we stop for a bit?” she asked the laird. “I would welcome a drink of water, and I would like tae water my rosebushes, if I might beg your indulgence.”

  “Nay. We all must wait for refreshment. Darkness is upon us, and we are close to the castle now,” Laird Kenneth answered. “To stop now would merely be an unnecessary delay. I promise you may drink of all the water you like once we arrive at the castle in but a wee bit of time.”

  Fayre didn’t argue. The thought of reaching the place she would be calling home, at least until she could coax new blooms from the bushes, was welcome. Her tired and sore body needed a bed no matter how uncomfortable or modest. Aye, she could sleep on a bare floor this night.

  As the laird promised, she didn’t have to wait long. With a grateful eye, Fayre caught sight of the castle she would be calling home until the roses blossomed. Modest though it was, her own little cottage, the one she had shared with Father since Mother’s death only a few months past, seemed like a piece of paradise in comparison.

  Kennerith Castle loomed immense. Stones the color of tan comprised the building. Fayre counted four towers, one on each corner. She imagined herself in one of the overlooks, her gaze drinking in the land that was her beloved Scotland. If Laird Kenneth would let her roam. She cast a brief gaze at his shoulders, obviously broad even though they were protected by armor. Someone as powerful as he could squelch her as easily as a horse tramples a cricket. She quivered, almost wishing she were anywhere else.

  What was my poor mind thinking, tae promise the laird perfect roses? What if there is a drought or too much rain, or what if the bushes simply fail tae bloom? What fate will befall me then?

  She stroked a wilted petal of the vivid orange flower she held, the one originally meant for her father to enjoy over a simple meal of bread and cheese. She remembered stopping by the garden long enough for the two knights to wrench her beautiful bushes from their place in the soil. Hard and rugged warriors, the men seemed not to notice how lovingly the soil had been plowed or how each plant had been pruned so the blossoms bloomed on them just so. If they had been more observant, they would have never tossed the tender plants carelessly into leather satchels meant for the provisions of war.

  Now her roses would delight the ladies of the court. Titled ladies who would otherwise have no use for a mere shepherd’s daughter. The beauty of the flowers she devotedly tended so that none could compare would be wasted on them. How she wished the flowers would still offer joy to her aged parent. But instead, they had become a mere tool to gain the laird newfound respect. She almost wished she could destroy each blossom, just to prevent Laird Kenneth’s mercenary wishes from coming to fruition. But for the sake of her father, she kept her feelings in check.

  After the brutal assault upon her roses, none of the men had spoken to Fayre. Even Laird Kenneth had remained silent as she rode with him on his horse, whose name, she had since learned, was Dazzle. She had observed the way Laird Kenneth said the name, his intonation lying lazily on the zs, but curtly enunciating the rest of the letters so his voice sounded like a whip slashing through the dusk.

  The tired horses seemed to gain momentum as they drew closer to the castle. Perhaps they anticipated a warm bed of straw and plenty of oats to eat. The watchmen were obviously adept at their job. A massive wooden drawbridge descended so the travelers could cross safely over the murky moat. Fayre surmised the water was deep and wide enough to house the fabled Loch Ness monster, reputed to live in the loch beyond the Grampian Mountains that rose up behind the castle. She had often fantasized about Nessie, first seen centuries ago. To have Nessie herself protecting the castle! Ah, but no doubt Laird Kenneth had plenty of vicious sea creatures lying in wait should an enemy fall into the water.

  They crossed over the bridge and into a large courtyard, where three stable boys awaited to tend to the horses.

  “Welcome to Kennerith Castle,” Laird Kenneth said as he dismounted. He extended his arms to help her dismount as well. “I promised you water to drink. Are you hungry as well?”

  Too apprehensive until that moment to think about her growling stomach, Fayre suddenly realized she could use a bite to eat even though the delicacies she had enjoyed at dinner had tamed her appetite throughout most of the journey. So as not to seem eager, she merely nodded.

  “Come, then.” Though he stood beside her, Laird Kenneth loomed over her, reminding her once again of his might. She wondered if this were an intentional ploy until he smiled. Under other circumstances, she might have thought him handsome. But not now.

  “Might I first see how my roses fared? The journey was no doubt as difficult for them as for us.”

  The smile didn’t leave his face. “Indeed.” With a silent nod, Laird Kenneth commanded his vassals to retrieve the four plants from their satchels. The first had shed the petals from each blossom, with the exception of one or two on the stray bloom. Fayre felt her body tense as the remaining plants were taken from the bags. Each had suffered the same fate. Anxiously she touched their roots. They had become parched over the course of the day. She was unable to conceal her distress.

  “Ah, my lass. Do not despair,” she heard Laird Kenneth console her. “Surely someone with your skill can revive the plants, aye?”

  Fayre didn’t answer. She had made too many promises already.

  Thankfully, the squire chose that moment to distract his master. “Laird Kenneth,” he said as he bowed. “I pray your journey was a success.” Lifting his head, the squire sent an admiring glance in Fayre’s direction. “I can see my prayers were answered.”

  Kenneth cut his glance her way and then answered, “Would you have Fayre shown to the most agreeable guest bedchamber in the castle? She will remain with us for some time.” Laird Kenneth looked at Fayre. “At least until the roses bloom.”

  “Aye, me laird.” He handed Laird Kenneth a letter. Bu
rned into the sealing wax was the outline of a coat of arms. Was it the herald of the MacMurray clan?

  “From Lady Letha, no doubt,” Ulf taunted Laird Kenneth.

  The look that crossed Laird Kenneth’s golden face was one of satisfaction. Could Lady Letha be the one whose favor Laird Kenneth sought?

  Chapter 3

  If Lady Letha was the one he wished to impress, Laird Kenneth showed no indication of his intent on his face. Not a muscle moved.

  At the mention of Lady Letha, a strange feeling hit the pit of Fayre’s belly. She didn’t remember feeling that way before. She wasn’t sure she liked whatever it was.

  For an instant, Fayre wondered what Lady Letha looked like. Surely if she had attracted Laird Kenneth’s attention, she was fine and lovely indeed. Would her roses please Lady Letha? And if they did not? She didn’t want to think about that possibility.

  At that moment, Fayre realized the urgency of her situation. Under normal circumstances, she would never have uprooted her flowers, but the laird had no patience to wait for new bushes to grow from slips. If she were to be honest with herself, Fayre would have to admit that she had no patience for such a wait, either. Fayre wanted nothing more than to return home. The more quickly she could grow beautiful roses for the laird, the more hastily she could return to the life she knew. In the meantime, her father would have to make himself content remembering her by the two bushes, planted beside the small window of the cottage, that she had left to bloom in her absence.

  “What is the matter, Fayre?” Laird Kenneth asked.

  She swallowed. He must have seen the distressed look upon her face. “The roots. They are a wee bit dry.” She wasn’t given to understatement, so her conscience pricked her. Fayre sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness.