by Tarah Scott
“One was found wounded, but alive. God willing, we’ll know soon enough.”
“Would Dayton attack the old baron?” Baxter said.
“If he thought it would profit him, aye. But I cannot see how it would help his cause.”
“Perhaps I should go to the gorge and have a look?” Baxter said.
Talbot shook his head. “Ross is there. He knows the land better than we. If there is anything to be found, he will find it. Add an extra watch to the guards, and send men to scout the land between here, Dunfrey Castle, and Banmore Castle. Keep scouts out until I tell you otherwise. Any news, inform me immediately—especially when the men return with the prisoner. Lady Rhoslyn will demand to be informed as well. Leave her to me.”
“Aye,” Baxter said, and left.
* * *
“Lady Brae is but fourteen,” Rhoslyn told Lord Davis. “It is no wonder her parents are loathe to let her marry just yet. Did they no’ agree that the marriage would take place one year hence?”
“Aye,” the young lord replied. “But I love her. I canna’ wait.”
Beside Rhoslyn on the bench in the ladies solar, Lady Saraid began swinging her feet distractedly. Rhoslyn sighed inwardly. She had clearly been gone too long. All of Buchan must have learned that she had returned home and now stood outside her door. The requests to facilitate marriage proposals and petitions to foster or tutor young ladies would keep her busy until the birth of her own child. She started to cover her belly with a hand, then remembered she wasn’t alone.
“Lady Rhoslyn?” Lord Davis said. “Will ye speak with Lady Brae’s father?”
Saraid swung her feet harder.
“Sweet Jesu, cease swinging your feet, child,” Rhoslyn said.
The girl immediately stilled and Lord Davis’s eyes rounded like a doe caught in a bowman’s sights.
Rhoslyn released a breath. “Lady Saraid, a lady doesna’ act bored when she has guests.” Neither does a lady lose her temper with a young girl.
“‘Tis impossible not to be bored,” Saraid replied.
Rhoslyn had to agree, but couldn’t admit that. Lady Saraid was thirteen and wanted to be anywhere but here. “A lady never lets it be known she is bored,” Rhoslyn told her.
Saraid’s brows dove downward but she remained silent.
Rhoslyn returned her attention to the young man. “Lord Davis, your future bride is still young. Would ye really tear her from her family too soon?”
He frowned. “She wants to marry me.”
“Of course she does,” Rhoslyn said gently. “But she asked you to be patient and understand that her parents were no’ quite ready to let her go.”
“Aye,” he shot back. “They do no’ understand she is a woman grown.”
Almost a woman grown, Rhoslyn thought. But not quite. “Did it occur to ye that she does not want to hurt her parents?” Rhoslyn asked.
“They canna’ hold her forever,” he muttered.
“I doubt they want to do that. Do ye plan to have children?”
“Of course. I want many sons.”
“Mayhap a daughter or two, as well,” Rhoslyn said. “A sweet babe who will grow up into a beautiful woman.”
His cheeks colored. “Aye, a daughter would please me.”
Would her child be a girl this time? Would St. Claire be happy with a daughter? “Can ye imagine handing her over to a man?” Rhoslyn asked the young man. “Ever?”
His lips pursed.
“Her father has made his decision,” Rhoslyn said. “It is best ye abide by it. You are betrothed. You can wait a year for her fifteenth birthday.”
The young man looked as if he had been given a death decree, but he nodded. “Thank ye, Lady Rhoslyn.”
The door to the solar opened and St. Claire entered. The hard set of his mouth caused Rhoslyn’s heart to jump. Something was wrong.
“Ye may go, Lord Davis,” Rhoslyn said. “Lady Saraid, work on your needlework. It is on the table where ye left it.”
Lord Davis strode to the door. “Sir Talbot,” he said.
“My lord,” St. Claire said. “It is good to see you.”
The young man nodded, then left.
Rhoslyn rose and crossed to St. Claire.
“Will you speak with me in our chambers, my lady?” he asked.
“Aye. Lady Saraid, I will return later.”
They left and when they reached their solar, she said, “What is it?”
“Your grandfather, he is wounded.”
“Wounded? What do ye mean—Where is he? What happened?” The room spun. St. Claire grasped her arm. “Tell me,” she insisted.
“Someone attacked him on his return trip home,” he said.
Rhoslyn gasped. “Is he—”
St. Claire shook his head. “Nay, but I will not lie. He is seriously wounded.”
“Where is he?”
“In your chambers.”
Without another word, she ran across the room to her door and burst into her quarters. Mistress Miura sat on the edge of her bed beside her grandfather. In an instant, Rhoslyn took in the bloody bandages on the table beside the bed and the gash in his ribs.
She hurried to the bed. “How is he, Mistress?”
“He is alive,” she replied.
The need to cry tightened her throat. “What can I do?”
Muira instructed her and, together, they finished cleaning the wound, then applied herbs and bound his ribs. What seemed eons later, Rhoslyn sat alone with her grandfather in the dimly lit room.
The tread of booted feet approached from behind.
“What do ye want, St. Claire?” she asked.
“Mistress Muira informed me he is resting well,” he said.
Rhoslyn shot to her feet and whirled on him. “With no help from ye.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “I am the one who found and brought him here.”
“How is it ye were with him when he was wounded?” she demanded.
“I was not. Seward sent one of his men back for help. I went immediately.”
“Without telling me.”
“I took a hundred men. What help could you have offered that they could not?”
“I would have gone, you monster,” she snapped.
He barked a laugh. “That I would not have allowed.”
“Ye could no’ have stopped me.”
“Christ, Rhoslyn, had I wasted even a moment, he could have died.”
She closed the distance between them in an instant. “Had ye killed Dayton, Grandfather would not be lying in that bed at all.”
His gaze sharpened and she was startled to realize her barb had struck home. That was what she’d intended, but satisfaction didn’t taste as sweet as expected.
“You believe Dayton is responsible for the attack?” he asked.
“Who else?”
“You are saying Seward has no enemies.”
“None who would attack him with such malice.”
“Nay?” St. Claire said. “Only a few days ago Roberts intended to kill him.”
“Bah! There is a difference in fighting and sneaking up on a man like a dog. This smells like your brother.”
“It could be him,” St. Claire said. “But to what end?”
“To draw you out, force you away from Castle Glenbarr. God only knows. The man is not in his right senses.”
“That is true,” St. Claire said. “But he is not a fool when it comes to warring.”
“Warring, aye, and ye brought it to us.”
“You are overwrought,” he said.” I understand your worry. But you know this was not my doing. However, I will find who is responsible and give you his head.”
She stared. “His head? What comfort will that be if my grandfather dies?” Rhoslyn turned away and returned to her grandfather’s side.
All was quiet for a few moments, then the tread of boots on stone told her St. Claire had left. Only then did she let the tears flow.
* * *
At the knock on
the door, Talbot called, “Enter.”
Ross entered. Talbot noted his mud-caked boots and grimy hands and hair—and the blood crusted, gaping hole in his left shirts sleeve.
Talbot laid his quill on the parchment and rose. “Did you find Seward’s attackers?”
Ross glanced at his wounded arm and grunted. “We ran into a band of marauders. Fools tried to relieve us of our horses.”
“It seems Buchan is riddled with thieves and cutthroats,” Talbot observed.
“No more so than England, I imagine,” Ross replied without rancor. “I hear ye took one of Kinsley’s attackers alive.”
Talbot nodded. “He died before reaching Castle Glenbarr.”
“I suppose we should be thankful our enemies are no’ as hardy as we are,” Ross said. “Or mayhap we are better killers.”
Talbot grunted. “Did you locate Seward’s attackers?”
“Not exactly. There were about twenty men. They split off into three groups. On a hunch, I took Cullen with me and we followed the northernmost riders. Those men broke off and we were able to follow only two men into Elgean. We lost their trail there, but that village falls under the protection of Sir Jason Boyd. I canna’ believe thirty men could plan an attack without Boyd knowing.”
“Then you believe he is behind the attack?” Talbot asked.
“He at least knew of it,” Ross replied. “But beware. That will no’ be easy to prove.”
Talbot nodded. “If he sent the men but did not go with them, he can claim they were acting of their own accord. And you did not actually find any of the men?”
“Nay. We lost the tracks in the village.”
“I imagine that was the plan,” Talbot said. “What reason would Boyd have to attack Seward?”
Ross grunted. “Boyd has lusted after Castle Glenbarr since he was a boy. But he hasna’ the power to take it alone. His laird is Domhnall De Quincy, the Earl of Maddsen. De Quincy is a rival of our laird Eoghan Neachdan, the Earl of Lochland. De Quincy wouldna’ mind tipping the scales of power in his favor. If any of his knights managed to seize Kinsley’s power, well,” he shrugged, “all the better for him.”
“What a coincidence that one of his men chose now to attack.”
Ross nodded. “Ye find that odd, as well?”
Now Talbot understood what Dayton might have to gain by attacking Seward.
* * *
Rhoslyn refused to move from her grandfather’s side, and the following night, when the door quietly opened behind her, she thought St. Claire had returned as he had last night, to insist she come to his bed.
His bed. A mental picture flashed of lying safe and warm in his arms. Tears pricked, then guilt followed with a hard stab. How could she consider sharing the man’s bed who was responsible for her grandfather lying at death’s door? She placed a palm over her belly. How could she hate the father of her child?
She started from her thoughts when Mistress Miura appeared beside the bed.
“I am all right, Miura,” Rhoslyn said. “Ye need no’ worry about me.”
“I know well enough to worry about ye, my lady, but that isna’ why I come. I thought you should know that Lord Lochland is here.”
Rhoslyn looked up sharply. “Here? Now?” Fury rammed through her. “Grandfather is in bed but a day and already Lochland picks the bones.” She shoved to her feet, then hesitated.
“Go on,” Muira said. “I will sit with him.”
Rhoslyn still hesitated. If anything happened while she was away from his side. If he died... She shook her head. “Nay. I canna’ leave him.”
The housekeeper nodded. “I will let ye know if the men call for you.”
Rhoslyn started to sit down on the bed, then stopped. The men would not call for her. They would make their plans, then she would be forced to live with the consequences.
“Muira, wait.” Her heart was breaking. “Nay. I must go. If—when—my grandfather awakens and he learns I shirked my duty he will not forgive me. You stay. If you need me for anything—anything at all—you will call me?”
“Aye, my lady. But he is sleeping well. I dinna’ think you need worry. He is strong.”
Rhoslyn nodded and hurried from the room before she could change her mind. She reached the great hall and found Lord Lochland sitting alone at the table.
He rose as she approached. “Lady Rhoslyn.”
She reached him and dropped into a curtsey. “Lord Lochland.” She rose. “It is good to see you.”
“And you. How is your grandfather?”
“His breathing is strong. We are hopeful he will awaken at any time.”
He smiled indulgently and she wanted to scream. Instead, she said in a sweet voice, “Would ye like to come into the bower? We can speak in private there.”
“Nay, Lady Rhoslyn, I am here to see your husband.”
“Anything that concerns him concerns me,” she said.
“Aye, but I think it is better if he and I speak alone first.”
“If you fear that I will be upset when you speak of my grandfather, ye need no’ worry. I understand the situation.”
The postern door opened and frustration bubbled up when St. Claire entered. He strode to where they stood.
“St. Claire,” she said, “this is the Earl of Lochland. Lord Lochland, my husband, Sir Talbot St. Claire.”
St. Claire canted his head. “My lord, I am pleased to meet you.”
Lord Lochland gave a curt nod, then cast a glance at Rhoslyn. “I wish our meeting was under happier circumstances. Can we speak privately?”
“Aye. We can go to the bower.” He looked at Rhoslyn. “Will you have wine sent up?”
She nodded. “Aye.” Rhoslyn turned, and St. Claire led him toward the stairs.
She secured a tray of wine and two goblets, then took her time approaching the bower. As hoped, she arrived when the men were standing in front of the fire.
They turned as she entered, and Lord Lochland said when she crossed to the table near the hearth, “Lady Rhoslyn, as I said earlier, it is better if I speak with your husband alone.”
She set the tray on the table and began pouring the wine. “Why? He will only repeat to me everything you say.” That, she knew, was likely untrue. She looked up at the earl. “Surely, there is no need for that?”
Irritation flared in his eyes. “It will no’ be easy for ye to hear what I have to say. As much as I pray your grandfather lives, he may not, and I canna’ put aside my responsibilities because of sentiment.”
She angled her head in acknowledgment. “Of course not. I would not ask it of ye.” She picked up the two goblets, went to the men and gave them each a glass.
“Please sit, Rhoslyn,” St. Claire said.
He betrayed no anger in his manner, but she’d learned how apt he was at disguising his feelings. They hadn’t spoken since their argument. If he was angry with her wouldn’t he have ordered her from the room? She sat on the bench before he could change his mind.
The earl turned his attention to St. Claire. “As I was saying, I am hearing rumors that two of Kinsley’s enemies are plotting to take possession of his holdings.”
“They must know I would not allow that,” St. Claire said.
“Aye, they surely know, for anything they take is yours when he dies. But that doesna’ mean they will not try, and soon, for they will want to attack while he lies unconscious.”
St. Claire nodded. “They may try.”
Lochland gave a slow nod. “You can defend Seward’s people. Still, I would prefer to avoid a war.”
“Have you not the power to stop them?” St. Claire asked.
“I am no’ their laird, and their laird is no friend of mine. In truth, he would love nothing better than to gain a foothold in my territory.”
“Who are these men and their lord?”
“Their laird is Domhnall De Quincy, the Earl of Maddsen. He rules the land to the south. The two I suspect of plotting against Kinsley are Baron Balcaskie and Sir Jason Bo
yd.”
Something flickered in St. Claire’s eyes. “De Quincy would risk a fight with you?” he asked.
“Mayhap ye dinna’ understand how powerful Kinsley is,” Lochland said. “Within Buchan, he is second only to me. He commands fifteen hundred men-at-arms, and easily that many warriors amongst his tenants, if need be. If they were to gain control of his land, it would be no small matter for me to drive them out.” Lochland studied him. “You have the skill to defend his land, but can ye inspire his men to follow ye?”
“If they want to win, they will follow me,” St. Claire said.
A shiver snaked down Rhoslyn’s spine. St. Claire’s confidence recalled the memory of him slicing open the neck of his enemy. Would he view her grandfather’s death with the same dispassion as he did fighting an enemy?
Lord Lochland’s eyes rested on Rhoslyn. “I should have married De Quincy to your wife. That would have solved this problem.”
Marriage to Domhnall De Quincy? Sweet Jesu, that was worse than marriage to St. Claire. Though she would marry De Quincy if it meant her grandfather lived. But she couldn’t buy her grandfather’s life. God didn’t barter. She’d learned that first hand.
Rhoslyn said to Lochland, “If it is true De Quincy wishes to seize your power, then my marriage to him would only ensure war upon my grandfather’s death.”
The earl gave a slow nod. “Ye are right. Which is why I have decided to betroth Lady Andreana to him.”
* * *
Shock registered in Rhoslyn’s eyes, then was gone so quickly Talbot almost doubted he’d seen it.
“Ye canno’ marry Andreana to Lord De Quincy,” she said.
“I can,” he replied.
She shook her head. “Forgive me, I am not making myself clear. You canna’ marry her to anyone. She is already married.”
“Already married? To who?” he demanded.
“To my husband’s captain, Sir Baxter D’Angers.”
Lochland turned his hard gaze onto Talbot. “Is this true?”
“I am sorry, St. Claire,” she quickly replied. “This is all my fault. It was my idea to marry her to Sir Baxter. She is of marriageable age, and I felt it better she marry a man my lord husband knew to be of a good character.”
My lord husband? Talbot wanted to laugh. It seemed his wife wasn’t above stroking a man’s ego when it served her purpose.