Warrior's Lady

by Gerri Russell

  And despite the dreary, ghostly façade the night cast upon this dangerous part of town, Camden found himself smiling. 'Twas the perfect part of town to find what he needed.

  His boot heels beat a sharp tattoo on the cobbled street. A figure moved out of the shadows and into the light of the torch.

  The glare from the flame made cruel work of the man's haggard and pinched face, and exposed an arsenal of weapons. Three lethal daggers nestled beneath a harness over his chest, and a sword lay strapped to his back. The man waited, hands on hips. "Ye lookin' for trouble?"

  "The smithy said you were looking for work." Camden strode closer.

  The man relaxed his hands. "What kind o' work ye got?"

  "The lethal kind."

  The man smiled, revealing brown, uneven teeth. "Murder?"

  Camden lowered his voice. "Find and kill all the remaining Ruthvens."

  The man's smile slipped. "All o' them?"

  "Aye."

  "It's gonna cost ye."

  Camden's pulse beat thick and urgent in his veins as he unhooked a heavy bag of gold from his belt and tossed it on the ground at the man's feet. "There's half. You'll get the other half when your deed is done."

  A soft jingle shattered the silence of the night as the stranger scooped up the bag. "Should I send ye word when they're dead?"

  "The blacksmith will release the other half of your payment when you prove the remaining Ruthvens are dead."

  The man nodded, then stepped back into the shadows. A moment later he was gone.

  "The Ruthvens will rue the day they betrayed the Lockharts or any of their countrymen," Camden whispered into the night. He expected to feel a sense of satisfaction at the thought. He did not.

  For the last ten years he had dreamed of nothing but his revenge against the Ruthvens. He'd plotted how he would make each and every one of the last remaining males pay for their part in his own torture and imprisonment. He had wanted them to suffer as he had suffered. And now that the moment was at hand, it seemed less than heroic to hire a mercenary to destroy his enemy.

  Clara and Violet need you. The thought steadied him, brought his focus back to the tasks that remained undone.

  He strode back through the alley to his horse. He mounted, then kicked his horse into a gallop. Duty to his family forced his hand. He had no choice but to leave things as they were. Let the stranger execute his revenge.

  His kin needed him more.

  Chapter Two

  Rhiannon Ruthven stopped. She forced her mind to quiet as she concentrated on the blade of soft green grass between her forefinger and her thumb. She held her breath and willed the beat of her heart to slow. The wind whispered through the field in which she lay flat on her back, trying for just a few moments to escape her troubles.

  One blade of grass. Pliant yet strong. Simple yet part of a larger whole. And when one blade of grass went bad the others grew up around it, strangling it out. That's the way it should be. Not one bad blade of grass causing all the other blades of grass to be seen as bad for all eternity.

  Rhiannon released a heartfelt sigh and flicked the blade into the others surrounding her head. "Why can't people be as simple as nature?"

  The moment she gave voice to the words she regretted them. Her thoughts turned to the lecture Mother Agnes had given her when Rhiannon had arrived at Taturn Abbey two weeks ago. It'd had something to do with apples and seeds — she being the bad seed, of course.

  If her father was an apple, she wanted to be a pear.

  Rhiannon squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back tears of pain and of guilt. She'd loved her father, she supposed. Why else would she feel so empty at the thought of his death?

  His brutal murder had turned her life upside down. And yet now that he was gone, why did she feel a sense of peace? Whether or not they liked her, Rhiannon had company in the other nuns at the abbey. She was no longer isolated and alone as she always had been even in her own home. There she'd been separated from her brothers, spending days, weeks, even months without seeing or speaking to anyone. At least here at the abbey, they spoke to her. And while no one had been overly friendly to her, they had not been cruel either.

  Rhiannon drew a breath. The air held just a hint of heather mixed with the earthier scent of grass. She extended her arms away from her sides and moved them through the supple spring grass. The blades bent beneath her assault, then bounced back into place as though nothing had ever disturbed them.

  She'd come to the abbey two weeks ago because she'd had nowhere else to go. Her brothers, Dougall and Cory, cared nothing for her, having never known her. She'd had no kin to turn to. No one to turn to except God.

  And Mother Agnes had called even that relationship into question. Rhiannon frowned at the clear sky overhead. She had come to the abbey, hoping to leave her life as a Ruthven behind. She'd wanted a fresh start, a new beginning. Though Mother Agnes had taken her in, she'd refused to accept her as a novice, saying Rhiannon's calling was elsewhere. Even God had no need for a Ruthven.

  No matter how much she tried to convince Mother Agnes she was not her father's daughter, no matter what she did to show the abbess she could change, she would always be Rhiannon Ruthven. The bad seed.

  "There you are," a voice came from over her head. Rhiannon looked up to see Sister Bernadette peering down. "I've been looking all over for you. Mother Agnes wants to see you," Sister Bernadette whispered, her eyes wide with trepidation.

  Rhiannon sat up and twisted toward the only friend she'd made since coming to the abbey. "Me? Why?" A summons from the abbess usually boded trouble and involved penance and often sacrifice for the summonee.

  Rhiannon frowned. "Any idea why?"

  Bernadette shook her head. "But she hasn't stopped pacing or praying since she returned from her trip to Lockhart Castle."

  Rhiannon jumped to her feet. "What has any of that to do with me?"

  "I don't know." Bernadette bit her lip. "But you best hurry to find out."

  With a sense of impending doom, Rhiannon raced across the open grass back toward the abbey. She pushed the wrought-iron gates of the abbey's entrance aside and hurried down the long breezeway that led to the abbess's office.

  At the overly large wooden door, Rhiannon paused, taking a deep breath to compose herself. It would do her no good to stumble into the room in chaos. That would only reinforce what Mother Agnes and the others already thought of her. She reached up and quickly tucked the escaped ends of her hair beneath her wimple and veil. When she had regained her composure, she pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside the room.

  Despite the fact that it was the middle of the day, the room was blanketed in hazy darkness as three braces of candles at the front of the room struggled valiantly to force the shadows away.

  Mother Agnes paced slowly back and forth in front of her small wooden desk, a worried frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  "You asked to see me, Mother?"

  The abbess' gaze swung to the doorway. "Rhiannon, my child. Come in. Sit down." She gestured toward a chair in the darkest corner. No doubt the place where "bad seeds" could not harm others. Rhiannon sat.

  The abbess continued to pace. "I know what you think, child. That I have been harsh with you." The abbess hesitated before her. "Perhaps I have."

  Rhiannon's heart stumbled. "Does this mean that I may take my vows? Oh, thank you, Mother Agnes. I will not let you down. I will be the best—"

  "Stop, child," she interrupted. "God has shown me a different path for you. You will leave here today."

  Shock and bewilderment blanketed Rhiannon as effectively as the darkened shadows. "I can't go—"

  "I know this is unexpected." The abbess stopped pacing. "True callings usually are."

  Her words jarred Rhiannon from her stupor of disbelief. "What calling is that?" she asked, rising from her chair, entering the golden glow of the candlelight to stand before Mother Agnes. She needed to see the abbess' face, needed to read her expressions to understand
why she was being cast out of the safety of the abbey and into the unknown.

  A serene peace reflected on the abbess' face. "As of this moment, you are now a nursemaid to a young girl who desperately needs you." The abbess came forward. "It will not be an easy task. It is rough territory and there will be many dangers. But I sense in you a deep strength."

  "What kind of dangers?" Rhiannon asked cautiously.

  "There are others — besides her family — who are looking for young Lady Violet. And not everyone would care for her well-being. I must caution you, Rhiannon, never to let Bishop Berwick anywhere near this child. Her life could be in danger if you do."

  Before Rhiannon could react to the strange words, the abbess reached into the folds of her habit and produced a small bundle of linen, then handed it to Rhiannon. "Take this. Protect it with your life until you deliver it safely to Violet's uncle, Camden Lockhart. He'll know what to do with it."

  The Abbess gripped Rhiannon's hands firmly in her own. "A few last words of advice I must impart to you. Whatever happens to you from this moment forward, you must fill your heart with forgiveness."

  Rhiannon frowned. What did that mean? Before she could ask the abbess for an explanation, the older woman turned away to open the door to the room. Framed in the doorway stood a girl of no more than six, her gaze cast to the floor, her shoulders slumped forward. Golden hair fell in knotted clumps down to her waist. Her simple dress was shredded and dirty, as though she'd lived through some horrific trauma.

  "Oh, my," was all Rhiannon could think to say. But those words brought the girl's gaze to her own. And Rhiannon forgot to breathe. Pain, loneliness, and uncertainty echoed in the depths of the child's soft blue eyes — emotions she herself had been familiar with from the time she was a child.

  "You will leave with Lady Violet immediately," Mother Agnes announced. "Gather your belongings and meet us at the horse cart."

  As much as Rhiannon wanted to protest, she knew she could not. She had seen too much of herself in the young girl's eyes. She wanted to ask where she was headed, or why the abbess had chosen her, but in that moment, her own worries seemed so small and insignificant.

  That girl needed someone as much as Rhiannon herself did.

  After half a day's ride, Orrin and the other warriors found the gates of Lockhart Castle open wide. A sense of unease came over Orrin as they entered the grounds unchallenged.

  As they rode through the bailey, men and women dressed all in black stopped their activities to watch the warriors' progression. The blacksmith halted his mallet mid-blow. The women milking the cows ceased their undulating rhythms. The women at the quern stone stopped grinding the wheat into flour as the warriors approached the keep.

  The residents were all dressed in black – the color of mourning. A chill crept up Orrin's spine. How could they possibly know about Lord Lockhart's death? The news could not have traveled that quickly in these Highland hills. Unless it was not the lord's death they grieved.

  Orrin dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy who raced out to greet them. "Where might I find Lady Lockhart?" Orrin asked.

  The young boy's gaze shifted to the ground, but not before Orrin noted how the color drained from his cheeks. "My good sir—"

  "Who are you?" a voice beckoned from behind him.

  Orrin twisted toward the entrance of the keep.

  The Bishop Berwick glided down the stairs. His eyes narrowed and his features sharpened with hostility as he drew closer. "You wish to see the Lady Lockhart? Why?"

  "Your Grace." Orrin offered the holy man a bow. "I am Orrin MacAllister, friend and loyal servant of Camden Lockhart. He sent me here to check on his sister-in-law and niece. Do you know where I might find them?"

  A hint of suspicion filled the bishop's gaze as he crossed his arms over his chest. The rich brocade of his gown with its gold trimmings seemed out of place in the dusty bailey. "I had rather hoped you could tell me where I might find the girl, Lady Violet."

  "Lady Violet?"

  "Aye, she's gone missing."

  "And Lady Lockhart?" Cold dread rode through Orrin at the way the bishop's lips curled into a half-smile.

  "She was hanged two days past for her crime of witchcraft."

  "Witchcraft? That's absurd," Orrin spat out. "Who brought the charge against her?"

  "I did." The bishop's grin held a hint of superiority. "'Twas my duty, as a servant of the Church, to expose her to the Church council for what she was. They found her guilty and sentenced her to death."

  Orrin clenched his fists at his sides, desperate to control his growing anger. "She was the kindest of women, and certainly no witch."

  The bishop shrugged. "Her judgment has been made by those mightier than you or me."

  Orrin shut his eyes and drew a breath. He had to stay in control. Attacking the bishop would not help him find Violet, and certainly wouldn't help Camden. With his brother's death, Camden was now the clan leader. Good relations with the bishop would be critical with a weak Scottish king on the throne and the English king constantly stirring up the political climate and threatening their lives.

  Like it or not, the bishop held the power, whether good or evil, over all their lives.

  Orrin opened his eyes, feeling more in command of his emotions. "Where is her body? May I at least take charge of her burial in Camden's stead?"

  "No need, Orrin. I will take charge from here on out." Camden's steely voice broke into the conversation. Orrin turned to his friend, thankful that he'd returned from Glasgow to join his men. The bishop would not deny Clara's body to the new Lord Lockhart. Camden brought his horse to a stop at the bishop's feet. The bishop took a quick step back and frowned at the horse as it sniffed at the gold edging of his sleeves.

  Camden's gaze, glittering with intense anger, penetrated the bishop's. "Where is Lady Lockhart's body?" His tone was as hard as his gaze. Even so, Orrin could see through the hardened exterior to the pain beneath.

  Camden had lost his brother, his sister-in-law, and quite possibly his niece in the span of two days. And the strain of it showed. He sat his horse with confidence, but the flesh of his cheeks pulled taut over his high cheekbones, and the pain and sorrow mixed in his ice-blue eyes.

  The bishop flinched. "I've left her mortal remains in the great hall. The servants laid her out. She'll receive no Christian burial from me."

  "Then why are you here?" Camden demanded.

  The bishop straightened. "I've come for the child, and for the Charm Stone. Both belong to me now."

  "Lady Violet is still a Lockhart. And as I'm the leader of the clan now, that brings her under my care." Camden dismounted, then strode forward, stopping a hairsbreadth from the bishop's face. "And as for the Stone, it belongs to no one, least of all you. If I knew where it was, I'd make certain it never fell into your hands."

  "Well—"

  Camden moved forward, forcing the bishop back another step. "These grounds are also mine now that James and Clara have both been murdered." Camden let the emphasis fall on the last word, carefully observing the bishop's reaction.

  The man paled.

  Camden's face hardened. "Get out. Immediately."

  "You'll regret this Lockhart," the bishop said, the color in his face shifting from pale to mottled red.

  Camden drew the sword that had been used to kill his brother, and kept walking forward, maneuvering the bishop back to his horse that stood nearby.

  At the sight of the sword, the bishop turned and fled. He barked orders at his man and a moment later, the horses lurched forward, heading for the gate. "You'll regret this Lockhart," the bishop's words hung in the air as they disappeared from sight.

  "No more than the loss of my kin," Camden said in a tone so soft only Orrin could hear.

  "Your orders, my lord?" Orrin asked, knowing that his friend would prefer action to ruminating over what had just transpired. There would be time for thought later.

  Sincere gratitude reflected in Camden's eyes. He sheathed
the sword at his back. "Gather Lady Lockhart's body. I want to take her back to Lee Castle with us. She deserves an eternal rest at her husband's side. And I will speak to the staff. Someone must know what has happened to my niece."

  Orrin watched Camden's body tense as it did so often before they charged into battle side-by-side. If anyone could find Lady Violet, Camden would.

  But was the girl dead or alive?

  Chapter Three

  Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief when the driver of the horse cart came to a stop at the top of a ridge. The land below stretched twenty miles to the south to form a scenic panorama. Drifts of heavy snow still dotted the area, melting slowly into the streams and cataracts from the hills beyond.

  "We're about a half day's journey to Lee Castle, milady," the driver announced as he swung down from the driver's seat. "We'll be heading down the ridge. I want to check the harness and the wheels before we do. You can never be too careful," he said with a cheerful wink.

  Rhiannon wished she had half the man's enthusiasm, but she appreciated his caution. They'd made it this far without incident. For that she was grateful.

  She cast a glance beside her. Violet sat at the far edge of the open air seat, a blanket wrapped snugly about her shoulders, and still she shivered beneath a weak spring sun.

  "Would you like an extra blanket?" Rhiannon asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between them since leaving the abbey several hours ago.

  A mighty shiver wracked the girl's body, but she remained silent.

  Rhiannon knew she should offer the girl a kind word, or if she were any decent human being, she would pull the girl to her, offering to share her warmth, whether it was welcome or not. Still she hesitated. When she had done similar things in her youth, tried to assist an injured servant, or joined in play with one of their children, they'd either flinched at her touch, or fled her company.

  She'd learned long ago that no one wanted comfort from a Ruthven.

  And still the child shivered.