Warrior's Revenge

by Coreene Callahan

  “You’ve altered them already?”

  “Aye.”

  Aurora sniffled. “Thank you.”

  “Nay, no need. ’Tis what a good maid does, Rory.”

  She laughed and hugged him. “The royal blue, I think.”

  With Nate’s assistance, she slid the gown over her head and tied the lacing off in record time. She needed to hurry. Quinlyn would be expecting her in less than an hour, hardly enough time for a tour at all.

  Cloak in hand, she cracked the chamber door, slid into the corridor, and made for the back exit. Using the main staircase into the Great Hall was too risky. One or more of Alvars’ guests would no doubt waylay her, and Aurora wanted a moment of peace before she faced the masses. It had been so long since she’d been among them, all the fancy lords and ladies with their lofty thoughts and fat purses.

  Doubt slithered through her mind, outing old insecurities. Like living, breathing things, each whispered in her ear, pointing out her faults, dragging down her confidence, telling her she wasn’t good enough. Had she ever been? Would she ever be?

  Aurora frowned. She didn’t know. Had no clue how to answer either of those questions. Wasn’t that forever the way? A cartload of questions, never the right answers.

  To be expected, she guessed.

  Her education wasn’t extensive, and certainly not complete. Her lessons had ceased with her mother’s death. Sorrow squeezed, making her heart ache as Aurora tossed the woolen mantle around her. The heavy material settled on her shoulders, inadequate comfort for insurmountable grief. Time passed so fast. It didn’t seem possible, yet the truth stared her in the face. She had buried her mother just over a year ago. Had stood at the foot of her grave, fresh earth mounded beside the thick grass covering her father’s, and shed her tears.

  So unfair. She’d lost them both within such a short time only to…

  Aurora shook her head, refusing to think of her uncle. He couldn’t touch her here. She was safe. Safe.

  She told herself that over and over as she descended the stairs. At the bottom, she looped the ties of her cloak together and pulled the bow tight before pushing the door open. Damp air swirled and storm clouds danced, rolling thick on the horizon. The rain would arrive soon. Aurora quickened her pace, rounded the castle’s cornerstone and…

  Stopped short, her boot heels digging into raw earth.

  Men were everywhere. Some carried tools. Others led workhorses drawing flatbed carts. But most worked to stow a myriad of supplies, tucking them away from the teeth of the coming storm.

  “Drat,” she muttered, taking in the scene.

  She should have remembered the mess.

  Under construction on a number of fronts, Alvars boasted several work crews. The one into which she’d run was putting an addition on the rear of the stables. They’d made good progress. Foundation already set, huge timbers jutted up from the solid cornerstones. It wouldn’t be long before the roof went on, but Aurora didn’t care about that at the moment. She was too busy deciding how best to get across a yard filled with timber-beams, messy piles of slate tiles, and mounds of debris. Goodness, the area looked like a battlefield, one on which the master builder had lost.

  Aurora bit the inside of her cheek. She should go back to her chamber—delay her trip to the stable and visit another time. The problem? She didn’t know when she would get another chance. The days leading up to the wedding would be busy. Especially for her. Quinlyn needed her help to ensure all went as planned. Which meant, foolish or not, Aurora needed a few moments alone with the horses. ’Twas the only thing that truly soothed her and well…she hadn’t seen the inside of a stable in more than a year. Not since her uncle had forced her from her home and into his.

  The thought got her feet moving.

  Charting a course through the chaos, Aurora skirted a sizeable hole, all while ignoring the workmen eying her with interest. She heard the murmurs, though. Felt their gazes too. The unpleasant sensation slid down her spine, sending prickles across the nape of her neck. Keeping her eyes forward and her chin level, she approached the addition’s low foundation.

  Huge stones placed one atop the other outlined what would be a large rectangular structure. The stir of excitement whispered through her. Once complete, the new stable would house twenty—mayhap thirty—additional horses. More than enough room for her to find a place inside without ruffling anyone’s feathers. She wouldn’t ask for much. A stall or two, no more, to continue her father’s dream and breed horses of her own.

  Feet moving at a rapid pace, she jogged around a towering pile of wooden beams. The jangle of horses’ harnesses diverted her and, instead of stepping in front of two monstrous Clydesdales, she scooted between the foundation wall and the stack of squared timbers. A six-foot gap sat between the two, providing a narrow laneway. Hemmed in now, Aurora lengthened her stride, her focus on the double-wide stable doors.

  A low rumble sounded.

  Aurora looked to the sky. Wonderful. The thunder was closer now. If she came back into the keep with so much as one drop of rain on her, Nate would— The team of Clydesdales shrieked from the other side of the pile. The ground shuddered beneath her and a man cursed, his voice raised in warning.

  The woodpile hemming her in shifted.

  Her breath caught as the logs on top started to roll. Fear picked up her knees, pumped her arms, shooting her toward the narrow strip of daylight. The cascade of logs rumbled. One timber beam knocked into the next, pushing the pile into an avalanche. Blood thundering in her ears, Aurora lengthened her stride. Boots hammering compact earth, she burst out the other side. Wood caught the hem of her cloak and yanked, tangling her feet together. Aurora pitched forward. The ground rose to meet her and…

  Tucking her arms in tight, she clenched her teeth and braced for the collision. For the hard landing. For the scrape of uneven ground and the pain.

  An instant before she hit, a large hand snagged the back of her cloak. A rough yank. A quick twist. A harsh curse, and the man pulled her upright. Just as her feet touched the ground, the cascade of timber beams smashed into stonewall behind her. Breath locked in her throat, she glanced over her shoulder at the ruined stack, then up into blue eyes.

  The man scowled, his expression so dark Aurora retreated. His grip firmed. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of the front of her chest as he growled, “’Tis a worksite, lady. No place for the likes of ye.”

  A smaller man skidded to a halt beside them. “Are ye well, my lady?”

  Aurora swallowed and tugged her arm from the stranger’s grasp. Her gaze drifted to the fallen timber-beams now scattered in disarray over the foundation floor. Nay, she wasn’t all right. What kind of question was that? She’d almost been flattened by…

  She cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you certain, my lady?” The second man eyed her with concern. “You look a wee bit pale. Mayhap—”

  “Nay. I’m as fit as ever,” she said, infusing her tone with a confidence she didn’t feel. To feed the lie, she squared her shoulders and nodded to the one who’d pulled her to safety. “My thanks.”

  He grunted.

  With a slight bow, she escaped and made for the stables, a bone-deep chill pricking her senses. Too close. That had been far too close. A moment more and she would’ve been bludgeoned to death, lying broken beneath the pile. A shiver of unease skittered through her. Rubbing her upper arms, Aurora wrestled with the disquiet. ’Twas not a good sign. The last year had taught her never to ignore intuition. And right now? Hers was screaming. She had a bad feeling. One that refused to abate, so…aye. Next time she visited the horses she would go the proper way. Would take not any chances. Especially while instinct whispered, telling her the tumble of timber-beams had been no accident.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Caught Red-Handed

  Drawing rein inside Alvars’ inner bailey, Brigham slowed his warhorse to a stop. His gaze swept the scene, taking in the flurry of activity. Organized chaos.
’Twas always the same when he arrived at one of his holdings. Today was no different. Men, horses, supply carts of all shapes and sizes littered the cobblestone as his guards worked to stow the provisions.

  A place for everything, and everything in its place. His motto. Good words to live by.

  Especially considering the fury of the oncoming storm.

  Dragging his gaze away from his men, Brigham glanced at the sky and scowled. Darkness, it seemed, was the order of the day. Less than a league away, lightning lit up the sky, forking beneath the tumble of heavy clouds. He watched them roll a moment, then heard the telltale sign. Thunder. It wouldn’t be long. Any moment now, the storm would hit and— Another round of thunder growled overhead.

  The warning urged all to greater speed as the air thickened and fog rolled in. Like wispy wraiths, the ghostly brume rose in a wave, then curled over the curtain wall and tumbled into the inner bailey. Giving his warhorse a hearty pat, Brigham threw his leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle. Long-standing habit allowed his feet to land with out making a sound. Impatience made him toss his mantle over both shoulders. As the wool folded back and out of his way, the wind picked up, howling against the high walls, then whiplashed, whipping the tail end of his cloak around his legs.

  ’Twas fitting. The violence of the tempest matched his mood.

  Flexing his hands, Brigham cursed under his breath. Enchanting wee vixen. She’d ruined everything. His plan. His patience. Not to mention his peace of mind. But worse? Somehow…some way, in the space of moments…she’d changed his habits. Witness the fact he stood inside Alvars a whole half day later than planned. Unprecedented. He rarely—if ever—altered a strategy. So aye. Had he broken camp at dawn—like he’d bloody well planned—he would be ahead of the storm, not about to be caught in it.

  ’Twas official. Being upended by the redhead had clearly befuddled his brain.

  “My lord.”

  Brigham tuned as his squire hailed him. “What is it, Emmet?”

  “The black, my lord.” Cheeks ruby-red with chill, Emmet raised his hands and blew on his cold fingers. “The stable master cannot calm him. He fears he may break a leg, butting against the stall as he is.”

  “I will see to him. Get inside and find a warm hearth before you catch your death. I will join you anon.”

  The lad wasted no time obeying. Spinning on his heel, Emmet sprinted across the inner bailey, jogged up the stairs, and sought the shelter of the keep. He noticed the majority of his men had done the same. Good thing too. With the weather about to turn snotty, no one wanted to be out of doors. Only a few remained to complete their tasks, and it was those Brigham nodded to on his way to the stable. He would see to his steed and then his own comfort.

  It had been a bad day.

  So foul he admitted he grew weary of it and looked forward to being warm and fed. Under normal circumstances small comforts mattered little to him. Honed in battle, he’d grown accustomed to the cold. Snow, sleet, sheets of unending rain, and the muddy terrain that came with it. None of it bothered him anymore.

  Hunger, however, was a different matter.

  He disliked the ache that accompanied an empty belly. The hollowness gnawed at his ribs with the steady intent of a ravenous wolf. ’Twas like being eaten from the inside out,. And given half a chance, he much preferred a hearty meal to a willing woman. At least that had once been the case. With visions of the wench from Hexham still occupying his mind, a reshuffling of his priorities might well be in order.

  With a frown, Brigham entered the stables, expecting to hear his steed making an unholy racket…as was his wont whenever he believed himself unhappy. Nothing greeted him. Not the high whine signaling the black’s temper. Nor the hammer of hooves shredding a wooden stall. Just peace and quiet. Well that, and the scent of hay and horse. Concern wound him tight. Fearing the worst, he strode toward the rear of the structure. Within moments, he rounded the end of the aisle and…

  Came to a dead stop.

  Good Christ. Would you look at that? A girl stood before the black’s stall.

  Interest piqued, he ran his gaze over her from behind. Concealed from head to toe by her cloak, she murmured to his warhorse, tone so soothing it tugged at Brigham’s tension. Thread by taut thread the strain of the day fell away as he listened to her. Enchanting. Spell-like. Whatever. He didn’t know how to describe it, but…aye. He liked the softness in her voice, and as he watched her stroke the stallion’s muzzle, he unfurled, his muscles loosening notch by sure notch.

  “’Tis all right, my beautiful boy,” she said, tone full of appreciation. “My, you are so big and strong, so handsome you fair take my breath away.”

  The last compliment raised the hair on the back of Brigham’s neck. His skin prickled. He frowned. She’d spoken much louder that time, giving away the lilt of her accent and— Bloody Hell. It couldn’t be, but…damnation. He knew that voice.

  Recognition hit him like a battering ram, hammering the truth home. Her. His vixen. Here in the flesh. He growled in reaction, then whistled to gain the black’s attention. The warhorse responded with an ear-piercing snort as his head came up. His muzzle brushed the side of the girl’s head. The hood concealing her hair fell about her neck, ending all doubt when reddish-gold locks gleamed in the low light of stable torches.

  Holy hell. He’d hit the mark. ’Twas indeed the wench from Hexham. The one he’d turned the town upside down to find.

  Now aware of his presence, she spun to face him. A little off balance, she teetered a moment before steadying herself. Her gaze lit on him. Her lovely mouth fell open. “Oh dear.”

  “Aye, oh dear,” Brigham said, eyes narrowed on his intended prey. “’Twould seem I wasted my time searching for you, wench. I might have come directly here to my own keep and saved myself the trouble.”

  “I…good lord, you cannot be real.” The breathless quality of her voice strung him tight as she stared at him, aghast. “I am imagining you.”

  “You are not that fortunate.”

  Straightening away from the wall, Brigham took a step toward her. Panic flared in her eyes. He didn’t blame her. An easy escape was not in the offing. Not for her. Not again. Mercy wasn’t part of the plan. Payback…the settling of accounts, however? Aye, without a doubt. That sounded about right.

  Mind reeling, Aurora scrambled to formulate a strategic plan of retreat. Sliding her foot backward, she eased away, careful to keep each step measured, not wanting to startle the brute into charging. Such ploys, after all, often worked on enraged boars.

  Her gaze locked on his, she retreated another step. “Ah, your keep?”

  “Aye, mine.”

  Had she said oh dear earlier? Well, she’d meant drat and damn…and every other cuss word she could think of, because…

  Aurora suppressed a rising wave of panic. His keep could only mean one thing. The brute glaring at her was none other than the Monster of Mornay. A vile nickname for a lord of the realm, to be sure, but deserved nonetheless. Well, at least as far as she knew. Rumor, after all, had a nasty habit of including falsehoods along with the truth. So aye…jumping to conclusions was no doubt a bad idea.

  Which meant one thing.

  She needed to find the truth before he turned ugly, and she ended up hurt.

  The thought nearly sent Aurora into a tailspin. She didn’t like violence. Had lived too long with it to know naught positive ever came out of it. But that didn’t mean she would knuckle under. Or turn and run. Not yet anyway. Knowledge equaled power. Now was no exception.

  Setting her courage, she leveled her chin and went after the truth. “Who are you…exactly?”

  His nostrils flared. Showing no mercy, he matched her step for step, stalking her down the deserted aisle. “Brigham, the Lord of Mornay, at your service. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  God be swift and merciful. She really had felled the Monster of Mornay. One of the most feared barons in all of England.

  Chilled by the confirmation, he
r skin prickled in warning. Fear spread like wildfire, lighting her up from the inside out. Her body tensed. Her muscles quivered. Her heart thumped while her mind screamed, urging her to run. She obeyed, and spinning with the quickness of a cat, fled in the opposite direction.

  Aurora heard him move.

  Seconds, mere moments—three strides, no more—and he grabbed hold, encircling her from behind. Strong arms picked her up. Her feet left the floor. She yelped as his embrace tightened. With a growl, he held her aloft, shoulder blades pressed to his chest, making her think the most absurd thought.

  How in the devil could such a big man move so blasted fast?

  He gave her little time to reflect upon the mystery. Instead, he carried her down the corridor. When he turned to enter a stall, Aurora brought her feet up and braced her boots against the door. Feet planted, she pushed, throwing all her weight against him. He cursed. She snarled at him and kicked out again. With a grunt, he rocked backward, then changed tact. Manhandling her like a sack of potatoes, he swung her around so she ended up beneath his arm, hanging sideways on his hip.

  She twisted, but he held firm. “God’s teeth. You big brute…get your hands off me!”

  “Nay, in you go.”

  “Oh! You despicable…” she trailed off as his hand slipped against her ribcage. His palm made contact with the underside of her breast. She wiggled in outrage and grabbed for the vertical timber framing the entry as he unlatched the stall door. Securing her hold on the rough column, Aurora huffed, satisfied when her action arrested their forward progress.

  “Little hellion,” he growled and, shifting his hold, pried her fingers, one by one, from their mooring.

  “Blast.” Aurora gasped, her hold giving way.

  She bucked in his arms. Ignoring her attempts at escape, he lugged her over the threshold. His grasp loosened. She lunged left, pulling him off balance. Lashing out, he grabbed her cloak and spun her back into his embrace. Wrapping her up tight, his hand slid across her chest and…oh Jesus help her…firmed around her breast. Afraid to move, Aurora froze. The moment lengthened, stretching into long-tailed silence. Shock sank deep. Not knowing what else to do, she waited, expecting him to do the right thing—the honorable thing—and pull away. He didn’t. She sucked in a quick breath as his hold firmed instead.