“Indeed, uncle,” Jeanne agreed. “I have always believed it my fate to wed a rich man.” She granted Elizabeth another cool smile. “Perhaps I shall drink sweet mead from a golden cup in this mortal realm.” She laughed then, well pleased with the life she believed she rode to claim.
Elizabeth did not comment again, although she was sorely tempted. Jeanne, in her opinion, had been indulged in every possible way for every day of her life. She was pretty and could be pleasant enough when all went according to her plan, but Elizabeth had seen her denied a sweet once when they had both been small, and she would never forget the fury of the other noblewoman’s tantrum.
What would Jeanne do when she met Catriona?
What would she do if Malcolm denied her?
Elizabeth wanted very much to see Jeanne’s smug confidence shaken.
She was aware of another horse riding alongside her, and thought it one of the men in the party. She glanced his way, thinking it another family member, but found herself confronting Finvarra, king of the Fae, on a steed of deepest pewter.
“Come to visit your brother one last time?” he asked, his dark eyes gleaming.
Elizabeth caught her breath and averted her gaze, knowing the folly of staring into the depths of his eyes.
“Or dare I hope you come to me?”
Elizabeth shook her head, even as niece and uncle admired Ravensmuir’s proportions.
“Seven years have passed since we paid the tithe to Hell, and it comes due again at Midsummer’s Eve,” Finvarra informed her. “The Laird of Ravensmuir, his soul as black as a raven’s plume, will be our offering.”
“Nay!” Elizabeth protested, unable to keep silent. Her mortal companions glanced at her with concern. “He has built a gatehouse to close the hedge,” she said, fabricating a reason for her outburst. “I always liked it without one.”
“A maiden’s whimsy,” the earl said with a shake of his head. “It would hardly be sufficient defense and a prize worth the having must be defended.” He patted his niece’s hand, clearly meaning her and not the keep.
“Malcolm volunteered,” Finvarra whispered, stroking his beard as he eyed her with confidence that all should be as he decreed. “He gave his word, and it cannot be broken now.”
Elizabeth clutched Demoiselle’s reins, knowing she could not let this be.
Finvarra stroked her hand and Elizabeth hastily pulled it away. “You could offer yourself in his stead.”
Nay, she would not do that. She did not trust the king of the Fae. Likely then he would seize them both. She shook her head again, refusing to look into his dark eyes.
Finvarra smiled with infuriating calm. “Until we meet again, then, my Elizabeth,” he murmured, the words making Elizabeth shiver. Then his figure and his horse shimmered before both disappeared. Elizabeth watched the stardust fall to the ground, glitter one last time, then fade away completely.
What could she do to help Malcolm?
* * *
Ranulf and Bertrand broke their fast together in Ravensmuir’s hall on Monday morn, dogs beneath their feet and ale in their cups. Ranulf could not recall a day he had awakened to find himself safe, warm and with good food to break his fast. In his experience, two of three was the best a man could hope for.
And indeed, it was a day to celebrate that he was alive.
Reynaud, the first to leave the hall to relieve himself that morn, had found Nigel in the latrine. Their former comrade’s throat was slit and his clothing stripped away, his corpse discarded like so much rubbish.
It was but luck that chose the victim the night before, for any one of them could have gone to the latrine at the wrong time. Ranulf did not exactly mourn Nigel, but he regretted the loss. If anything, he was shocked that such violence should occur in this place.
“Who might have guessed that Malcolm would be laird of such a holding?” Bertrand mused. “And with a beauteous wife, as well.”
“I like her,” Ranulf declared, liking more than that. The ale was good, the bread was robust, the hall would be readily defended. “That fiend meant to do her injury last night.”
“Aye, that would be clear enough. But why?”
Ranulf shook his head. “I do not like it.” He turned to his companion. “I might swear my blade to Malcolm, to stay in this place and ensure his lady wife is well defended.”
“He does well enough.”
“A man has only two hands. In a keep of this size, there will be dozens at the board each night. I think it fitting to defend a place of merit.”
“That is well enough, but I could never surrender all we do to live such a life as this.”
“Whyever not?”
“’Tis too tame. Where is the thrill of battle? The delight of conquest? The adventure?”
“The lack of a warm meal or a dry bed,” Ranulf countered. “The tedium of waiting for the fighting to begin, oft in the rain.”
“There is that.”
“The injuries.” Ranulf pushed up his sleeves, shaking his head at the number of scars that graced his skin. And he had been more fortunate than many who took his trade. “An assassin in the night does not add the spice you desire?”
Bertrand shook his head. “You would become complacent, and thus taste a knife yourself.”
Ranulf wagged a piece of bread at his companion. “I could embrace the notion of a life tilling fields.”
“We all know what manner of furrows you like best to till.”
“And what you prefer to embrace,” Amaury added, joining them at the board.
“I do not jest,” Ranulf insisted after they had laughed. “I like it here. I like it well. I envy Malcolm this abode, with this woman by his side.” He nodded his head. “It is how I oft envisioned my life.”
“As laird of a holding?” Bertrand scoffed.
“I always envisioned myself as a king,” Amaury jested.
“Nay, as a man with a wife who was good and true, with some security and a babe, as well.” Ranulf shrugged. “I have no need to be a laird, much less the responsibilities that brings. I would have a small home, but one warm and clean, with a garden, and a patch to till. Some chickens, and a suckling pig each spring to fatten upon the kitchen scraps.” He smiled, warming to his tale. “I would have a wife, a good woman with a true heart, whether she be beauteous or not, and one who loved me as I am. I would love her to my dying breath, and we would be content.” He nodded. “And if there were barbarians at the gate at intervals or intruders in the night to be dispatched, that would add a little more to an idyllic life.”
His companions regarded him in astonishment. “What of plunder?” Bertrand asked.
“What of gold and whores and feasting?” Amaury added.
“What of them?” Ranulf said, his manner dismissive. “None of that lasts! How many times have each of us been close to having the coin we sought to gain? How many times have we chosen to fight one more battle or take one more assignment? How many times have we been robbed or cheated or made a bad wager—” Amaury grimaced at that “—then seen it all lost so we must begin again?”
“Often enough,” Amaury admitted.
Bertrand took interest in the bottom of his cup.
“But Malcolm has broken free of that,” Ranulf said. “He has changed his life. He builds a future.” He sat back to survey the hall. “And I confess that I am impressed. I will stay here, if he will allow me to do so. I will pledge my blade to his hand, stand sentry, defend his hearth and home as surely as I would defend my own.”
“You jest,” Bertrand said, though his tone revealed he knew otherwise.
“I do not,” Ranulf said, finishing his bread. “I choose to grow old instead of dying young. You are welcome to the pillaging and the whores and the thrill of the battle.” He looked around and nodded. “I shall be content here at Ravensmuir.”
The other men exchanged a glance. “But you know naught of tending fields,” Amaury protested.
“And so I shall learn. It cannot be that dif
ficult. I know many a stupid farmer.” They laughed together at this. “In the meantime, I can provide a service in what I do know.” Ranulf stood and frowned.
“What is it?”
“Someone comes.” He narrowed his eyes as he listened. “Someone armed.”
“The intruder has allies,” Bertrand murmured.
“They all do,” Amaury agreed. He gave a whistle and the entire hall scrambled to action then, trained as they were to be prepared.
Rafael strode to the portal as he tugged on his helm, then spat into the bailey. “That one again. I knew he never came in peace, and yet worse, that all live in too little fear in these parts.” He leapt up the stairs. “Malcolm! Your most frequent guest returns again.” He lowered his voice. “And this time, he brings an army.”
“That one?” Ranulf asked, fastening his boiled leather jerkin.
“An earl with an eye for a prize.”
Ranulf spat into the bailey in his turn. “We shall keep him from claiming it, and readily.” He spared a glance for his companions. “I trust you both carry your weapons of choice?”
* * *
Catriona descended to the hall in the morning, filled with new purpose. Malcolm had slept in her arms the night before and the rest seemed to have restored him. This morn, he appeared to be in complete possession of his wits.
Perhaps sleep was the sole balm he needed. He had complained of the Fae music keeping him awake, and for whatever reason, she had seen for herself that he slept very little. Her mother had always said that slumber healed a multitude of ills.
Malcolm left her in the hall to break her fast and strode to the gatehouse to confer with his men. Nigel’s body had been found in the latrine, and preparations were already being made for battle.
She was not truly surprised that Rafael lingered in the hall with her, nor that he smiled so wickedly. It was clear he sought to drive her away, but Catriona had no intent of being so convinced.
He eased onto the bench opposite her when the others had gone and his smile broadened. “You do not consider why you were hunted last night.”
Catriona glanced up. “Surely the attacker sought my husband in the solar, but found me instead.”
“Perhaps.” Rafael was too much at ease to be trustworthy. “Perhaps he found exactly who he sought. He moved quickly before the laird returned to the solar. We thought he was Nigel and that he was asleep, but he might have been listening to us.” Rafael met her gaze. “We discussed Malcolm’s departure from the hall and speculated on his reasons a great deal that night.”
Catriona put down her cup, unwilling to ask him to tell her more of that speculation, if only because Rafael so obviously wanted her to do so. “But no one would wish to kill me. There would be no gain in it.”
Rafael traced a line on the board with a fingertip. “’Twould be a mighty gain to take your place as Lady of Ravensmuir.” He shrugged and she knew the poison would come in his next words. He glanced up, dark eyes glittering. “And truly, Malcolm is betrothed. You must know how much value he puts in his sworn pledge.”
“Betrothed?” As much as Catriona did not want to react to Rafael’s tidings, for it would please him to make mischief, she could not help but scoff. “Malcolm is not betrothed. He is wed to me and believes himself cursed thanks to you, but I shall be of help to him in defeating that.” She shook her head. “Yet you call yourself his friend.”
“Jeanne will undoubtedly appreciate your efforts,” Rafael countered smoothly.
“Jeanne?”
“The niece of the Earl of Douglas.” Rafael leaned close to whisper. “Malcolm’s betrothed.” He sat back with satisfaction, even as Catriona told herself that he was not to be trusted. He clicked his tongue. “Did you truly think it an accident that your nuptials were not performed before a priest? No man of a lineage like Malcolm’s weds a woman born common, no less partakes in a handfast, like a peasant.” He laughed even as Catriona’s heart chilled. “Your trust is misplaced, Catriona.”
“My trust is not misplaced,” she retorted. “Malcolm is my lord husband, and he will remain so.”
“And at Midsummer’s Eve?”
Before her sat yet another mercenary who believed in the Fae. Catriona would never have believed it possible, if she had not witnessed it herself.
“I shall ensure his survival,” she replied hotly. “And were you a friend of any merit at all, you would help.”
“Do not mistake mercenaries for men of honor, Catriona. We are not the same breed.”
“Which I suppose is why the Fae wanted your blackened soul for their tithe in the first place.” Catriona rose to her feet, wanting only to taunt Rafael. She might as well use his own foolish tale to do so. “You do not mean to aid Malcolm because you are afraid,” she taunted.
“I fear naught!”
“You fear that they will look between you after these six months and decide that his soul is not so lost as your own. You fear that they will demand you instead of him, and you will die.”
When Rafael’s eyes flashed, Catriona knew she had found the truth of it.
She shook a finger at him. “Had you any wits, you would appeal for mercy, confess your sins and do penance.”
Rafael snorted but Catriona had lost patience with him.
“Were you a friend and comrade of any merit, you would try to assist Malcolm, in any way you could,” she said hotly and Rafael actually flinched.
Avery cried from the solar in that moment, and Catriona rose to her feet. “My son has need of me,” she said, then marched up the stairs, well aware that Rafael watched her. Avery was fussing and Vera met her at the top of the stairs, rocking him diligently. The two women went into the solar, and Catriona unfastened her kirtle, catching her breath when Avery latched on to her nipple hungrily.
Vera might have commented, probably on his vigor, but there was a sound of hoof beats in the bailey. Both women went to the window to look and Vera caught her breath.
The party was not small, all of them garbed with a richness that made Catriona blink. Two maidens who must be of an age with herself rode with the earl, one on either side. They looked to have brought enough servants and trunks to stay for some time. Malcolm bowed to the older man who rode at the fore, who must have been the earl himself, then lifted down one of the two women. She had dark hair and was dressed in crimson and gold. The other woman had red hair and was dressed in blue. She was handed down by the older man. Their steeds were fine, the black one ridden by the younger maiden as glossy and large as those ridden by Lady Vivienne and her husband.
“The Earl of Douglas,” Vera said with no pleasure and Catriona’s blood ran cold.
That man arrived with two unwed maidens.
Surely, Rafael could not be right.
Vera’s features brightened. “And Lady Elizabeth, Laird Malcolm’s youngest sister. That is her in red with the dark hair.”
Catriona could not make a reply. The other must be the earl’s niece. She watched with a heavy heart as Malcolm greeted both ladies, bending over the hand of the red-headed one before escorting both to the hall.
The earl did not immediately follow Malcolm, much to Catriona’s surprise. He walked back to the corpse of the man who had invaded the solar the night before and who had been cast into the bailey, as if curious. Catriona could not see his face clearly as such a distance, but she did see how quickly he straightened.
As if dismayed.
As if he recognized the fallen man.
There was no disputing the imperious gesture the earl made to two of the men who had arrived in his party. They turned their horses immediately and galloped back through the gates, and down the road toward the west. Malcolm turned at the sound of their departure and the earl smiled at him, no doubt summoning a lie to his lips.
Catriona held her son close. The earl knew the assailant.
That could not be good.
* * *
An angel had set foot on the earth.
Rafael could co
nceive of no other explanation for the beauty who walked toward Ravensmuir’s hall on Malcolm’s hand. She was looking up at Malcolm, as yet unaware of Rafael, which gave him time to stare.
Rafael had never believed that angels were beings of perfect beauty. He had always assumed that having witnessed both good and evil would leave a mark upon them, and this angel looked haunted by a sorrow that had scorched her soul. The combination of beauty and devastation was more alluring to him than he could have believed possible.
It made him think they had seen much of the same in this world.
She moved so smoothly across the ground that she seemed to float above it and he was certain a creature so lovely could not tread upon the earth like any other mortal. She wore a kirtle of crimson as red as blood, its hems embroidered with the gold of the sun. A silver circlet graced her brow, her ebony hair bound beneath a veil of finest gold. Her skin was as fair as ivory and Rafael stared, like a man struck to a pillar of salt for daring to gaze upon such magnificence.
In the presence of an angel, Catriona’s barb seemed sharper and more resonant. He was a poor comrade and a poorer friend.
He watched the angel approach and wondered if he could change.
He scarce could take a breath when she came closer.
“Malcolm, you must not keep your oath,” the angel whispered, her voice as sweet as the honey of Rafael’s homeland. Her eyes were green, he saw, a green as clear as the ocean’s curl, and her lips both full and rosy. “They cannot claim your soul!”
Malcolm glanced down at her, as if he would silence her, then gestured to Rafael. “Rafael, this is my sister, Elizabeth.”
Rafael nigh swooned with relief that she was not the earl’s niece.
“Is Catriona in the hall?”
“She tends to Avery,” Rafael confessed, his heart leaping when the angel looked fully upon him. Her gaze brightened and he dared to be encouraged.
“Would you escort my sister into the hall while I make Lady Jeanne and the earl welcome?” Malcolm asked and Rafael could only comply dumbly. The weight of Elizabeth’s hand on his arm was like a feather, her touch as cool as a river. He was smitten with no more than a glance, just as his father had foretold, and he had nary a regret.
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