A Warrior's Soul (Highland Heartbeats Book 8)

by Aileen Adams

  Brice did not wish to remember it, because that would mean remembering how little he meant to the rest of her life. Nothing at all, in fact.

  A burst of raucous laughter rang out from inside. “I didna know the nobles enjoyed themselves so heartily during feasts,” Fergus chuckled. “I’m reminded of a tavern after the men have just collected their wages.”

  “I suppose that once a man is in his cups, he stops being a nobleman and turns into a normal man,” Brice observed, and the four of them shared a wry laugh.

  Servants hurried about near the keep, running back and forth with jugs and casks and such, giving instructions and passing orders to each other. Brice wondered at the sort of household Remington ran—it seemed efficient, even though those who did the work seemed rather highly strung and irritable.

  He supposed he would be, too, if he were in their position.

  “How long do ye think he’ll give us leave of the place?” Quinn asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and letting out a hearty belch.

  “Not very long,” Rodric mused. “I would be greatly surprised if he allowed us to stay through the morrow.”

  “I do not wish to stay,” Brice announced. “I would rather leave the moment he hands over our silver.”

  “Even if there’s chance of our staying an extra night? I wouldna mind another fine meal such as this,” Quinn protested. “And the thought of not having to get on horseback for another day is almost too good to refuse.”

  “Aye, my hindquarters are a bit worse for wear,” Fergus agreed. “It’s a long way back to the Anderson house.”

  “With what we’re about to collect from Remington, we might be able to spend a day or two at the inn, in the village,” Brice countered.

  “Do ye truly believe they would have us back, now that we’re no longer in Alana’s company?” Rodric pointed out. “I do not.”

  Brice brooded to himself for a moment—why did they all insist on being so difficult? “Fine, then. The first village we come to on the other side of the border. We can take the main road this time, all the way through to Lockerbie.”

  “Aye, now that we’re no longer in danger of one of our party running off,” Fergus nodded.

  “We’ll find an inn by the end of the day tomorrow, I’m certain.” So long as they did not stay in the castle. So long as he did not have to be there when Alana married another man. It would be too great a pain to bear, hearing voices raised in celebration of her new life.

  “Why does this matter so much to you?” Rodric asked, one eyebrow lifting.

  “Because I wish to get home—and I would think you would, too, with a wife waiting for ye,” Brice prodded.

  “Of course, I wish to be back with her, but I would not mind the chance to catch my breath, either. One more day will not make that great a difference.”

  It was as though they were all against him. How could he be the only one wishing to get away?

  Did they not see? No, of course they did not. None of them felt for her as he did.

  Damn him for being so weak.

  Fergus looked up at the star-filled sky, smiling. “A grand night, indeed. It is fine country.”

  “Aye,” Quinn agreed with a grin. “A shame it has to be on this side of the border.”

  It was the second night in a row in which he knew he’d get no sleep.

  How long could a body go without sleep? He’d spent days at a time, in the army, but that had been under rather more dire conditions. A man tended to forget such things as fatigue when his life was in danger.

  He’d think it would be no trouble falling asleep after having stayed awake much of the previous night, back at the inn.

  Just the opposite was the case, in fact. He stared up at the planks which comprised the stable ceiling, listening as the horses shifted in their stalls.

  At least the stable lads had mucked out the stalls Remington had seen fit to allow them. His contempt was clear—they were beasts. Brice was uncertain whether he looked forward to meeting the man simply to get a look at him or if he dreaded it, knowing he would want to give the bastard a piece of his mind.

  No good could come of a mistake such as that.

  It made him think of Alana. Had she pleased her new husband? Brice hoped for her sake that she had, and that she had managed to hold her tongue against any stubborn, foolhardy retorts.

  He liked that about her, he decided, though her penchant for speaking her mind had irritated him terribly at first. If anyone were to silence her, to wear the lass down to the point where she feared speaking out, she would no longer be Alana.

  His Alana, even though she was never truly his.

  Rodric, Fergus, and Quinn were soundly asleep, the three of them snoring and grunting in turn. They could sleep. They were not as concerned for her as he was. He wished he shared their good fortune.

  The snoring and grunting, paired with the noise from the horses, nearly concealed footsteps on the straw which covered the floor. He heard the gentle crunching, but just barely.

  It was not a man walking past the stall in which he rested.

  He stood, moving as quietly as possible, peering over the stall door. There was hardly any light in the stable as leaving an unattended lantern or candle would be tantamount to welcoming an accident, but his eyes were already adjusted to the darkness.

  So much so that he recognized the blonde hair immediately, the curve of her cheek. The gown she wore was nothing like anything he’d seen her in up to that point, a deep purple velvet which seemed to mold itself to her body.

  It reminded him of nothing as much as a little girl playing at being a grown woman.

  He opened the door, stepping out of the stall, watching as she searched up and down the rows. He knew what she was looking for, and what she intended.

  “Lass,” he whispered.

  She jumped, throwing a hand over her mouth as she turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide above that hand, bulging from her head.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she breathed, moving her hand to her chest. “You nearly frightened me to death!”

  “What do I think? This is my bedchamber for the evening,” he reminded her. “It’s what you are doing which concerns me.”

  She chewed her lip, looking down at the floor. “I was looking for my mare.”

  “To run away.”

  “What do you think?” She shot him a defiant look. “Do not try to stop me.”

  “You’re still on about this?”

  “I cannot marry him. I will not!” She pointed a trembling hand toward the keep. “I tell you, I won’t.”

  “Is it that terrible, lass?” He took a step toward her, uncertain whether he wanted her to confirm his fears or deny them. Did he want Remington to be a monster, so as to assuage his guilt at wanting her for himself? Or would it be better that she over-react?

  “He wants nothing more than a broodmare,” she hissed. “I’m to warm his bed when he wishes and bear his children. Otherwise, I’m to keep my mouth shut, laugh at his terrible jokes, look the other way when he touches or ogles another woman, pretend to be interested in his conversation and smile through it all.”

  Brice blinked. “Is that it?”

  “Does there need to be more?”

  “Aye, lass,” he murmured. “I believe there does.”

  Her face fell. “I should have known.” Before he could react, she darted away, running out of the stable and into the night.

  After muttering a string of obscenities, he followed.

  25

  Alana could hardly see for the tears in her eyes, but she ran nonetheless. Even though it would mean running into the woods, where she would most certainly become lost.

  It would be better than marrying that beast.

  She couldn’t have explained it to Brice, for it wasn’t the sort of thing that could be explained. It had to be felt. The coldness of him. The smile on the surface which only barely masked a violent, uncaring man underneath.

&nbs
p; It would be the same as marrying her father, in essence.

  She would not do that.

  She ran for the road, beyond the courtyard, the gown she’d been instructed to wear pulled up to her knees. A ridiculous thing, really, heavy and tight at the elbows and bust. It made drawing a deep breath all but impossible.

  Still, she ran, moonlight showing her the way.

  “Alana!” She had hardly gone beyond the castle walls before he caught her, taking her by the arm and swinging her about. “Ye canna do this, lass!”

  A broken sob wrenched itself from her chest. “I can, and I will, and you cannot stop me! You can pretend not to know! Just let me go, please!”

  “Alana.” He gripped both of her arms tight, shaking her slightly as he did. “Alana, I could never let ye run out into the woods like this. I would have to go with ye, which would mean I knew of your escape. You said your intended is not a good man. What do ye think he would do to ye?”

  “You could help me be free!”

  “I cannot. I’m sorry, lass, but I have no right. I’m in a foreign country where I’m unwanted. There are four of us in total against Remington’s knights. I must think of Rodric and Quinn and my brother. What would happen to them? Alana, what if they were executed over this?” He shook her once more, grimacing.

  His question hung heavy in the air and in her heart. Yes, what of them? She hadn’t thought of the men who had escorted her. She had considered them captors, the enemy, when the journey had begun.

  Now, they were friends. She cared for them. She thought about Caitlin, a woman she’d never met, who carried Rodric’s child.

  It was a sobering reality. And a terrible one.

  “Come. I will escort you back to your chambers.” He attempted to pull her in the direction of the castle.

  She dragged her feet. “What if you left, then?” she whispered, clutching desperately at every last bit of hope. “If you had already left and were long gone by the time I escaped, no one could blame you for it. You might be able to get away.”

  “Put it out of your head, lass!” he replied in a sharp whisper, glaring at her. “Stop thinking about it. Accept the way things are and let the rest go. It is for the best.”

  “The best for whom?”

  He growled, shoving her into a darkened corner near the wall where they would not be seen. The sky was beginning to lighten, the feast and celebration having gone through much of the night and nearly into dawn. She’d slipped away from the keep once most of the revelers had fallen asleep, some of them still seated at the long banquet tables.

  “Whom do ye think? Yourself, of course. This is foolish. The man up there,” he said, pointing up to the keep, “will hunt you down. He will make life miserable for ye. You think things are bad now, when all ye need do is smile to his face? Imagine if he were to hurt ye for attempting to thwart him. And what of the guests who’ve already arrived for a wedding? What about the humiliation he’d face? He would punish ye for that too, lass. Make no mistake.”

  She wept openly, though as quietly as possible to avoid being overheard. Brice’s face was a mask of misery. “It gives me no pleasure to do this to ye, lass,” he sighed.

  “To do what?”

  Rather than answering, he bent at the waist and threw her over his shoulder. She gasped, shocked beyond reason, and pounded on his back and shoulders. “Put me down!” she hissed, with only the fear of discovery keeping her from shouting.

  “I cannot, and ye know I cannot. You’d best direct me to your chambers, then.” He marched them to the keep, straight in through the door she’d left open after dashing out into the courtyard.

  “Brice! If he sees you in here—!”

  “Best be quick about it, then,” he replied in a whisper.

  The castle was mostly quiet, save for the occasional dog or cat passing by. It seemed the place was crawling with them. They might raise a fuss if she did not put a stop to things right away.

  As little as she wished to do so, she pointed Brice up the stairs and down the corridor on their right. He carried her all the way, bouncing her against his back.

  She was too enraged to even cry any longer.

  She had no one. No one to understand her desperation. No one to comfort her once the ceremony came to a close and she was Countess Remington.

  Perhaps she would throw herself from a window. It would mean her escape without bringing danger on the others.

  “This door,” she whispered, motioning toward the one which opened to her chambers. They were lovely, at any rate, large and comfortable. Her bed was solid wood, rich and shining, with heavy tapestries at the posts to keep her warm once the weather took a turn.

  She had no plan to be in that bed once the weather turned.

  One way or another, she would find a way to be free.

  She could share none of this with Brice as he set her on her feet just inside the room. “There. Now. I am sorry, lass. Believe it.”

  “I will not believe it,” she whispered, still defiant.

  A rueful smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Aye. I have no doubt. If ye did, it would not be Alana I was speaking to.”

  “I won’t be Alana much longer. I will be Countess Remington.”

  “Nay. You’ll always be Alana.” He reached out, stroked her hair just once before taking a backward step. “Good night to ye, Alana. And goodbye.”

  She could hardly breathe for the pressure in her chest as he disappeared down the dark corridor, blending into the shadows before the echo of his footfalls died away.

  26

  It was perhaps the most difficult thing Brice had ever been tasked with doing.

  Saying goodbye to her, seeing the tears still damp on her cheeks, the red eyes and downturned mouth. Knowing her misery and being unable to end it.

  Did she not know he wanted nothing more than to free her? Even if she did not wish to be his, at least she would not live an unhappy life as the silent wife of another man.

  A man unworthy of her, it was clear.

  “Halt.”

  He froze in place, halfway down the stairs. The door was so close. He’d nearly made it out undetected.

  Footsteps rang out behind him, coming down the stairs. He recognized the lad who’d escorted them through the woods, and his smile was one of relief.

  “I was just about to leave,” he said, hoping the entire event would be overlooked.

  After all, it seemed the occupants of the castle had heartily enjoyed themselves at the feast. Perhaps he might make the best of the high spirits from earlier in the night.

  The lad did not smile in return—in fact, his right hand lingered just over the hilt of his sword. “Earl Remington will wish to see you,” he said, nodding to the men who stood behind Brice.

  “I meant no harm,” Brice insisted, but it seemed to matter not. They led him the rest of the way down the stairs and through the keep, turning down a narrow corridor.

  It was an impressive place, to be certain, and he looked around in wonder at the room in which they came to a stop. At a table sat a man with black hair touched with gray, wearing a fur-lined cape fixed about his neck by a jeweled pin.

  He looked up at his visitors, eyes widening slightly at the sight of an unwelcome Highlander.

  “What is this?” he asked, sneering as though he’d found a rodent in his stew.

  Brice instantly disliked him intensely.

  “Sir, we found this man on the stairs.”

  “Inside the keep?” Remington—for it could only be Remington—stood, hands on the table. “You cannot be serious.”

  “It is true,” Brice spoke up. “I found your bride wandering about in the courtyard and escorted her to her chambers. Nothing more.”

  The earl’s eyes narrowed until they were nearly closed. “Leave us,” he decided, waving a hand without looking at his men.

  “You are certain, sire?” His men did not sound as certain. Not at all. Perhaps their master had never been in the presence of a true m
an, one who would gladly snap their necks like twigs if the situation called for it.

  “Since when are you in the habit of questioning me?” Remington’s tone was cold, promising woeful danger to any who refused to obey him.

  The men scurried out, closing the door behind them.

  Leaving Brice alone with him.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Remington asked, reaching for a jug.

  “Thank ye, but no.”

  “You do not appreciate good wine?”

  “I am not thirsty.”

  Remington made a small noise, as though he were amused. “I see. Now. Tell me plainly. What was my bride really doing outside at this time of night? She told me she was retiring to her bedchamber. As the celebration was all but finished, I gave her leave. Why was she out of doors rather than in her bed?”

  Brice took great pains to keep as neutral an expression as possible. “I’m afraid I cannot say. We did not discuss it.”

  Remington’s eyes never left his as he lifted a chalice to his lips. “She was not attempting to run away, then?”

  “She was on foot. I doubt a lass could find her way to the woods, then through them, on foot,” Brice replied, finding it a reasonable argument. It almost made good sense, too, though Alana had not been thinking sensibly at the time.

  “Right you are, naturally, but you are a man who has seen his share of difficult terrain, I’m certain. You would know better than to attempt such a foolish act.” Remington sat once again, calmer than he’d been before. “If a woman were desperate enough, she might be moved to take any number of drastic actions.”

  Cold fingers of fear seemed to touch the back of Brice’s neck—though the fear was not for himself, but rather for her. The man seated across from where he stood was not one to be trifled with, it was plain to see. “True, but she was not acting in desperation. She was merely taking the air—I’m sure the feast and the celebration were a bit much for her to take in at once.”