She removed Ebbe’s armor and slipped it on. Dresses weren’t the best outfit to wear and she’d never fenced in a skirt, but she’d make do. She picked up Ebbe’s dropped sword, thankful she’d practiced with it once.
A nervous giggle broke through. I must look a sight. Whoever heard of fighting in a dress and sixteenth-century armor?
She walked to the edge of the battle. No one noticed her. Around her, men fought, locked in a sinister embrace. Ahead of her, her gaze locked on the one sight she most wanted to see.
Lukas.
He was alive, at least for the minute, and off his horse. Sweat dripped from his face, and wet blood stained his front.
It couldn’t all be his. She reassured herself. There’s no way he’d still be alive if all that blood was his.
She took long, purposeful strides toward him. She’d probably only be a distraction. He didn’t need a distraction, but she couldn’t help herself.
He fought savagely with a small, stout man. Had she seen the small man without his sword, she’d have assumed him to be content to sit idly by watching the world turn around him. It would have been a dangerous assumption. With a sword in hand, he was a masterful fighter, matching Lukas strike for strike and thrust for thrust.
She stood mesmerized by the bout in front of her, not noticing until the last second the familiar form approaching her husband.
Davis!
She wouldn’t yell. It had been fatal for Ebbe. Instead, she ran ahead, surprisingly unencumbered by the fullness of her skirt and the weight of armor and weapon.
She aimed for Davis’s throat, but he saw her and moved. Her sword struck his left cheek. The ludicrous thought ran through her head that while the scar would undeniably match his broken teeth, it would probably do little to improve his disposition.
He sneered at her, cupping a hand to his cheek in surprise. “I should have guessed Reynard would have his wench doing his fighting for him.”
She slashed her sword again, but he was prepared and moved out of her path. “Fight me like a man, Davis,” she said through clenched teeth. “Or does it not hold the same thrill when you don’t have the element of surprise?”
“I don’t fight women.” He spat on the ground.
“Come on,” she lifted her sword. “I’m ready to settle Lukas’s debt. Right here. Right now.” She shifted her weight, dancing from foot to foot.
The corner of his mouth lifted. He blew her a kiss. “Glad to hear it, Princess. But I’m afraid we’ll have to settle up another time. Don’t fret, I’ll find you later. Severon promised.”
He spun around and left, leaving her gaping in surprise. Had she just let him leave? But she could think no further, their exchange had caught the attention of the two men beside them.
“Alexia,” Lukas yelled, intent on the man in front on him. “Have you lost your senses completely? Go back!”
She ignored him. He had more important things to concentrate on at the minute.
“Still playing your part, Lukas?” The man Lukas fought breathed heavily. “Has she not discovered our plot?” The clash of swords rang out. “Or is there truth behind the rumor of your feelings for her?”
Severon?
Lukas wisely chose not to respond. He kept his attention focused on the fight. Severon was a talented fighter, but Lukas was young and it was obvious, even to Lexy’s inexperienced eyes, that the small man was tiring.
“I gave you everything I had,” Severon cried as he blocked another thrust of Lukas’s sword. “I made you my heir. You could have had any woman you wanted. Any except that one.”
“Nothing you hold has any value for me,” Lukas said. “I would die a thousand deaths before taking a morsel of bread from your hand.” He lunged, and Severon cringed as the sword made contact. “And it is Prince Lukas to you.” His last blow found purchase, and Severon fell.
Lukas wiped his brow with his forearm before turning his attention to her. “Alexia. It is no good. I may have dropped Severon, but there are too many men. You must go back.”
She glanced around. Lukas was right. They had vastly underestimated the size of Severon’s forces. “I’m not leaving.”
“Alexia.”
“Don’t argue with me.”
Then as they watched, Severon’s men looked up to the slope she’d recently vacated and fear crept into their eyes.
What?
“They are retreating,” Lukas said dumbfounded. “Why are they are retreating?”
Several of Severon’s men dropped their weapons, turned, and ran.
A young man sprinted toward them. He was not one of her father’s men. “We’re doomed. How did you do it?”
Lukas and Lexy gazed up at the silent and empty slope.
“How’d we do what?” she asked.
“Call them back!” The young man threw his sword down. “Call them back. I surrender. The fire warriors. They’re everywhere.”
Lexy looked back up to the slope, a whisper of smoke tickled her nose, but the slope was empty.
Lord?
‘On the wicked I will rain fiery coals and burning sulfur. A scorching wind will be their lot.’
Lukas straightened as if he’d heard the same thing. “Leave here and never let me see your face again. Next time I shall not be as lenient.” He walked to the middle of the clearing, her father’s men surrounding him. “I claim this land for King Torsten and Queen Elisabet.”
With that, he plunged the sword into the dirt, and the men around him shouted. Her father joined him, standing in the middle of the exuberance.
Lukas looked over the heads of the men surrounding him and caught Lexy’s eye. He made his way toward her.
“I shall never doubt again,” he said and gathered her in his arms. “We truly serve a God of miracles.”
Lexy closed her eyes and rejoiced in the feeling of standing in his embrace. She offered a silent prayer of thanks for the many blessings she’d been given in this strange and wonderful time. And for the many blessings she knew were yet to come.
Lukas pulled back and took her hand. “Come with me, my love. It is time for you to see our new home.”
****
Her new home was constructed of rose-colored stone, with tall turrets stretching toward the bright morning sun. She knew if she stared long enough, the upper windows would wink at her.
It was still the ugliest castle she’d ever seen.
Epilogue
Dallas, Texas
Present Day
Cara paced from the large picture window to her bed and back again. Twenty steps to the window. She reached the window and spun. Twenty steps to the bed. Back to the window.
Forty steps round trip.
It was all Lieutenant McCabe’s fault.
She would pace all night. Her floor would be worn through by morning, and it was all his fault.
She paced to the window.
They would never find Lexy. Never know what happened to her, and it was all his fault.
She stomped back to the bed.
He had visited her office earlier that afternoon and told her they no longer had anyone working on Lexy’s case. They would be on the lookout for new evidence, would always be on the lookout, but the case had grown cold.
She spun around at the window.
Why could no one do anything right? Why was the entire world incompetent? Did she have to do everything?
She stopped pacing.
She had to do everything.
It was up to her. She knew the theme park. She knew Lexy. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
Of course.
She would look for Lexy. And unlike the police department, she’d find her. She’d find something.
The park opened at nine the next morning. If she got there at six, she’d have two hours to search. Two hours to find the details the police overlooked. Because they had overlooked something.
Thank you, Lord, she prayed. Thank you for leading me. Now help me find her.
About the Author
Christina Graham Parker lives in Southeastern North Carolina with her husband and two kids. She works in the pharmaceutical industry during the day and writes at night. You can also find her working as a Research Advocate for the Parkinson’s Disease Foundation, teaching Sunday School, or reading a good book. She has two dogs, a cat, and serious affection for dark chocolate.
Also from Astraea Press
Prologue
Wilt Hotham stood behind the chair, fingers drumming upon the wood. “Do you have news to report?”
“I’m afraid so, my lord,” answered the messenger, eyes shifting.
“What is this news?”
“Remember, I am but the messenger.”
“Of course, I understand. Now get on with it. Give me the news of my brother. Was he successful?”
The messenger trembled as he answered, “Nay.”
“Nay?” Wilt widened his eyes. Anger caused sweat to bead upon his brow. Hands clenched by his sides, he waited for more.
“Nay, sir. Unsuccessful, I’m afraid. The mistress of Greenbriar wasn’t to his… liking.”
Wilt flung his arms into the air, stomping his feet. His hands flipped the table, sending decanters full of whiskey against the wall. Amber-colored ink trailed downward, pooling silently on the white rug. Wilt’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits as he saw the servant shy away.
Good. At least someone recognized his power.
After the tirade passed, Wilt jerked his waistcoat down, placed thumbs against his ribcage and asked the servant to continue with the news.
Straightening from a cowering position, the servant began again with a trembling voice. “Your brother returned home and, well, he…”
“Aye? What happened? Let me guess. Spent the whole week in the bedroom weeping like a child! Our family is in ruins. Our wealth completely disappeared because of his ‘habits.’ Our one chance to rectify the situation and he finds the bride unsatisfactory.” Taking a deep breath to calm his wildly beating heart, Wilt stared at the servant. “You will travel to see my brother. You will tell him he must go back and marry the mistress, claim the land for his own, and sell it. I don’t care whether the woman is to his liking or not! I will not lose everything because my brother is unwilling to experience the least amount of discomfort!”
The servant shuffled his feet.
“Do stop your fidgeting, and do as I say!”
“But, my lord—”
“What is it now?”
“I am afraid—”
“Aye? What is it? Come out with it then?”
“I’m afraid your brother is dead.”
Chapter One
England 1551
Cedric knelt awaiting the announcement of the English king. Some would say this was an unusual position for a Scot, but others would take the opportunity to remind the uninformed that the man wasn’t truly a Scot. In his experience, educating those people on his heritage and explaining the situation did little good. It was best to stay focused on the here and now, like the shininess of the floor, not the sounds of a crowd snickering at his back. These wayward thoughts ended when the sound of the young King Edward’s voice boomed.
“Cedric MacNeil of Scotland, it is an honor to have you in my court.”
Cedric’s head raised a fraction. His eyes shifted, looking around and noticing how the King’s minions were nodding their heads in agreement.
“You came to this court and offered your sword as a service to the English crown. In the beginning, it was our opinion perhaps you should be denied this privilege. But, after much thought and consideration the opportunity was extended to you. Not because of you, of course, but because of your mother, Elinor. Father was fond of her. She was a member of his court and held a prominent position in our English society.”
Heads around the room nodded once again, as the King gleefully added, “I can also say, agreeing to send you to compete in the tourney on behalf of my crown has brought me much reward.”
Here, the King paused and beckoned a man forward. He whispered unintelligible words, causing the servant to nod. The King continued his speech. “In order to reward you, as you have rewarded this court with your service, I wish to offer you not only the gold you’ve earned, but also a worthy piece of land.”
At the word “land,” Cedric’s head popped up. The faces around the room were wide with peculiar smiles.
The King motioned his secretary forward. In a businesslike fashion, the man spoke. The information concerned the location and the dimensions of the land. At the end, the king’s assistant added one more detail. “In order to secure the property as your own, there is one stipulation.”
Cedric stared at the shiny floor, which reflected back to him his expressions of honest interest. With renewed focus, Cedric listened to the attendant’s continuing speech. “In order to acquire this piece of property permanently, you must marry the previous land owner’s daughter.”
At the pronouncement, the whole court burst out in riotous laughter. In a flourish, the King dismissed everyone in the room, leaving in a flurry of robes himself. On bended knee, Cedric was left alone in the vast room wondering about his future. What could have been so amusing to the crowd?
****
A month after his experiences in the King’s court, Cedric stood atop a rock-covered hill with the wind sweeping behind him, staring with longing at the castle nestled in the valley below. This was to be home? It was not the Scottish highlands with purple fields of heather, which he envisioned at night. But it was close enough.
So close, in fact, nearby Scottish clans had been known to kidnap local village wenches, as well as plunder the sheep from the surrounding hillsides. This was no doubt one of the reasons the King had graced a Scot with a chance at claiming this particular parcel.
Cedric surveyed all before him. The desire of his heart was coming to pass. Soon this would be home. Land to call his own. Land to grow crops. Land to raise sheep. Land to raise a family.
After the King’s pronouncement, Cedric discovered he’d not been the first choice for Lord of Greenbriar. In truth, he’d not been the second or third choice either. From rumors passed in the King’s court, Cedric learned many individuals of noble quality and birth had been chosen as potential lords of this fair land.
Many had traveled far and wide to claim their prize, but none had succeeded. It was said some had taken one look at the main hall falling in on itself, and spoken with the mistress of the keep, who would become his wife, and high-tailed it back to the city without elaborating on an excuse for their return. Others returned posthaste, refusing the land offered. Some came with legitimate reasons. They claimed the repairs needed required funds beyond their means. Others returned with peculiar reasons such as mythical maladies that denied them the ability to maintain this specific parcel and its inhabitants. Rumors abounded as to the “real” reason these nobles had departed the grounds. But no facts seemed to be had.
Cedric assumed some of the English Lords who had come north to the border castle were no doubt terrified of the local Scots living nearby. As he investigated the rumors further, Cedric heard such tidbits of information like, “the castle was in complete disarray,” with mention of everything from sagging walls to crumbing village homes. He’d also heard spirits frequented the castle even in the daylight hours, and anyone who stayed longer than a fortnight was struck with a disease of the bowels. One of the most interesting rumors overheard was about the mistress of the keep. She was said to be an ugly, witchy character who wielded a tongue of fire.
In his opinion, the nearby Scots would be easy enough to control once they learned of the new Lord’s lineage. As soon as Cedric took control, the rowdy neighboring Scots would step back. At least that was his theory. The castle walls and sagging village huts could easily be repaired with hard work and time. The ghosts were not a concern, since they didn’t exist. And he would prepare his own food or keep a close eye on what was to be consumed to keep his bowels in check.
Which left only one concern—the mistress. A nagging wife was worse than constant dripping, or so he’d heard.
Although Cedric worried about his future spouse, nothing would deter his goal. After his mother’s passing, Father only lived a short time. His father’s death had caused the MacNeil clan to erupt. They refused to have a half-breed and an Englishman rule. Rather than fight to hold only a tenuous grasp on his land, and perhaps destroy his own family from within, Cedric voluntarily handed control to his uncle and headed to court to serve the English King. This was his chance at redemption. There was no way he would give up an opportunity to have land; and no ugly, witchy woman would stand in the way.
Scanning the road, Cedric thought he saw what he was looking for. Indeed, he had. Warmth filled his heart as Cedric approached the castle. Stopping in the nearby woods, he noticed the drawbridge was down. This allowed villagers to come and go freely.
With just his sporran, claymore, and the sparse clothing in his sack, he felt exposed. The few gold pieces sewn into his kilt were the only other items carried. All else had been left behind. He preferred to live off the land. What else did one need?
Cedric had not purchased a horse for the journey because there was no reason to hasten his arrival, nor did he wish to feed the beast. Besides, Cedric needed the extra time foot travel provided to consider a strategy for conquering this foe.
Without knowing her name or what she looked like, how was Cedric to find the woman he sought? The King’s court said the mistress was young but old. Beautiful, yet wrinkled and witchy. No two descriptions ever matched.
On the long walk from court to Greenbriar land, Cedric rolled many options about in his mind. Of course he’d considered the direct approach. Introduce himself as a suitor and attempt to gain the lady of Greenbriar’s favor in a forthright manner.
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