by Diana Cosby
She gave a curt nod.
“My lady, Lord Balfour is a man of war and willna tolerate defiance on any level.” Expression grim, he paused. “With your headstrong ways, I beseech you to tread with care. You could do far worse.”
“A warning?” Furious he’d feel the situation warranted his caution, or that the time had come in her life when she’d need such, she stalked to where she’d drawn a line in the sand, turned, threw. A chunk of the charcoal-stained heart broke free as the dagger sank deep. “I am not a fool.”
“Nay,” he said, his voice softening. “You are a woman whom any man would be blessed to have as his wife. Sadly, many nobles dinna want a lass beyond that of bearing their heir.”
She jerked her weapon free. “I willna be cast aside in my own castle, treated as if I were naught but a scullery maid fit only for the bedding. I need nay husband.”
Sir Pieres remained silent, the worry in his gaze easy to read.
Frustrated, she sheathed her dagger, faced the waves sliding up the shore tossing about stones and shells within the tangled rush. Bedamned this entire situation! “If only I could convince Lord Comyn that I dinna need to wed.”
Firm steps crunched on the sand. Pieres paused at her side. “’Tis too late; his decision has been made.”
The exasperation in his voice matched her own. “I know.” She wanted to scream at the injustice of losing her home to a stranger. In the weeks since the writ had arrived announcing her betrothal, she had tried to think of a way, often with Pieres’s aid, of negating the union and, at every turn, had failed.
On a hard swallow, Gwendolyn picked up a fragment of an abandoned shell. She cupped the fragile piece in her hand as the damnable frustrations weighed heavy in her chest. “Over the years my father would bring me here and tell me of his dreams, or talk about mine. He never laughed at what I shared, but encouraged me to achieve any goal that I could envision.”
“He was an extraordinary man.”
“Aye, he was.” Emotion welled in her throat, and she swallowed the rush of grief. “W-when my mother died during my youth, ’twas here my father consoled me, and years later, where he asked me to marry Lord Purcell to strengthen our bond with our neighboring clan.”
Pieres’s mouth tightened. “Your father was wrong to have forced you into a marriage, more so to a man who couldna see what an incredible woman you are.”
The soft fury in his voice left her humbled. Her fingers curled against the memories of how she’d pushed away Pieres’s subtle advances since their childhood. However much she’d wished otherwise, never had she felt more than friendship, nor would she dishonor him by offering false hope. She prayed one day he would find a woman who could give him the love he deserved.
“And ’twas on this stretch of sand,” Pieres continued, drawing her from her musings, “that you learned of your husband’s death but a month after you had wed.”
She grimaced. “With my father’s blessing, I was foolish enough to believe that never again would I have to marry for duty, that I could live the life I chose.” Anger twisted inside. “Yet with my father’s death, I have become little more than chattel.”
“I am sorry.”
Mouth tight, Gwendolyn cast the fragment into the incoming wave. The battered, sun-bleached shell that once had held life tumbled beneath the current and was swept out to sea. Like her life, she was naught but a pawn to those in power.
“I will do my duty and wed Lord Balfour,” she stated, “for my people’s protection and for that of my home, but I willna tolerate being treated like a fool.” She started toward the castle. “’Tis time I checked on Kellan.”
“With her girth,” Pieres said as he fell in alongside, “I thought your prized mare would have foaled by now.”
“As did I. This morning I found her pacing in her stall. I expect her foal will come this day, and I want to be with her when ’tis born.”
Warmth touched her as she started toward the cave. She remembered when the coal black mare was born, how her father had gifted her with the filly. Emotion stormed through her. Now Kellan would have a babe of her own.
“I wish my father was alive. I—” She stumbled, and Pieres caught her, turned her toward him.
“I am here,” he said, his voice solemn.
“I know,” she whispered, thankful for his friendship. “’Tis just that even though half a year has passed, I still struggle with his death.”
“’Twas a horrible loss,” he said, his voice somber, “but he died a warrior’s death, fighting for—”
A horse’s neigh sounded in the distance.
The slide of steel upon leather hissed as Pieres withdrew his sword. “Hurry inside the secret tunnel.”
Gwendolyn unsheathed her dagger. “If there was danger, we would have heard warning shouts from the castle guards and the ringing of the church bell.” She scanned the lull of land and rock above that led to the castle entrance.
Three knights came into view.
Relief flooded Gwendolyn. A larger force would ride beneath the Earl of Balfour’s standard.
The trio of men halted before the gate.
Even from this distance, she noted the lead warrior. Broad shoulders. His stance confident. A shiver of unease rippled through her.
“Do you think ’tis your betrothed?”
She shook her head. “The writ stated the earl would arrive with a sizable contingent. I suspect ’tis but knights traveling through.”
A faint echo of a man’s deep voice reached her.
A guard’s voice rang out. A clank sounded, then the slow rattle of the portcullis.
Gwendolyn relaxed. Whatever the travelers had told her guard, they were not a threat.
A frown thinned her mouth as she entered the secret tunnel. With King Robert determined to unite Scotland, how many years would pass before their country found peace? She damned the war, the struggle for power that had claimed too many innocent lives.
Inside the cave, Pieres lit a candle. Golden light cut through the blackness, the wet walls slick with moss and the sandy path scattered with wave-smooth pebbles.
She inhaled to settle her nerves, then focused on the upcoming birthing of her prize mare. “I wish the groom was here. ’Tis Kellan’s first foal, and ’twould ease me to know she was in Edmund’s competent hands.”
Her friend raised the taper, started down the tunnel. “MacDuff has helped Edmund several times with a mare’s birthing.”
“He has. But a few months studying beneath Edmund’s skilled guidance far from gives MacDuff the experience he needs.”
The smell of hay and horse filled the air as they reached the hidden door outside the stable. With a tug of the latch, Gwendolyn pushed aside the entry, then stepped onto the soft dirt.
Pieres followed, secured the door behind them. “I will check to see who has arrived.”
“I thank you.” Afternoon sunlight flickered over her friend’s shoulders as he entered the bailey.
A snort sounded from the corner stall.
Warmth spilled through her as she hurried over. “How fares Kellan?”
“She has begun birthing,” MacDuff replied.
At the worry in the stable hand’s voice, her chest tightened. She hurried inside the stall.
Heavy with foal, the mare staggered upon the bed of straw. She nickered, half-collapsed to her side, rolled, shoved back to her feet, then began to pace.
“Easy, girl,” Gwendolyn soothed as she stroked her velvety muzzle. “How long has she been unsettled?”
MacDuff rubbed the back of his neck. “Since a short while after you left.”
The mare tossed her head and half-reared. As her feet hit the floor, her entire body shook. On a whinny, she again dropped to her knees, fell to one side, then rolled.
“There should be some sign of the foal coming by now,�
�� MacDuff said, his voice rough with worry. “I… I fear the foal is turned the wrong way.”
God, no! Dread filled Gwendolyn as she remembered horrific stories of a mare’s screams as she suffered during a difficult foaling, of the loss of blood, and the trauma that could leave both the mother and foal dead.
Male voices echoed from the stable entry, but she ignored them, damning her lack of knowledge concerning the upcoming birth, a fact she would remedy after this day. “Surely Edmund has delivered such difficult births in the past?” she forced out.
A ruddy hue swept the man’s face. “Aye,” the stable hand replied, “but none after he began instructing me.”
Furious at her helplessness, Gwendolyn knelt beside Kellan. Hand trembling, she stroked her sweat-slicked neck. Please, God, do not let her die.
The mare snorted, kicked.
Gwendolyn ducked beneath the slash of hooves, terrified as the horse again squealed in distress. “Fetch the healer. Delivering a foal canna be much different from a babe.”
“Aye, my lady.” MacDuff bolted from the stable and ran toward the keep.
On a tormented scream, the mare fought to struggle to her feet, collapsed. Froth slid down her ebony coat.
Tears burned Gwendolyn’s eyes at Kellan’s each snort, her every whinny of distress.
The horse again kicked out, slashed, missing her by a hand.
An ache built in her chest as she reached over to try to relax the mare.
Behind her, the gate scraped open. “Get away from her,” a deep voice boomed.
Stunned at the harsh command, Gwendolyn glanced up.
An enormous man with raven black hair towered a pace away. Green eyes riveted on her with unyielding authority. “Move!”
She slammed her brows together. “I willna—”
With a muttered curse, the stranger hauled her up and pushed her aside. “Aiden, Rónán, help me get the mare on her feet!”
Shaking with outrage, Gwendolyn elbowed her way past the two burly knights and glared up at the beast. “How dare you—”
“We are trying to save her life,” he growled as he shifted his body against the horse’s rump. “If you want to be useful, stand by her head and try to calm her while I deliver the foal.”
She smothered her angry retort as the warrior and his men worked in unison to shove the horse to her feet, then moved to stroke her neck.
“Dinna let the mare move while I turn the foal.” The fierce knight moved to her rear, worked without hesitation.
Impressed, Gwendolyn watched him. Whoever he was, he knew what he was about.
“I have the foal’s foot,” the stranger called a moment later.
Kellan screamed a strangled nicker, then shifted.
The stranger’s mouth tightened. “Keep the mare still!”
Hooves scraped across the bed of straw. On a strangled whinny, Kellan started to step back.
“God’s sword, hold her!” the warrior roared.
Muscles flexed as his men complied.
Distant footsteps slapped upon the dirt.
Gwendolyn glanced out the entry to see the healer and MacDuff running across the bailey.
“’Tis done,” the stranger called out. “Release her.”
She turned as he lay the newborn on the hay.
His men stepped away.
On a soft snort, the mare turned and nuzzled her foal. Coal black, like his mother, and the proud lines of his sire, on spindly legs, the colt shoved to his feet. The mare nickered at her son, nudged him to suckle.
Tears burned her eyes at the miracle before her, how within but moments she’d witnessed the beginning of life. Gwendolyn swallowed hard. “He shall be called Faolán,” she whispered as MacDuff halted beside her.
“Wolf, aye,” the stable hand said, “’tis a fine name.”
Face flushed and her breath coming fast, the healer halted before the stall’s entry. Her gaze landed on the foal, and aged eyes wrinkled with pleasure. “It looks like you dinna need my help after all.”
Her words a stark reminder of the strangers, Gwendolen shook her head. “Nay, but I thank you for coming.”
As the elder departed, Gwendolyn studied the imposing man who had dared to take charge. Under ordinary circumstance, he would receive her censure for his bold manner. But he’d saved the foal and, given Kellan’s distress, the mother’s life as well.
Her fingers trembled as she held out a nearby cloth. “’Twould seem I owe you my thanks.”
A scowl marred the knight’s handsome face as he wiped his hands. “Why was she unattended when she was clearly in distress?” he demanded.
His two knights moved to the warrior’s side.
Refusing to be intimidated, to justify anything to this arrogant man, she glared at the daunting stranger. “I owe you nay explanation.”
He cast the stained cloth aside. “Aye. That you can give to the mistress of the castle.”
Indeed. She angled her chin at the towering dolt. “Then,” she said with cold authority, more than ready to take him down a well-deserved notch, “as mistress of Latharn Castle, you may speak.”
Stunned disbelief flickered in the knight’s eyes before he shuttered his expression. He gave a formal bow. “’Tis my pleasure to meet you, Lady Gwendolyn.”
That she doubted. “And you are…?” she prodded, ready to toss the boil-brained lout out on his ear.
His fierce gaze leveled on her. “The Earl of Balfour, your betrothed.”
Chapter 2
Aiden arched a brow as Lady Gwendolyn’s gray eyes widened with disbelief. ’Twould seem the lass had heard of Bróccín’s temperament. As if he gave a damn of the noble’s unyielding reputation. When he’d entered the stable and caught the distressed mare’s hooves slashing toward the woman, he’d feared for her life.
By a sheer miracle, she’d escaped harm. A fact that far from excused her reckless behavior, especially given her responsibilities to this keep and the people beneath her care. “Why in blazes were you so close to the mare?”
The irate goddess, hair the color of sunshine tumbling in wild disarray around her shoulders, angled her chin. “I was trying to soothe her.”
“And was almost killed.”
“I was never in any danger,” she scoffed.
Aiden narrowed his gaze and stepped forward, towering over her. Bedamned this daring lass. Marry her? God’s teeth, he’d rather shake some sense into her thick-headed brain.
Cailin cleared his throat and stepped to Aiden’s side. “My lady, we are all thankful you are safe.”
The lass’s wary gaze cut to the peacemaker, whose lips curved in an easy smile. “And you are…?”
“Sir Cailin, one of my knights,” Aiden snapped.
“My lady,” Cailin said with a bow.
Aiden nodded to the other man. “And Sir Rónán.”
Her face softened as she glanced to each man. “I thank you both for your aid.” The warmth in her expression cooled as she faced Aiden.
He drew in a steadying breath, relieved he’d be saddled with the reckless lass for days at most. Once he and his men departed, if they ever saw the other again, ’twould be after the Bruce had seized this stronghold. Then, thankfully, her fate would lie in his king’s hand.
Aiden handed her the writ.
She broke open the seal. Lady Gwendolyn’s fingers trembled as she scanned the words.
A dull ache pounded in his head. Bróccín said they were to marry, but the lass might not have known. “You were expecting me?” he demanded.
Face pale, she rolled the parchment. “Aye. A fortnight ago. I thought…”
A stocky, well-armed knight stepped into the stable. “Lady Gwendolyn, I regret my delay. The guard informed me that the Earl of Balfour has arrived, but when I looked, he wasna inside the keep.” Shrewd
eyes assessed Aiden and his men as the warrior strode to her side. “Is all well?”
Fascinated, Aiden watched her visibly push whatever emotions she was experiencing aside and become the hostess her position required.
“Aye.” Cool eyes shifted to Aiden. “Sir Pieres, may I introduce to you Bróccín MacRaith, Earl of Balfour, my betrothed.”
Nostril’s flaring, her knight’s gaze riveted on Aiden. He issued a stiff bow. “My lord.”
“Lord Balfour,” Lady Gwendolyn said, a swath of red sliding up her cheeks, “Sir Pieres is my personal guard.”
Her protector. And a man who took his job quite seriously. Aiden nodded. “Sir Pieres.”
“Sir Pieres is in charge of the defense of Latharn Castle,” she said, her voice cool. “You will defer to him in any questions about the castle until we are wed.”
Like Hades he would.
She cleared her throat. “Now that the earlier unpleasantness is behind us, I welcome you all to Latharn Castle.”
Aiden nodded, thankful she hadn’t questioned his identity. Her reluctance to their betrothal would serve him well. She wouldn’t press for time together, leaving him free to gather information about the stronghold.
“A chamber has been readied for your arrival, my lord,” she continued. “Your men may bed down in the guardhouse.”
“My knights will stay in the keep,” Aiden said. Lodged in enemy territory, if things went awry, he wanted Cailin and Rónán close in case they needed to escape.
A frown crossed her brow. “I will—”
The rush of steps had Aiden glancing toward the stable entry.
A scrawny lad ran inside, skidded to a halt before them. “My lady,” he hurried out. “I was in the kitchen and—” His eyes widened on the foal with appreciation. “He has come. What a beauty!”
“He is,” she replied, a breathtaking smile softening her features. “His name is Faolán.”
Red swept the lad’s face as his gaze darted to Aiden, then he turned to his mistress. “I have come to care for the knight’s horses.”