Forbidden Vow

by Diana Cosby

  Lady Gwendolyn’s smile widened even further and laughter lit her eyes.

  Aiden stilled. Earlier, with her face flushed with anger, hay strewn in her hair, and mud on her cheeks, he’d thought her intriguing.

  A pathetic description for the captivating woman standing before him. Alabaster skin swept across high cheekbones, framed eyes the color of warmed pewter with flecks of gold, and lush lips that would tempt a man to linger. God’s sword, she was beautiful. Heat surged through him, and he smothered the unwanted desire. A lass and the complications she invited wasn’t something he wished.

  Furious he would notice, Aiden scowled. “My men and I will see to our own mounts. Afterward we will come to the keep.”

  “Dolaidh,” she said, her tone with the lad devoid of the anger simmering in her eyes, “fetch the mare fresh water and an extra scoop of grain and oats.”

  “Aye, my lady.” The lad ran from the stall.

  Her gaze leveled on him. “Lord Balfour, I agreed to our impending marriage in payment for Lord Comyn’s protection of Latharn Castle, but know this: Until our vows, I am its mistress, one who willna take orders, even from you.”

  Aiden stifled a chuckle, took a damnably slow step back, and bowed in acquiescence. Straightening, his gaze locked on hers. “May I suggest we discuss sleeping arrangements in private?”

  Her hands fisted at her side. “Once you are settled, my lord, there is much we shall discuss.” She scanned the stable, then hesitated. “I was informed you would arrive with a large contingent.”

  Bróccín’s bloodstained body flashed to mind, his friend’s dying words, and if only for a moment, unmarred memories of his childhood. “We were attacked by King Robert’s men.”

  She gasped. “The rest of your warriors—”

  Aiden thought of the Knights Templar betrayed, allowed his outrage for the many who’d suffered horrific torture to taint his reply. “Dead.”

  “Mary’s will,” she breathed, her gaze lowering to the smear of blood across his mail. Her face grew ashen. “’Tis not from helping the mare foal?”

  “Nay.” ’Twas a stroke of luck that Bróccín’s mail had fit.

  Her lower lip wobbled. “Forgive me, my lord, for my rude behavior. After your loss this day, you are distraught. Once you and your men finish tending to your horses, I will ensure a warm meal and readied chambers await you.”

  “I thank you,” Aiden said.

  She started to turn away and then halted, the sincerity of her expression at odds with the fierce temptress of moments before. “I am sorry. ’Tis hard to lose those you care for.”

  Aiden gave a curt nod, not wanting her to understand or to care. The lass represented a means to an end. When he departed, he would leave no one behind who mattered, less so a woman who’d sworn fealty to his enemy.

  At his silence, she headed to the keep, Sir Pieres at her side.

  Once Gwendolyn and her knight were halfway across the bailey, Rónán grunted. “King Robert would be impressed by the lass’s spirit.”

  Far from amused by his friend’s implication, Aiden led his mount to an empty stall. Their sovereign’s penchant for making matches between strong-willed women and the men he favored was well-known, a fate already burdened upon his friends Stephan MacQuistan and Thomas MacKelloch. And against incredible odds, both had fallen in love with the women they’d wed.

  Except the Bruce wasn’t here. Nor did the king’s orders extend beyond those to retrieve information to plan the upcoming attack upon Latharn Castle.

  As his men led their mounts into empty stalls, Aiden dismissed the wayward thought. “Once Latharn Castle is in our sovereign’s control, Banff will be the last remaining stronghold north of Mounth still held by the English. The Bruce hasna time to waste in dealing with a spirted lass. Until Scotland is united, I suspect he will leave the castle beneath the guard of one of his trusted nobles, and Lady Gwendolyn will be married to a favored noble.”

  “A logical move,” Cailin agreed. “Once Banff is seized, his focus will be on capturing Perth, Roxburgh, and Edinburgh.”

  “Plans that canna move forward until this stronghold is seized,” Rónán said.

  Water sloshed from the edges of a bucket as Dolaidh hurried into the stable. Curious eyes flickered toward Aiden before the lad set the vessel near the mare.

  As well, Gwendolyn’s protectiveness toward those who lived beneath her spoke well of the lass, enemy or not. “Once you have your gear in your chamber,” Aiden whispered, “meet me in the chapel.”

  * * * *

  Eyes narrowed, Sir Pieres glanced at Gwendolyn as they crossed the bailey. “After you learned the stranger was your betrothed, what were you thinking of by challenging him? Did I not warn you that Lord Balfour was a man not to anger?”

  Gwendolyn forced a smile at two women passing by, then scowled at her friend. “I did not challenge him.”

  “Telling your intended that you will not take orders from him until you are wed isna considered gentle conversation.”

  “Nor do I care. How dare he dictate anything to me when we havena said our vows? He is arrogant, aloof, and unapologetic.”

  “He is, and as I cautioned you earlier, a man of war. During battle, if those beneath his command dinna follow orders, men die. As well, ’tis wise to remember that if he hadna intervened, Kellan and her foal could have died.”

  She gave a curt nod. “I will not forget his brave act, nor that the healer arrived moments after the mare had given birth, and mayhap could have done the same.”

  Sir Pieres gave a frustrated sigh. “I know you dinna want to marry, but never have I seen you react so vehemently toward anyone. Regardless, Lord Balfour’s actions were given to save the mare and foal’s lives. If the earl had threatened you, harmed you in any manner, I assure you, ’tis my blade he would have faced.”

  “I am grateful for his timely intervention, but…”

  “A battle-seasoned man, I know his ways are hard, but do you despise him so much?”

  “I dinna despise him, ’tis that he is unlike any man I have ever met.” She recalled how his green eyes held hers, unwavering, unapologetic, as if on a dare. Except she hadn’t sensed malice, but a silent provocation that lured her to meet his challenge, to show him that, unlike the other women he’d met, she wasn’t one who he could order about.

  “Whatever happens, I will be here to protect you,” Pieres said.

  She rubbed the tightness in the back of her neck. “I know. ’Tis the upcoming marriage that has me on edge. Never again did I expect to marry. And I do him a disservice to ignore the fact that his contingent was attacked. Men who served him, ones no doubt he cared for, died. Yet, upon his arrival, he saved the life of a mare.” She paused. “If I had known of his loss…”

  “But you did not. Still, with his reputation ’tis unwise to push him.”

  “I did naught but state fact. The castle isna his.”

  “Something your marriage will erase.”

  A brutal truth that burned in her gut. And then what? Given his harsh manner, would he allow her to stay? Allow? Fury rushed through her that the option to remain in her home could be usurped. As quick, she realized the foolishness of her thought. A powerful lord wouldn’t send his wife away, but keep her to give him an heir.

  She refused to think of the intimacy she must endure until she bore him a son. Would one be enough?

  During her first marriage, she’d been blessed by her husband’s gentle manner, but she dreaded being forced into another man’s bed.

  “My lady, you look unwell.”

  At the concern in her friend’s voice, she shook her head. “I am tired. It has been a long day.” One that was far from over.

  “Though harsh,” Pieres said, “Lord Balfour seems reasonable.”

  She gave a wry smile. “I must have missed that quality.”

/>   Humor touched his gaze. “For a man of war.”

  At the keep, Gwendolyn halted. “I thank you for your gracious council. I dinna know what I would do without you.”

  He gave a slow nod. “I am always here for you. I regret that circumstance has led to this end, my lady, but I believe once the earl comes to know you, he will discover he is a fortunate man.”

  She arched a doubtful brow. “With his reputation, and after meeting him, I am not fool enough to convince myself of such. Lord Balfour sees naught but the next battle, what weapons will serve him best, not a wife’s place, with the exception of a means to procure a successor.”

  “War is a heartless mistress and taints many a warrior’s heart. The way he aided the mare this day, I believe, however deeply hidden, there is a good man inside.”

  Mayhap Pieres was right. In the stable, Lord Balfour hadn’t touched her with intent to harm, but to move her to a safer location near Kellan.

  Gwendolyn calmed a degree. She was a strong woman. The fact that the man’s presence left her on edge could be dealt with.

  After speaking to the servants to ensure food was prepared, she informed a maid to ready two chambers for Lord Balfour’s men. Needing a reprieve before facing her betrothed during in the upcoming meal, Gwendolyn exited the keep.

  Wind ripe with the scent of sea caressed her face as she crossed the bailey. She yearned to walk along the beach to mull the upcoming decisions she must make. The brief time with Sir Pieres on the rock-strewn sand this morning had been a luxury. With the unrest in the Highlands, neither was she foolish enough to return to the shore without a guard.

  She despised the thought that in the future her betrothed would demand she receive his approval before she left the castle. Gwendolyn paused. Mayhap, as earlier, she was being too harsh. They’d met but once, and then in a hectic situation.

  In truth, what worried her most was that she had no idea of Lord Balfour’s expectations. When she’d married Luke, she’d known him for years. Though they had not been in love, he was a kind man. Now, she did not even have that.

  The sound of the church bell echoed throughout the castle, announcing None.

  Gwendolyn drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. For the safety of her people and castle, she must acquiesce to the marriage. Still, she found herself restless.

  What was it about Lord Balfour that unsettled her, a fact that made little sense? Never before had anyone affected her so. Many times over the years she’d met with influential nobles and even kings. Neither was she ignorant of how to run the castle, innocent of the demands of marriage, or unused to dealing with powerful men.

  Gwendolyn stopped, surprised. Lost in thought, she’d walked to the chapel. The scent of frankincense and myrrh filled the air as she stepped inside. She pushed the door closed, and a stifling gloom enveloped her.

  Her eyes adjusted to the muted light. Overhead, swaths of stained glass of royal blue, ivory, and gold, crafting the image of the Virgin Mary glowed within the candlelight. Whirls of soft color spilled into the holy chamber to blend with the tapers seated within a gold candleholder upon the altar, ensnaring her within their somber mix.

  Memories rolled through Gwendolyn of standing within these sacred walls sobbing at her father’s side after the loss of her mother. Of how, years later, within this chapel, she’d pledged herself to a man she did not love. And how but months before, where she’d wept after learning of her father’s tragic death.

  With each event, she’d sought solace in the chapel. Yet with each desperate plea for succor, any sense of hope had evaded her.

  She swallowed hard, glanced toward the baskets in the corner near the statue of Jesus, filled with bottles of oil, rosemary, and sage, which she’d placed there earlier. The sweet, succulent aromas from her youth.

  To her right stood a statue of Jesus, along with a chalice and numerous other holy items the priest used during Mass. Gwendolyn focused on the crucifix mounted on the wall. Her throat tightened, and she pressed her hand to a nearby column.

  Why had she come inside? Well she knew ’twas a mistake to think she’d find any comfort here; ’twas only for those who believed. After Luke’s death, she’d assure herself that never again would she belong to any man. Yet here she stood days away from losing even that.

  She glared at the hand-carved platform where soon she again would be forced to pledge her troth. Bedamned King Robert for shoving the Highlands into war, an act that had forced Comyn’s hand and severed any hope that she could live out her days in peace.

  Now she would marry.

  A stranger.

  A man she did not want.

  Coldness wrapped around her heart. Like a fool, she stared at the cross, awaited the sensation of hope, of anything to assure her that somehow, in this mayhem she would find a sliver of peace.

  The reckless wavering of the candles on the altar smeared the ceiling with broken shadows, as if mocking her dreams.

  Disgusted she’d sought any optimism within these walls, allowed herself to turn to Him for hope when her prayers had gone unanswered many times in the past, she turned to leave, then paused. She glanced toward the basket near the statue of Jesus, which needed to be stowed away. A task she’d planned to tend to tomorrow, but now here, she may as well complete it.

  With a tired sigh, she moved behind the ornate carving. Enveloped within the shadows, she knelt in the corner, opened the hidden door. With care, she set the oils upon the shelves.

  The soft scrape of the door sounded.

  Through the slight opening between the statue and wall, she glanced up, stilled.

  Silhouetted in the stream of golden light stood Lord Balfour, his imposing presence seeming to fill the room.

  Her heart tripped a beat. She should stand and announce her presence. Torn between finding herself alone with the daunting noble and her curiosity at why he’d come to the chapel when he must be exhausted, she remained silent.

  Tense seconds passed.

  She waited for him to leave.

  After a moment, he walked to the front pew, knelt, made the sign of the cross, and began to pray.

  As his soft, deep murmurs of the Our Father rumbled through the sacred chamber, she hesitated.

  Latin?

  Not that she should be surprised. Given the title he would one day inherit, in his youth he would have been taught Latin and French, along with several other languages that would serve him in his future dealings.

  After finishing the Paternoster, her betrothed started anew.

  Gwendolyn squeezed the bottle in her hand as she leaned forward. Why would he repeat the prayer? Her skin tingled with each word, more so when, after he finished the prayer, he started once more.

  Against her will, she felt a connection to the man who knelt, head bent before the altar, as if he too searched for answers in these tumultuous times.

  Perhaps the good Pieres had suggested lay within him was truly there, which would explain her own baffling pull to her betrothed.

  Her foot started to go numb. Gwendolyn shifted and lost her balance. On a gasp, she caught herself on the door, and the aged wood gave a soft squeak.

  Lord Balfour stilled. In the somber light, cold eyes narrowed on her. Like a panther, he unfurled his muscled body, his hand smoothly withdrawing his dagger as he stood. “Whoever is there, show yourself.”

  Chapter 3

  The soft glow of candles exposed Lady Gwendolyn as she stepped into the light. Despite the relative darkness, her hair gleamed with warmth, and her dress fluttered around her womanly curves.

  God’s sword, what was she doing here? Cailin and Rónán were to join him at any time. If she’d listened in on their conversation, ’twould have put all their lives in danger.

  “Why did you not show yourself when I entered?” he challenged, irritated he hadn’t noticed her when he’d stepped insid
e, nor taken a moment to inspect the chamber.

  Defiance flashed in her eyes. “I owe you nay explanation for my presence in my chapel.”

  She damn well did, a fact they both knew. From their first meeting in the stable, she’d held her ground, exposed her stubbornness, but that did not excuse her impropriety. “Why were you spying on me?” he demanded, thankful ’twas only prayers she’d overheard.

  “I wasna spying.”

  He stepped toward her.

  Gwendolyn stiffened. “Stay where you are!”

  At the nervousness in her voice, he paused. Never would he cause her harm, except that she believed he was Bróccín, a warrior renowned as a brutal leader. Regardless of the man’s reputation, he couldn’t pretend to possess that level of cruelty. She was a pawn, a move to play, no more.

  “I will not hurt you,” Aiden assured her.

  She didn’t move.

  “You are afraid of me,” he said.

  As if poking a badger with a stick, her eyes flared with warning. “I fear nay man.”

  Memories of the brutality he’d witnessed in war slammed through his mind. “Then you are a fool.”

  “You know naught about me to make such a judgement, but know this: I am far from a weak-kneed lass you can intimidate.” She angled her jaw. “I agreed to Lord Comyn’s request to wed a man of his choosing only to ensure my people’s safety, and to protect my home. I assure you, if I had a full contingent of knights to keep my castle secure, our marriage would never take place.”

  Her face flushed with anger, her blond locks framing narrowed gray eyes, she looked like a defiant fairy and, to Aiden, the lass couldn’t have been more beautiful. Irritated by the shot of need sliding through him, he focused on his mission. He and his men couldn’t risk raising suspicion during their brief stay. Neither could he allow her rebellious nature to interfere with their plans.

  “Your people and home will be cared for.” By which side was another matter. “As your betrothed, you will obey me. I will not tolerate your defiance.”