Forbidden Vow

by Diana Cosby

  A short distance ahead, the roar of water grew. Aiden stepped up on a thick slab.

  Gwendolyn moved to his side, gasped. “A waterfall.”

  Another delay. “A small one. At least,” he said as he slanted a look toward the sky, “the clouds are thinning. Mayhap we will see a bit of sun this day.”

  A weary smile creased her mouth. “I doubt ’twill be enough to dry our clothes.”

  “We can hope.” He climbed down the bank, reached up to take her hand.

  “There!” a man’s deep voice boomed.

  Aiden whirled.

  On a distant knoll, one of several mounted knights was pointing toward them.

  “Run!” Brush slapped his face, cut at his arms as he led her toward the falls. Gasping for breath, at the bottom of the knoll, he glanced back. “Blast it!”

  Frantic eyes followed his gaze, widened. “They are going to catch us.”

  “Nay.” He caught her hand. “When I tell you to, jump.”

  Her face paled. “You want to go over the falls?”

  Aiden refused to voice his own doubts; they had little choice. “’Tisna far, and the pool is deep. Once you surface, if we are separated, swim with the current and allow it to carry you downstream. Though on horseback, they canna keep up.” He paused, silently cursed. “Can you swim?”

  With a wary eye, she studied the white water colliding against the boulders and the half-fallen tree as it rushed down the river. She swallowed hard. “Aye.”

  Thankful, he exhaled. “Keep your feet together when you hit the water below.” Damning his decision, he laced his fingers with hers. “Whatever you do, keep hold of my hand.”

  Fear flickered in her eyes, but she nodded.

  “Jump!”

  Together, they leaped.

  Mist-driven air rammed down his throat as Aiden flailed his arm to help balance their fall.

  A blast of frigid water erupted around them, tore her from his grasp. Fighting panic, the surge of bubbles erasing her from his view, Aiden kicked to the surface. Gulping a deep breath, he scanned the churn of white.

  Water splashed as Gwendolyn surfaced nearby.

  Angry shouts from above had him glancing up.

  Several riders peered down from the rocky ledge they’d stood on moments before.

  Bedamned! With several hard strokes, he reached her, hauled her against him. “Are you hurt?”

  “Nay,” she gasped.

  Thank God. “Swim toward the center of the river.” The spray from the falls splattered them as they worked in unison to guide themselves into the main flow. “Remember, once the current catches us, dinna fight it, but let it carry you. Use your hands to push yourself away from anything dangerous. Once the banks widen out, the flow will lessen and we can swim to shore.”

  She nodded.

  After two more kicks, the rush of water sucked them in. “Hang on!” Fingers entwined with hers, Aiden matched his strokes with hers as they swam, thankful the deep water kept them well above the rocks.

  As they were carried around the bend, Aiden caught the fury on the Englishmen’s faces before they disappeared from sight. The rough terrain would buy them distance and time. He prayed both were enough.

  Water swirled around them as the current cast them about with ruthless glee. The bank raced past. Muscles burned in his arms as he fought to keep them afloat.

  “Look ahead,” she shouted.

  Amid the roar, plumes of white surged in towering blasts as waves slammed against a large tree jammed in the middle of the flow.

  “I am going to try to get hold of a branch as we pass,” he yelled. “Once I have a firm hold, climb over the trunk and move to shore. I will be just behind you.”

  A hand’s length away, Aiden grabbed a slick branch, braced himself as Gwendolyn rushed past; her body jerked hard. Water streamed down her pale face as the powerful flow threatened to break his hold. “Wrap your hands around me!” he yelled.

  She reached out.

  The branch snapped.

  * * * *

  Gwendolyn screamed as water sucked her under. Fighting the wash of panic, she kicked hard.

  Strong hands caught her wrist, dragged her upward. She resurfaced, gasping for air.

  Bróccín pulled her against his chest. “Hold on!”

  She caught his forearm as they rushed down the torrent.

  The greens and browns of the shore streaked past. An unexpected shift in the current threatened to rip her from Bróccín, and he tightened his hold.

  By slow degrees, the current weakened. In unison, she swam beside her husband, avoiding the outcrops of rock, limbs and other debris that had fallen prey to the river’s merciless bite.

  Around the next curve, the bank again narrowed and the current increased.

  “Bedamned!” her husband cursed.

  Bedraggled hair slapping her face, she followed his gaze. Gasped.

  Within the violent swirl, clusters of boulders loomed ahead. Large waves hit the massive rocks, erupting into powerful columns of white.

  Bróccín’s muscles coiled, and then he shoved her sideways. “Swim hard to the left,” he shouted over the roar.

  Her body aching and exhaustion weakening her arms, Gwendolyn fought against the tireless churn. An eddy ripped her free and threw her into the violent surge, and with a scream, she was hurled upward.

  His hand clamped hard on hers. “Hold on!”

  Fighting for each breath as she tried to keep hold, a dip in the flow again tore them apart. “Bróccín!” Flailing to keep afloat, Gwendolyn searched the water for her husband.

  Past the white tips of the waves ahead, she gasped in horror. Caught in the water’s rage, he was speeding toward several rocks jutting from the river.

  “Watch out!” she screamed.

  He slammed against the rocks. Shoulders slumped, he bobbed within the batter of waves.

  Fighting back terror, pain cramping her muscles, she swam hard toward him.

  The current swept them around a corner, with him several lengths ahead.

  The banks widened, and the flow flattened until the riotous mayhem of moments before calmed to ripples.

  Heart pounding, she caught his arm. Fighting the weight of his sopping clothing, she hauled him against her. His eyes were closed, a deep gash lay across his head, and blood streamed down the side of his face.

  “Bróccín!”

  He moaned.

  Thank God he was still alive. She trod water. “Can you swim?”

  Silence.

  Her hold tight, she swam toward shore. Gwendolyn’s foot hit silt, and she could have wept with relief.

  She continued kicking until her toes hit solid ground. Through will alone, she dragged him onto the bank, then collapsed at his side.

  Muscles aching, her breaths coming fast, and exhaustion blurring her thoughts, she glanced around, unsure how far they had gone. With the time they had remained in the river and the speed of the current, they should have traveled quite a distance. Given the rough terrain, even on horseback, ’twould take the duke’s men hours to reach them, if not a day. Time enough for them to be long gone.

  She shoved to her knees. Body trembling, she touched his shoulder. “Bróccín.”

  Silence.

  Gwendolyn smothered the surge of panic and shook his shoulder.

  His head lolled to the side, and an ominous stream of red trickled down his pale cheek.

  God help her, she needed to stop the bleeding. First, she had to get him out of the open. Pulse racing, she scanned the area. Along the shore, mud-caked grass lay smeared against the earth, outcroppings of rocks ending where thick fir towered before the forest.

  Her throat tightened as she stared at the dense swath of trees. On horseback ’twould be a difficult trek. On foot, an even greater chal
lenge.

  Legs shaking, she got to her feet and lifted him to a sitting position. Gritting her teeth, she slid her arms beneath his shoulders, tugged him with her as she staggered back.

  He slid a hand’s width.

  Again, she pulled. On the fourth try, her legs gave and she sprawled backward into the muck. As if mocking her efforts, mud-stained droplets rolled down her face.

  Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to give up. Bróccín needed her, and after all he’d sacrificed, by God, she’d do whatever it took to take care of him.

  With a hard shove, Gwendolyn pushed to her knees. A sense of being watched shivered up her spine, and she glanced around. Stilled.

  Across the short clearing, several mounted knights watched her.

  Breaths coming fast, she jerked her dagger from its sodden sheath, stood. “Stay back!”

  Anger clouded the closest rider’s face, a tall, muscled warrior, his long brown hair secured by a leather tie at the nape of his neck. “Move away from him!”

  Far from relieved by the Scottish burr, too aware of their proximity in regard to the Bruce’s encampment, she searched his garb and the others for a sign of his loyalty.

  Naught.

  “To whom do you swear fealty?” she demanded.

  The daunting knight gaze narrowed on her. “King Robert.”

  The enemy!

  “And you?” the fearsome warrior demanded.

  Pulse racing, she fought for calm. There were only three men. If she allowed their leader to come near, she could fight him with her blade, toss the dagger hidden in her boot into the second warrior, and, with luck, grab the third knight’s weapon and end his threat. Then, she and Bróccín could use their mounts to escape.

  “King Robert,” she forced out, the name vile upon her tongue, but to save their lives she would say what she must.

  With a grunt, the first knight guided his destrier toward her.

  Gwendolyn tightened her grip on her blade.

  The fierce man halted his mount.

  Mary’s will, he was still too far away for her to throw her dagger, nor could she leave Bróccín unprotected. Her sgian dubh raised, Gwendolyn moved before her husband.

  “Lower your weapon, lass. We willna harm you.”

  She scoffed. “And I am to believe you?”

  “I dinna lie,” the warrior ground out.

  Dark brows pulled together, and the knight gave her a curt nod.

  The squish of mud sounded a moment before strong arms caught her from behind. With ease, her captor ripped her blade free, and then pinned her against his muscled body.

  “Release me!” she shouted, twisting against him.

  “Cease,” her captor warned, his arms tightening around her like bands of steel. “If you continue to try to escape, I will tie you up.”

  She stilled, furious she hadn’t heard him. Nor was she a lackwit. If they bound her hands, ’twould end any chance of escape.

  “As Sir Quentin stated,” the man holding her continued, “we willna harm you.”

  Far from trusting the word of her enemy, she remained silent.

  Sir Quentin shot her a warning look, dismounted, then knelt beside Bróccín. “Aiden, wake up.”

  Through a daze of exhaustion and fear, she frowned. Why had he called her husband Aiden? Not that the reason mattered. Once he awoke, their captor would discover he wasna the man he believed. God help them then.

  A second man dismounted and joined the first. He pressed a cloth against the cut in Bróccín’s head. “’Tis a nasty gash.” His gaze went to her with suspicion. “What happened?”

  “We were crossing the river and I fell in,” she explained, deciding on half-truths until they could escape. “He dove in to save me, but the strong current swept us downstream. A short distance from here, he hit a rock.”

  “Who you are?” the man she deduced was their leader asked. At her silence, Sir Quentin stood. “I told you, you willna be harmed. On that you have my word.”

  Unsure what to say, but for an unexplainable reason believing him, she nodded. “His wife.”

  Astonishment, and something more—humor, perhaps—widened his eyes, and he burst out in laughter.

  The surrounding men joined him in his merriment.

  She glared at their leader. “I dinna lie.”

  “Lass,” Sir Quentin said, the humor fading, “Sir Aiden MacConnell”— he nodded to the others—“as my men and I, have fought together for many years. Well we know who he is. Though I find myself extremely curious to discover why you would claim such when I know for a fact that he isna married.”

  Coldness rippled through her. They knew Bróccín? Impossible. Whoever the man called Aiden was, his looks must favor her husband’s. Nor would she admit more.’Twould bode ill if they learned Balfour was a powerful noble within Lord Comyn’s ranks.

  At her silence, Sir Quentin exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Until Aiden awakens and explains who you are, you will remain with us.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “I am Sir Quentin,” the leader continued, “and these are my men: Sir Torrance, Sir Vide, and Sir David who is holding you.”

  Gwendolyn gave a curt nod.

  “And you are…?” the daunting man asked.

  “Sarah,” she lied. Without their knowing her or of Bróccín’s nobility, when they slipped away, ’twould aid in their escape.

  “Sir David will release you,” Sir Quentin said, “but first you must swear that you willna try to run.” At her hesitation, his thick brows lowered.

  Eyeing Sir Torrance carefully tending Bróccín, she gave a slow exhale. “I—”

  The soft thud of hooves sounded a moment before a man with a shock of red hair and ice-blue eyes rode into the clearing.

  Relief swept her. Sir Cailin, one of the two men who had arrived with Bróccín at Latharn Castle! She looked behind him, expecting to see Sir Rónán and others loyal to Comyn in his wake, men who would save them.

  He rode alone, cantering toward the men without fear.

  As if he belonged.

  Fear edged through her, but she damned the doubts. He was loyal to Bróccín, his fealty was given to Lord Comyn, and—

  Cailin’s gaze shifted to her, and his eyes widened with shock. He drew his mount to a halt. “Lady Gwendolyn?”

  Panic rioted inside. Why had he revealed her real name?

  Quentin frowned. “You know her?”

  “Aye.” Regret flashed in Cailin’s eyes. “I am sorry, my lady.”

  “Sorry?” she asked, further confused by his apology. Why would he… Fury flowed through her as she understood. She glared at the traitor, wishing she had her blade to cut out his black heart. She tried to throw herself forward.

  Strong arms tightened around her, preventing her from moving.

  “For what,” she spat, needing to hear confirmation of his deception, “that you betrayed your friend? Bróccín trusted you and you repaid him by conspiring with the enemy?”

  “You are wrong.” Cailin muttered a curse. “Lady Gwendolyn, never were you to be involved.”

  “But I am,” she seethed, damning him with her every breath, “and I deserve an explanation.”

  “You do.” Cailin glanced at the first knight. “What has she been told?”

  Quentin frowned. “Naught except Aiden’s name and that we are loyal to the Bruce. Why?”

  On a rough sigh, Cailin rubbed the back of his neck. “Why indeed?”

  She scowled at the man she’d believed was her husband’s friend, one she, too, had liked.

  “His name isna Bróccín,” Cailin continued, his voice softening, “but Aiden MacConnell.”

  Her whole life stilled. “You lie!”

  Expression solemn, Cailin shook his head. “Nay.”

  Pain slashed her
heart as the pieces emerged, painting the brutal picture of the truth. She glared down at the man who was her husband. She had wondered about the dichotomy of his character, of how he seemed to be two men at once.

  Fury built, roared within her until she trembled with outrage. “And h-he is loyal to the Bruce?”

  “Aye.”

  Like an anvil to her chest, the remembrance of how she and Bróccín had kissed, of how he’d touched her, and how she’d begged him to take her to bed crushed her until she struggled to breathe.

  Bróccín?

  Nay, Aiden.

  A stranger, a man she did not know.

  “We were never married?” she hissed, struggling against the ultimate lie, that he’d allowed her to care, and how she’d foolishly given him her trust.

  Expression grim, Cailin slowly shook his head. “Nay, my lady, ’twas all a ruse.”

  Chapter 12

  Fury slammed through Gwendolyn, blurring her every thought until rage took on its own life. The entire situation; her betrothed’s arrival, their rushed wedding, all based on lies.

  Bróccín—

  Nay, Aiden.

  Had lied.

  Had used her for…

  Her outrage shoved up another notch against her ultimate humiliation. She was unsure of his exact motives. She had suspicions, but given the way he had helped to destroy the hard-won fragments of the life she’d forged since her father’s death, she deserved to know the specific reason.

  She scowled at Cailin, a man she’d foolishly believed she could trust, though he had been naught but part of the deception. “Why were you in Latharn Castle,” she demanded, “and my marriage to Aiden allowed?”

  “An explanation that,” Sir Quentin interrupted, “however interested I am to hear, will have to wait. Aiden’s injury needs tending, and with Comyn’s men about, we must return to camp posthaste.”

  Eyes dark with concern, Cailin scoured the landscape, nodded.

  Fists clenched, she glared at every man. “I hope Comyn’s men find us. ’Twould give me immense pleasure to watch them cut out your wretched hearts.”

  With a sharp tug, Sir David secured a cloth over her mouth and then bound her hands before her waist with rope. He swung into his saddle and hauled her before him.