Thomas hesitated and cast a glance toward the house. Owen frowned. Something is wrong.
“No,” he replied, turning his eyes back to Owen. “But Sir Edgar is here. He arrived a short time ago.”
Kate let out a small gasp. “He is?”
Owen heard the cautionary tone in Thomas's voice, but Kate's adverse reaction to Edgar's arrival set his sword hand twitching. In truth, he was curious to meet the English knight who would never be allowed to wed Adela's child. He passed Arrio's reins to Thomas and turned his attention back to Kate.
“Shall I carry you indoors, my lady?”
Thomas cleared his throat. “I don't think that would be...appropriate...er, Owen, was it?”
“No, there's no need to carry me.” Kate was already half out of the saddle. “I can walk quite well.”
“I think not.” Owen reached for her, lowered her to the ground and gestured to her feet. “And you are barefoot.”
“As I was on the shore.” She gripped his arm and looked over at the house, her face clouded with apprehension. “I did not know he would be here.”
“Calm yourself, my lady,” he murmured, throwing an admonishing glance at Thomas, who was all but dancing from one nervous leg to the other. “'Tis of no consequence.”
“But, Edgar--”
“Will not harm you,” he finished.
“You misunderstand, Owen.” Kate pressed a hand to his chest. “'Tis for you I fear, not myself.”
An emotion shone in her eyes, one that stopped his breath as it drew him back to childhood. He'd seen a similar light in his blessed mother's face whenever she'd looked at his father. He'd felt the warmth of it too, for had he not been born from the love they shared? God help him, for he recognized that same love now, pouring from this sweet maiden's heart.
Ah, but surely he misread what he saw. Like a fine wine, Katherine's beauty had intoxicated him and robbed him of sensible thought, as it would most men. Still, the desire to protect her could not be denied. Indeed, he had sworn to do so.
He smiled and cupped her cheek. “You need not fear for me, Katherine Rose. There'll be no trouble here today.”
Fate chose that moment to scoff at his words, for no sooner had they been voiced than two riders clattered into Wraysholme's courtyard. The elder of the two, with gold and silver hair tumbling to his shoulders and a leather-clad sword resting at his side, had the indisputable bearing of a knight. The other was a swarthy youth, balanced on the cusp of manhood, gangly as a young colt.
Kate drew a sharp breath and snatched her hand from Owen's chest as if it burned.
“Papa,” she whispered.
Owen studied John Harrington with some curiosity. He had learned much about the Saxon knight in recent months. The man was peaceable enough, he'd been told. At that moment, however, peaceable was not a word Owen would have chosen to describe Kate's father. Red-faced with apparent fury and brandishing a sword seemed more apt.
Thomas uttered a string of curses and Owen cast him a telling glance.
Hold your tongue, my friend. Leave this to me.
Sparks flew from hooves as John reined his stallion to an abrupt halt. He leapt from the saddle and pointed his blade at Owen's throat. John's young squire, bearing the look of a startled owl, dismounted and took hold of his master's horse.
“Step away from my daughter,” John snarled. “Now.”
Owen had no intention of challenging Kate's father. At least, not yet. He inclined his head, raised both hands, and took a step back. “Stay your weapon, my lord. I mean no harm.”
“He speaks true, Papa.” Kate, wide-eyed and pale, reached a hand toward her father. “This man is no threat, I swear it. Please put away your sword.”
She stumbled and let out a small cry as she put weight on her injured ankle. Owen stepped forward, meaning to steady her, only to feel a sting of sharp steel on his throat.
“Step...back,” said John, his voice a harsh, threatening whisper. “I shall not say it again.”
Another man's voice bellowed across the courtyard. “What in God's name is going on?”
Thomas cleared his throat, an exaggerated sound that carried a warning for Owen. A man emerged from the manor and strode across the courtyard toward them. Neat chestnut hair framed a sharp, bearded face that bore a deep frown. His clothes spoke of wealth and the sword in his hand spoke of his intent. Owen threw a questioning glance at Thomas, who gave a subtle nod.
Edgar.
The man picked a spot at John's side and also set his blade toward Owen, who fought to keep his expression mild as he shifted his focus back to John.
“Lord Harrington, I assume,” said Owen, eyeing the two blades pointed at his throat. “'Tis a fine welcome you offer to a weary traveller.”
John's eyes narrowed. “You're Welsh.”
“Aye.” Owen squared his shoulders and raised a brow. “Is that a problem for you?”
“It might be.”
The response begged a challenge; one Owen could not resist. “You do not like the Welsh, my lord?”
“That depends.”
Owen frowned. “On what, pray?”
“On your reason for being here.”
“My reason for being here is quite legitimate.”
“I shall be the judge of that.”
“Papa, please, he is not--”
“Be silent, Katherine,” John snapped, without taking his eyes off Owen. “Explain yourself, Welshman.”
Owen shook his head “Not at the point of an Englishman's blade, my lord.” He smiled at Edgar and saw the man's jaw stiffen. “Two blades, yet. Hardly fair.”
“Then take your sword in hand, sirrah,” said Edgar, “and let us settle this quickly.”
“No,” Kate cried. “Please, Papa. I swear before God, this man has done me no harm.”
Owen's chest tightened at the fear in Kate's voice. For her sake, he decided to set his pride aside. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as John returned his sword to its scabbard.
“Stay your weapon, Edgar,” said John. “Let the man tell his tale free from threat.”
With a grumble of reluctance, Edgar complied.
“Well?” John looped his thumbs through his sword belt and glared at Owen. “I'm waiting. Speak.”
Owen nodded. “Gladly, my lord. On my way to the great abbey in Furness, I decided to visit the Holy Well to partake of the waters. I was in the process of doing so when I heard a cry of distress from the shore nearby, that of a woman.” He glanced at Kate and gave her a smile. “The maid had stumbled on the rocks and sprained her ankle. After bathing the injury with the blessed waters, I escorted her home. That is all.”
Arrio, whose ears had been twitching as Owen spoke, pawed the ground, blew through his nose and shook his great head. Owen swallowed an urge to laugh. The damn horse was too clever by far.
John gave Kate a stern look. “Was this the way of it?”
Kate nodded, relief replacing the fear on her face. “It happened just as he said, Papa.”
“Sprained?” John scrutinized Kate's bare feet and Owen saw genuine concern in his eyes. “Not broken?”
Kate shook her head. “No, not broken. It's already feeling better.”
John sighed and glanced skyward for a moment. “So, if I understand correctly, Katherine, you left the house without an escort again. Is that right?”
Kate lowered her eyes. “Forgive me, my lord father,” she murmured, “but it was such a beautiful day and--”
“Go to your room.” John cut into her explanation, suppressed anger simmering in his voice. “I'll speak to you later.”
Kate opened her mouth as if to speak, but John lifted his hand in a clear gesture of interruption.
“I suggest you say naught else, daughter,” he said, scowling. “My patience has surely been taxed enough this day.” He turned to his young squire, whose boggled expression had not changed. “David, cease gawking like a fool and help the Lady Katherine indoors.”
The la
d blinked and stepped forward. “Aye, m' lord.”
Kate rested her hand on David's arm and turned large sad eyes to Owen.
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured, “for your chivalry and kindness. I'm glad to have met you.”
Owen knew there was more to be said. Much more. He saw it in Kate's eyes and felt it in his heart.
“You're welcome, my lady.” He smiled. “I'm glad also.”
I'll see you again, Katherine Rose. Very soon. That I do promise.
As Kate turned away, John cleared his throat and eyed Owen with something akin to remorse.
“I owe you an apology, young sir. It seems I misjudged you. My thanks for escorting my wayward daughter safely home. May I know your name?”
“I'm glad to have been of assistance, Sir John. My name is Owen.” He looked at Edgar. “And you, sir?”
“Edgar d'Argonne.” Edgar's lip twitched as if he fought to suppress a sneer. “I am Lady Katherine's betrothed.”
Owen, hearing the smugness in Edgar's tone, struggled to keep his response nonchalant. “You are a fortunate man, indeed, my lord.” Not for long, cher monsieur. Not for long.
“You have travelled far?” John asked.
“Aye.” Owen glanced toward the shore. “I crossed the sands in the night.”
“Then you and your fine horse must be weary. Let me make amends by offering you some refreshment.” John gestured toward the house. “Indeed, if you wish, you may rest here overnight and continue your journey in the morning.”
Owen hesitated. Edgar scowled, mumbling something less than gracious, and Thomas took a coughing fit.
“Thank you, my lord,” Owen replied at last, his decision swayed by Edgar's obvious dismay. “Since my journey has been much delayed for today, I'll accept your offer of a bed for the night.”
John nodded. “Good. Have Thomas see to your horse then speak to my housekeeper. She'll show you to the guest chamber. You'll hear a bell sound for dinner this evening. If you hunger or thirst in the meantime, the kitchen will give you something. Lunch is usually a light affair. Edgar, let's go inside. You and I have things to discuss.”
“That went well, I think,” said Owen, once the men were out of earshot. He grinned and squeezed Thomas's shoulder. “So, how goes it, old friend?”
Thomas snorted. “Less of the old, and your luck is unbelievable. I swear you have a horseshoe shoved up your arse, if not the entire horse.”
Owen laughed. “You did not tell me what a prize she was, Thomas.”
“Aye, the lass is a beauty, like her dear mother.” He waved his finger in Owen's face. “Shelter your heart and your wits, lad. You need to keep both in good stead.”
“He'll not have her,” Owen murmured, squinting up at Wraysholme's walls. “As long as I'm alive, Adela's child will never be Edgar's wife.”
Thomas sighed and took Arrio's reins. “Then may you live long, my friend.”
Chapter 5
The arrow flew out of the sun and cut a sluggish path through the air. Its strange lack of momentum allowed Kate to study it in detail; the pitted metal tip, the slight bend in the shaft, the striped fletchings on the end. She tried to snatch it from the air, but her arms refused to move. The arrow continued on its way, purring like a contented cat as it drifted past her face.
'Twas most unlikely, she surmised, that such a feeble shot would be able to pierce the body of the man who stood at her side. Yet, to her horror, the arrow buried itself in his chest with a muffled thud. The man's eyes widened, a curse exploded from his lips, and he fell at her feet.
Moments later, a dark serpent emerged from beneath him and slithered across the floor. No, not a serpent. The man's blood. Dear God, why? Why had they killed him? What had he done?
A shadow blocked the sun and Kate shivered. She knew the answer. The man had done nothing. It was her. They had come for her.
The shadow moved and Kate screamed a silent scream.
They were taking her to him. The Dark One. He wants what she has. From across the sea he comes, spirals of silver dripping with blood.
Her teacher. Her master. She belongs to him.
Owen. Papa. Please, help me.
“Katherine.”
Her father's voice! Praise God, she was saved. At last...at last.
Kate opened her eyes and squinted into the soft afternoon light. She groaned, her head still thick with the remnants of her dream.
No, not a dream. A nightmare. Yet it seemed so...
“Katherine, I wish to speak to you.”
...real.
A solid rap on her chamber door made her jump, and all that had happened that morning came back in a sudden, overwhelming rush.
“Katherine. Do you hear me?”
“Aye, Papa.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes, swallowing over the fading lump of fear in her throat. “Come in. 'Tis not latched.”
John strode into the room and closed the door behind him with a solid bang. Kate, her nerves still raw, jumped again. She slid off the bed, aware of a slight throb in her injured ankle, and faced her father.
“Well?” he said, his voice tight with anger. “What wretched explanation are you going to give me this time?”
“Papa,” she began, fingers fidgeting in her skirts. “I'm truly sorry. I didn't--”
“Cease your mumblings, Katherine. Your remorse is meaningless as long as you continue to disobey me.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Today, God save us, I return home to find a stranger here with his hands on you. What next?”
“But... he did me no harm.” Nor would he, ever.
“Sweet Christ have mercy, child, is your brain completely addled?” John ran a hand through his hair. “Aye, the man did you no harm, but think on. You could be lying out there somewhere...used, injured or even dead. You deserve to be whipped for your foolishness. I've reached the end of my patience. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”
Tears spilled down Kate's cheeks and she hiccupped on a sob. She understood her father's anger was born of fear – fear for her safety. She saw it in his eyes.
Could he see her fear too? Perhaps, but he'd assume it was because of his ire. He'd never guess the real reason. He didn't know what Kate knew, what she had learned that day. No, and she couldn't even begin to tell him, for it sounded ridiculous.
She hadn't fallen in love with a dream after all. The man who had haunted her sleep for so many months was real. Flesh and blood. She'd met him that morning on the shore beneath the wolf's cave. His name was Owen. Owen ap Madoc. He rode a magnificent white horse and was Welsh, like her mother. Kate had touched his face and heard his gentle voice. He had helped her, been kind to her.
By all the sweet saints, how can this be? Am I going mad? How can I dream of someone I've never met, only to discover he lives? There has to be a reason for--
“Katherine.” Her father placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “What's wrong with you? Are you even listening to me?”
She sniffed, wiped away her tears, and nodded. “Nothing's wrong. I hear you and I understand.”
He frowned and lifted a strand of Kate's hair, letting it slide between his fingers.
“You remind me so much of her,” he murmured and Kate's heart clenched, for she knew who he meant. He rarely mentioned her mother and had always been reluctant to speak of her. Kate had questions, so many questions.
“Papa, how--”
“I expect to see you at dinner.” He straightened and stepped back. “And, since Edgar will be joining us, please make an extra effort with your behaviour. He was less than impressed by what he witnessed this morning. I've no wish to jeopardize this marriage agreement. 'Tis a fine match, do you not agree?”
Kate sighed and forced the expected response from her lips. “Aye, Papa. 'Tis a fine match.”
He nodded, gave her an odd little smile and turned, pausing in the doorway to look back at her for a moment. “A fine match,” he said again, before closing the door.
A mere heartbeat later,
Kate's focus shifted away from Edgar and her undesirable marriage. Another reality consumed her, one that presented a sudden and chilling prospect. The implications of it tested every measure of her sanity. She sought out her window seat and gazed, unseeing, across the bay, her mind trying to rationalize what had happened. Yet, no matter how many times she picked it apart, the stunning truth remained.
Owen existed outside of her dreams. That fact was beyond dispute. What, then, of the Dark One? Did he exist also? Were these images in her head merely dreams, or visions of things yet to come? If so...
God help me.
She whimpered and closed her eyes, trying to see the face of the man who had been shot, but his features were blurred. She couldn't see the killer either – only the ominous shadow that blocked the sun. Who was the Dark One? What did she have that he wanted?
Owen had no doubt gone on his way to the abbey and Kate had no reason to believe she'd ever see him again. So what was the point of their meeting that morning? Simply to see her and her sprained ankle safely home? No, that didn't make sense. Surely there had to be more to it than that. She clutched at her stomach, fighting a rush of panic and nausea. Perhaps she was sick, or losing her mind. Perhaps she should tell her father.
Papa, about that Welshman you met this morning. I need to tell you I've actually been dreaming about him for months. Also, I think I might be having visions of the future and...
By all that was holy, she couldn't. It sounded like utter lunacy. Blasphemy, even. Confused and weary, she leaned back and watched the line of thunderclouds advance across the bay with the incoming tide.
Only when the sun surrendered to the darkening skies did she stretch out her stiff limbs, wondering at the time. In answer, a tap came to her door and a maid bustled in, cheeks flushed, hands fidgeting with her apron.
“Dinner will be served presently, my lady. Your father asked me to tend you.”
Kate nodded her assent, noting the maid's unwillingness to look her in the eye. No doubt the servants knew all about the scene in the courtyard that morning. They missed nothing. Kate allowed herself to be dressed for dinner with no small measure of reluctance. She had no appetite for food, nor did she relish an evening of Edgar's overbearing attention. Her father's earlier demand, however, could not be ignored.
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