Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Hoping to drink himself into oblivion, he had fallen asleep yester eve, with a jug of uisge at the tip of his fingers—a gift from Alec, though it only figured. Only now did he understand that Alec must have had a reason to put him out of his gourd. Bastard. He hadn’t offered him the jug out of any sense of concern for his wellbeing or to improve his disposition, he’d merely intended to drogue Caden out of his mind so he wouldn’t feel them dumping some puir lass into his bed.

  And who the devil was she? She wasn’t anyone from the isle, this much was certain. Caden knew every man, woman and child. On this wee slip of land, it was impossible to know a stranger, and yet a stranger she was.

  And yet, he knew this; her hair was soft. He’d woken up beside her, feeling her silken tresses tickling his arm, and he’d flown from the bed at once, afeared to frighten her with the potency of his arousal—quite unexpected, given his current condition. In fact, Caden couldn’t remember the last time he’d lain with a woman, or even cared to.

  She smelled of junipers and sunshine, and her hair was soft, but this was all he knew for sure. She could be fat or skinny, pale haired or brunette. He could tell none of these things merely by the sound of her voice—sweet, despite the furor in her tone. But Caden didn’t blame her. If it were he who’d been dragged away and deposited here, against his will, he would have awakened with a roar so loud even the storm kelpies would have shivered in their berths. But he gave her this credit; she wasn’t afeared of him. There didn’t appear to be a fearful bone in her body, and even without knowing Caden’s condition, she wasn’t cowed by him, which was rather remarkable.

  Even so, Caden had no interest in wetting his wick simply because she was here. He was not a mindless creature, ready to rut at a moment’s notice, and neither did he care to father bairns he might not be around to rear.

  What in God’s name was Alec thinking? Was he so desperate to lift Caden’s spirits that he would steal a bride only to appease him? Had he not learned his lessons from Caden’s father and Auld MacLeod?

  One night, in a drunken stupor, Auld Macleod took Caden’s mother to the Isle of Skye. As for her return to Rònaigh, Caden had heard more than a few variations of that tale. For one, ’twas said the minute Auld MacLeod realized Mary Mac Swein was heavy with child, he’d shipped her back forthwith to Caden’s sire. But, in another version of this tale, his mother stole away in the middle of the night, and Wee Davie might have, or might not have been, his father’s issue. Though for Caden, there was never any doubt: Wee Davie was his blood, and he would have put a sword through any mon who—

  As ucht Dé, what need had he for heirs, when he couldna fight to keep them safe?

  Nay, it was best that his people find a way to live without him, even if it meant they should abandon Rònaigh and plead their cases with Auld MacLeod. Rònaigh was ill fated, and were it not, why else would the gods see fit to dispose of four capable heirs, and leave a blind man to rule instead?

  “Psst… you… psst…”

  Caden steadfastly ignored the stubborn lass, pretending again to snore, which earned him yet another interim of silence. He wondered why she simply didn’t try the door. He knew beyond a shadow of doubt Alec would never bar it, because it was Caden’s door, and he wouldn’t dare.

  At any rate, why would he bother, unless the girl was dangerous? And then, perhaps, at last, he meant to dispose of Caden. Because there was no place to go. Not without a boat.

  “Psst… you… psst… psst…”

  “Ach, lass, what d’ ye want? Can’t ye see I’m sleeping?”

  “Nay. Ye are no’.”

  “How can ye know?”

  “Because your wee commander is standing at attention. I can see him twitching.”

  Caden blinked. For a moment, he didn’t believe his ears.

  Naturally, he didn’t immediately understand what it was the girl was saying, and then, once he did, he slid a hand down to be sure. And, yes, indeed, his “wee commander” was dancing like an eegit. However, it was her description of his todger that made him bark with laughter.

  “Ach, now! I’m so pleased you think ’tis amusing,” she said sarcastically, and then, after a moment, once Caden’s laughter subsided, she asked, “How long have you been imprisoned in this filthy-god-forsaken place?”

  Filthy, is it? And still, Caden was careful about his answer. “Not long enough,” he said, his mood only momentarily improved. He hid a fledgling smile.

  “Well, ye must ha’e done something terrible,” she surmised.

  “Quite,” he agreed, for, yes, he had. The Christian priest had said his blindness was a penance from God… and, in truth, there had been no injury to explain his loss of sight. He’d simply had it one instant, the next it was gone… like Wee Davie.

  “Hmm… well… if we’re to be cell mates, I suppose you should know my name.”

  Silence.

  “I am Sorcha. And you?”

  “Caden,” he said, after a moment, and felt a prick of guilt for misleading her.

  “So, tell me… Caden, what did you do to deserve such a fate?”

  The tent on Caden’s lap collapsed. “I killed a boy,” he said.

  “On purpose?”

  “Nay.”

  “So, ye’re saying it was an accident?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Forsooth! Who’s the laird of this wretched caisteal?”

  There was pure hatred in Caden’s answer. “An odious man, to be sure.”

  “But, of course,” she returned. “Who would lock away an innocent in a tower?”

  Silence.

  “That’s me, if ye ken. I don’t know about you, but I did naught to deserve this treatment. I merely hired a ship to take me to the Isle of Skye, and instead, they brought me here to lock me up against my will. An’ ye know, they locked away my sister once—verra nearly hung her on a gibbet. She might have deserved it, though I’m glad they didn’t. And now, ye wadna e’er know it by the sight of her—bairns runnin’ all aboot…”

  She was silent a moment, though she wasn’t through.

  “I assume they mean to have me wed their laird, but I dinna, for the life of me, understand why. He must have mistaken me for another.”

  He, meaning Alec no doubt.

  “I bring little of value.”

  Silence again, for Caden didn’t wish to scare her. She held more value than she realized.

  For years now, Alec had been joking about stealing brides, and with all her mettle, she’d make a fine wife—unless she was ugly as a mud fence.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “Aye, lass. Ye wadna wish to see your sister hanging on a gibbet.”

  “I am nobody,” she persisted. “I am merely Sorcha.”

  “Aye, well, you must be someone,” Caden argued, enjoying the fire in her voice. “Everybody is somebody.”

  “Hmm,” she said, with the ease of a prisoner who’d found in her cellmate a fellow conspirator. “In any case, I will never wed that odious laird. He is probably a mealy-mouthed toad, with six fingers and toes, and warts at the end of his nose. Only a mon such as that would feel the need to steal himself a bride…”

  Caden wholeheartedly agreed. “No mon worthy of the name should e’er take a lass against her will.”

  “Says you!” She returned. “Then look at ye. Ye’re a fine, braw mon, and if ye wadna be locked away in this tower, ye’d ha’e your pick of any woman, I would say. Look at ye—and lusty to boot.” She laughed softly, the sound musical. “I don’t suppose any mon would e’er accuse ye of biting pillows. Or, mayhap, you do prefer men, though I dinna think so.”

  Caden did not prefer men. He had never heard such a word before, and in fact, he’d never met a pillow biter, per se, although he supposed it was a far better thing to shag a man than goats. Forsooth, he’d had to fine a mon all his livestock once, and send him away to a monastery. He’d taken pity on the man, only because he knew how difficult it was to live on this remote isle with such a
dearth of maids—a simple fact that was no longer true. In a short turn of fate, they now had far more women than men, and it was the women who would do the choosing, even beyond May Day. One single battle, and all their fates were changed. And, nevertheless, until now—unlike Alec—Caden had been far too busy with the defense of this land to obsess over womenfolk. Although, suddenly, inexplicably, he felt the full weight of his filth. After slopping so much food on his clothing, he no longer bothered to dress. Half the time, Moira put his plate on his chair, and then rushed out the door, with nary a word, as though she feared he would rattle her skull. To Caden’s way of thinking, it was a favor he did them, for who in their right minds would wish to sit at table and watch a grown man shovel peas up his nose?

  The girl was silent a while as Caden contemplated the matter, and Caden wondered if she was staring out the window. Earlier, he’d heard her rake the chair across the wooden floor, and he suspected she’d moved it below the window. Dunrònaigh Keep was constructed to suit larger men—Vikings, whose stature was great. Even Caden had to stand on his tip-toes—a worthless effort anymore.

  Finally, after a long interval of silence, she asked, “So, this boy ye kilt… was he kin to the laird?”

  It hurt to even speak the word. Caden swallowed with some difficulty. “Aye.”

  Again, she fell into silence, as though uncertain what more to say. In the meantime, Caden tried not see Wee Davie’s body teetering before him… without his head. It had taken a startling moment for his body to comprehend its own loss, as though, for the briefest instant, Caden could read his brother’s surprise in his stance…

  And then, Cailleach must have taken pity, for he remembered nothing more. The blindness had affected him suddenly, and he never saw Wee Davie’s body hit the blood-stained grass.

  For the sake of his kinsmen, Caden had hardened his heart. He’d fought with tears in his eyes and a single word on his tongue. No, no, no.

  “When I meet that man, face to face, I shall wrench out his hair,” Sorcha warned, and there was, indeed, a promise in her tone. “The laird, I mean. How dare he lock me away in this tower with a murd—”

  “Try the door,” Caden suggested, and he pulled the covers higher.

  Sorcha screwed her face at his preposterous suggestion.

  Try the door?

  It seemed inconceivable that the door should be simply unlocked, but something about the way he’d said it made her want to smack herself upside the head.

  Of course, she’d assumed the door would be locked. Why wouldn’t she? She was alone in a room with a strange man, who, by the by, appeared to have been here a very long while. His hair was matted and all askew, as though he’d lain abed for half a year or more. Although even that didn’t detract from his good looks. His face had the look of a Viking god. He was quite large, even for a man—taller and wider than her brother Aidan, with arms and legs that looked more like tree trunks than human limbs. Nevertheless, as comely although he might be, he seemed miserable in his own skin. And there was something else about him that was odd, as well…

  In all this time since she’d been speaking to him, he had never once met Sorcha’s gaze, and one would think he might have done so out of curiosity?

  Without a word, Sorcha arose from the chair and did as Caden bade her. She tried the door, and found it… unlocked…

  But, how can it be?

  Holding her breath, Sorcha opened the heavy door to peek out and see who was on the other side.

  No one.

  No guards. Not the man called Alec. The antechamber was wholly abandoned. There was a small cot here, a few trunks and two braziers, not one. Sorcha assumed one had been moved out of the room she was kept in, but why? The windows in the antechamber were a bit more accessible, giving Sorcha a good view of the courtyard below. Nevertheless, she didn’t linger. Instead, she made her way quickly down the stairwell, half expecting Caden to rise and sound the alarm. But he said nothing as she left the room and closed the door, and made no move to prevent her from leaving.

  Sorcha took the stairs two at a time.

  Unlike any dwelling she had ever encountered, this house was tall and narrow. The stairwell was tight and the stairs were slippery and steep. There were few doors along the descent, but, at the bottom of the stairwell, she found herself in a circular alcove, with three doors leading out.

  Which to choose, which to choose …

  Uncharacteristically indecisive—because why shouldn’t she be? Her future depended upon her next move—Sorcha touched each door, trying to guess what she might find on the other side. Her senses, usually keen, were dulled from the drogue they had given her. Too bad her visions weren’t more easily controlled—and where the devil was her keek stane? At last, realizing she hadn’t all that much time, Sorcha chose the far-left door, opening it gently to find the adjacent room also unoccupied. It appeared to be a storage room, though it was nearly empty, with another door on the other side.

  Closing one door, Sorcha crept quietly across the room toward the other. She opened that door as well without setting off alarms. Bright sunshine assaulted her, momentarily blinding her.

  “Madainn mhath!” a woman said in greeting.

  Startled, Sorcha squealed in surprise. “Halloo! Good day,” she replied, having no true bearing of time.

  “I trust you slept well, my lady?”

  As well as could be expected for a woman who’d been drogued, and then placed inside a tower, in a strange man’s bed. But Sorcha said, “Aye.”

  In answer, the woman offered her a genuine smile. “A bheil an t-acras ort?” Art hungry, she asked in the old tongue.

  Sorcha blinked in confusion. These people were not behaving much like gaolers. Perhaps, in truth, she wasn’t a prisoner at all?

  But she worried. Mayhap the ship did go down in a storm—one she couldn’t recall. Perhaps she’d hit her head on the mast—or something else—and everybody drowned, save her. Only somehow, she must have washed up on this isle… but that story didn’t please her much at all, because then everything would be lost—including her sweet Liusaidh. “Aye,” Sorcha said, though she no longer remembered what was asked of her.

  Seeming to understand her confusion, the sweet-faced woman took Sorcha by the hand, leading her away. “Here, now, lass, let us find you something to eat,” she said. “And then, we shall go and visit your lovely mare.”

  “Liusaidh?”

  The woman smiled. “Your name be Sorcha, yes?”

  “To be sure,” Sorcha said, but she shook her head, completely and utterly bewildered, and nonetheless, she allowed the woman to lead her away.

  6

  Not since the hunt for Óengus and his sons had there been such a furor.

  The instant Keane received news of his youngest sister’s disappearance, he gathered a bevy of men and saddled his mount. Each to their own pace, they scoured the woodlands, hills and dales, searching for any sign of Sorcha dún Scoti. By the fourth day of Sorcha’s disappearance, there was still no sign of her, and Aidan grew concerned. Sorcha’s value to Padruig was too great, for the man had no heirs, aside from the daughter he’d forsaken and the grandson he refused to claim. If he ever meant to preserve his legacy, he needed to carve away his pride, or get himself a son… or another daughter to barter away. To his good fortune, fate handed him the latter.

  At twenty-four, Sorcha was equally as beautiful as her sister Lìli, though she was as young and naive as she was lovely. She did not have Lael’s fury, nor Cailin’s cunning, and nevertheless, like Catrìona, who was stolen from the Vale by King David, himself, Keane realized the youngest of his sisters was far more adept than anyone might presume. Much like his wife Lianae.

  The two women had innately gentle spirits, though when the occasion called for it, Keane would not wish to be on the receiving end of either woman’s temper.

  He thought about his wife with a smile, remembering the day he’d met her at Lilidbrugh, with bare feet and bloodied soles and yet, she
too had been a termagant from the first. Sorcha had that same sweet-natured goodness, but with a ruthless edge that would serve her well on her own—unless, of course, someone should appeal to the girl’s sense of compassion, and then, there was no telling what they might get her to do.

  As for Padruig … Keane was certain the old fool did not possess her.

  If he did, he would never have sent men out to scour the woodlands only for show. He was a miserly bawbag who would never bother to waste his resources. Nevertheless, just to be certain, Aidan was patrolling the lands near Inbhir Nis while Cameron McKinnon went in the direction of Perth and Argyll. Keane, for some reason that he couldn’t explain, rode northwest.

  It was that star.

  It made him think of Una.

  And if he had Una in mind, he had an inkling so, too, did Sorcha.

  The two had been so close, and Sorcha had not been the same since Una’s death. It was no wonder she was off her head. The poor lass had had a time of it, when suddenly, overnight, she had a sister she’d never anticipated and a sire everyone loathed.

  Keane suspected she must feel betrayed by her kinsmen—himself included, because he’d never dared question Aidan’s edict not to tell her. It had seemed such a harmless secret. After all, what good could ever come of Sorcha learning that her da was the blackguard who’d murdered their father and defiled their mother?

  Surrounded by ancient pinewoods in every direction, Keane placed himself in his sister’s shoes, and fortunately, he had one thing on his side his brother did not. He’d spent ten years in King David’s guard, tracking rebel forces. But more importantly, he knew full well that his sister would know how to conceal her tracks, because he’d taught her how to do it himself. She’d come oft to Dunràth, and he would be sure she could fend for herself. He’d taught her everything he knew, and she was a good pupil—so good, he had trouble locating her tracks.