Bronwyn saw from the corner of her eye that the soldier still quietly and patiently waiting to resume their journey had heard the insult and was visibly shocked. “Constance, maybe you shouldn’t speak that way at least until the new lord and his friends have come to know you and appreciate your sense of…humor.”
The old woman glanced at the soldier Bronwyn had indicated and let go a loud, impertinent snort. “Worried for me, are you? You should be worried for that arrogant goose,” Constance instructed as she waved her arm back at the castle. “I told him not to climb that deathtrap of a tower, but he ignored me and ordered me here. I saw him standing atop looking over the battlements just as I left the gatehouse, damn fool. Even called him that and it didn’t make a bit of difference.”
Instantly the world around Bronwyn stopped and she was back in time. Screams filled the air and the thick smoke made it impossible to see. She could taste the dust filling her lungs and she couldn’t breathe. The North Tower had killed five that day, including her mother. And it would happen again.
She had to go back.
“You,” Bronwyn shouted toward Drake, still in shock after hearing Constance’s blatant and irreverent references to Ranulf, “catch up to the others and tell them that I will be joining them later.” Her voice rang out, authoritative and in command, leaving no room for discussion or disagreement. She then swung her horse around and urged it into a gallop in the direction of Hunswick.
Drake had been unprepared for the sudden change in Bronwyn’s demeanor from one of a gentle noblewoman to someone obviously well versed and comfortable in exercising power.
Seeing the confounded look on the young soldier’s face, Constance offered some advice. “You can try and follow, but you’ll never catch her. And even if you did, you would then have to explain just why you thought her welfare more important than that of her sisters, which trust me, you don’t want to have to defend. So if I were you, I would do as instructed and see to the safety of the group. For one thing is for certain, that doesn’t include her ladyship anymore.” Then she marched over to her horse, made a quick silent prayer, and struggled back onto the mare’s back, cursing all the while.
When she saw the dark pacing figure on top of the North Tower, Bronwyn’s heart stopped. She had been right. Deadeye de Gunnar was not the tall soldier but the brawny one, and he was oblivious to the deathtrap upon which he stood. The North Tower had been the last structure built and solely by nonmasons. As a result, the fir chosen for the floor beams had been cut too early. By the time the stone walls were complete and the floors installed, no one had realized how decomposed the beams had become.
She gave the reins a sharp yank and her horse immediately came to a halt a few feet away from the tower’s plinth. She threw her head back and stared at the menacing man glaring at her from above.
She had hoped her mere arrival would cause him to come down and rant at her for returning, but the new lord instead stood immobile, holding her gaze either unknowing or unbelieving of the danger he was in. “Get down from that tower now,” Bronwyn commanded.
Any other time, any other place or situation, she would have been conciliatory in her request. But this was a demand, and after months of running Hunswick, she had become accustomed to being obeyed when she used a certain tone of voice.
For a second, Ranulf wondered if he was having a waking nightmare. His angel had returned without warning, riding up to just below where he stood, and stared at him, seeing every flaw, every scar, every hideous feature that caused women to shrink away. But not her. She just held his gaze, unflinching, and then ordered him off his own tower. The woman was impossible. And she needed to leave. “This is no longer your home, my lady.”
“You think that is why I came back? For Hunswick? I’m here to save your life.”
Her dark eyes were glittering with anger and her waist-length curly hair had so many corkscrew tendrils that it bordered on unruly. Her raised chin made clear that she would not shrink from a challenge and the rigidity of her back caused the scooped neck of her bliaut to emphasize the swell of her breasts. He had never seen anything lovelier.
Ranulf took a firm grip on his resolve. He had to stay calm and rational if he had a chance of convincing her that it was she who would be yielding and not he. He had more to lose. “I don’t care why you’ve returned. But you will be leaving, either on your own power or by one of my men’s.”
Bronwyn shuddered at the dangerous softness in his voice. His lordship actually meant to haul her physically off his property. Well, he needed to learn that he wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn. And no one could be as mulish as she, especially when she was in the right. “We can discuss your meaningless threats after you stop acting like a fool and get off that tower.”
Ranulf closed his eyes in acute frustration. Any temptation to do her bidding just vanished. His angel may be beautiful, but she was also a sprite…with claws. “I don’t think so,” he said with as much disinterest he could muster, hoping that it would aggravate her. Seeing her annoyed expression, he smiled. “It’s a fine place up here and the weather is quite comfortable. I might just stay here all night, and as lord of this castle, I guess I can…foolish or not.”
Ranulf resumed his pacing. He didn’t know why he was engaging in an argument with her. It was totally out of character. But what did she expect riding in, regal and self-confident, her dark gold hair flowing in the breeze, and then staring at him, undaunted, almost as if she didn’t see what couldn’t be missed.
With each step, small snapping sounds echoed in her ears. Bronwyn wanted to run up there and throttle him. Four stories above her, he wasn’t close, but neither was he far. She could make out every feature. Slicing across his brow and a fraction of his cheekbone, the deep scar—part burn, part laceration—was noticeable, but not horrific. His left eye was clearly gone, causing his mottled eyelid to remain closed. It would have looked like he was winking at her except for his other eye. Gold-tinged, encircled by black, it was cold. The man was unmistakably angry. But then, so was she. The new lord was acting like a stubborn ass.
“You narrow-minded man. These people need a leader, not someone full of misplaced pride who has yet to come to terms with the unfairness of life. Go back to Normandy and sulk some more, but get off that tower.” Bronwyn heard the sharp intake of breaths behind her, but refused to turn around or give up. She was creating a spectacle, and in any other circumstance, she would be mortified. But if it drove him down, it would be worth it.
Ranulf stopped in midstride and crossed his arms, accentuating his muscular build. No longer did he need to wonder if she could see him. She saw not only his injury, but much more. The pain it still caused him and suddenly he felt weak in her eyes. “You like to order men around, don’t you? Test their manhood? It didn’t work yesterday in the forest and it won’t today. I am not a man to be provoked, and my lady, you are trying my patience.”
The shock coursing through Bronwyn was evident. He was the one. Her rescuer, her hero, the one she had wished to meet, the one she had thought bold, daring, and courageous had not been one of his soldiers, but Deadeye de Gunnar himself. How many times did she need to learn this lesson? Chivalrous heroes did not exist. The world no longer made them. There were none to be found. The last two were her father and Lord Anscombe and they were both gone.
“You, my lord,” Bronwyn said through gritted teeth, “are far from the nobleman who previously ruled this castle and these lands. You are nothing but a mercenary with a title.”
Her lips were drawn tight and hot, furious tears burned her eyes. It suddenly occurred to Ranulf that his angel felt real fury and it unnerved him. Women did not attach strong emotions to him, and for a flitting moment, he longed for her to smile at him instead. He wondered what it would be like to have her feel, not anger, and certainly not compassion, but real desire for him. The idea was overwhelming…and maddening.
“I never claimed to be a nobleman!” Ranulf bellowed.
Bronwyn cringed. Until now, he had kept his voice menacing, but low and controlled. His outburst had been startling. “Don’t shout at me!” she instinctively hollered back.
“Why? You’ve been shouting at me!” he returned. Ranulf honestly didn’t know what was going on. He never yelled. Then again, no one confronted and countered him either.
Bronwyn opened and closed her mouth twice before she realized just what she was doing and how idiotic she must appear. Another loud crack rang out. The beam sustaining his weight would last not much longer. “What am I going to do?” she muttered to herself and was about to direct her horse to the gatehouse when a deep chuckle startled her.
“I can’t wait to find out.”
Bronwyn’s whipped her head around, spying the tall good-looking soldier she had seen earlier. With tousled, shoulder-length red-brown hair, he was much more handsome up close, especially as he was smiling and flashing his dimples. Another time, she might have admired them a little longer, but her mind was consumed with only one man—the most frustrating, stubborn one of her acquaintance.
She urged her horse toward the grinning giant and then pointed toward the tower. “You’re his friend, are you not? I saw you together earlier and you were anything but subservient. I assume you are not one of his soldiers, but someone he trusts. Someone he will listen to.”
Both of Tyr’s brows arched in surprise. He cast a glance toward Ranulf and almost started chuckling again. His always composed friend was staring at them and he was anything but unruffled. “I have never known Ranulf to heed anyone’s counsel but his own, but aye, I am his friend.”
“Then do something!” Bronwyn hissed.
Tyr’s hazel eyes suddenly grew wide with mocking interest. “Like what?”
“Like…what?” Bronwyn stammered, wondering if the man was stupid or just intentionally aggravating. “Unless you want to see your friend dead, convince him that he needs to get off that tower immediately.”
Tyr’s face broke into a huge grin. He couldn’t help it. The woman was outrageous. She was also the answer to every question that he had been having concerning his friend’s baffling behavior the past two days. This wild beauty had Ranulf in knots and it was no wonder. One didn’t encounter women with soft curvaceous bodies, flashing blue eyes, and wisps of sun-kissed hair very often in court or in the battlefield. Ranulf had obviously seen her yesterday and had not been prepared. That was why she and her sisters had been forced to leave so quickly. Ranulf didn’t want to see her. More to the point—he didn’t want her to see him.
“If you want him to get down, then leave.”
“I cannot leave, whoever you are, until I know that the new lord is safe and able to assume his role and lead these people.”
“My name is Tyr. Tyr Dequhar.”
Bronwyn narrowed her gaze just slightly. She could have sworn that he had been about to embellish his name significantly with a title, but had just stopped himself in time. As to why, she would have to discover another time. “Then, Tyr, would you help me?”
“He’s made it clear that as long as you are here, he’s not coming down. So why do you stay? I think my friend intrigues you far more than he ignites your ire.”
“And you find that amusing.”
Tyr nodded, his infectious grin growing only larger. “If you knew Ranulf better, you would know why.”
Bronwyn swallowed and her eyes grew misty. “I only know that the North Tower kills. It took my mother and it will take your friend.”
Ranulf stared at the couple below. He watched Tyr assess his angel and knew when his friend deemed someone attractive. Something was said and Ranulf watched as Tyr’s expression changed from one of amusement to rapt attention. Tyr reached out and took her hand in his, not out of desire, but genuine concern. Hot, bitter jealousy twisted inside Ranulf. Bronwyn had been entrusted to him, and him alone.
Ranulf pivoted and stomped toward the stairs. If she wanted him down, to see him face-to-face, Lady Bronwyn le Breton had just gotten her wish. But before he could take the first descending step, a sudden sharp explosive noise filled the air.
Bronwyn raced toward the gatehouse and into the courtyard. Once inside, she jumped off her horse and ran to the tower. It had happened again.
Her mother had been on the ground floor, helping to look for something buried in all the stored items, when the first floor had given way. She had died instantly, crushed from the debris. This time, the top two floors had collapsed. In horror she had watched Ranulf disappear as a thunderous sound of wood breaking and coming to a crashing halt echoed in the valley.
No one could have survived the fall.
Bronwyn approached the tower, coughing, waving her hands in a futile attempt to clear the air of dust. Like before, the massive stone walls remained erect, but inside the structure was chaos and devastation. Shouts were coming from everywhere as people started dashing inside to search for the new lord’s body. Bronwyn couldn’t move. She just stood transfixed in shocked horror.
A strong firm grip encircled her upper arm and pulled. “My lady. You need to leave. It’s not safe here.”
Bronwyn blinked. “It was my fault. I should have left. He didn’t come down because I had to stay. To see him. He saved me and I just wanted…” Tears formed and fell.
Then she saw him. Ranulf was lying near the top of the tower on the stairs that had been built into the stone structure. Bronwyn wrenched free of Tyr’s grasp and leapt up the stairs before he could stop her.
Ranulf felt cool fingertips stroking his cheek and decided he was dreaming. His angel had returned and was whispering softly into his ear and he longed to know what she was saying. As consciousness took hold, he realized they were words of fear and remorse and he knew then that it was not a dream, but a nightmare, and if he were to open his eyes, his angel would be there, looking at him…with pity.
Ranulf reached out with his working arm and snatched her wrist. “Don’t look at me,” he hissed. His confidence had already taken a hit when she dared to argue with him. No one did that. No one.
“Shh. Don’t try to move.”
Ranulf tried once again to push her away, but his arm wouldn’t cooperate. His shoulder hurt, but that pain was negligible compared to the one in his head. “Leave me,” he pleaded. Never had he begged before, but he could hear it in his voice, imploring her to go.
Soft lips caressed his right ear. “Please, my lord. Let me save you as you saved me.”
Ranulf opened his eyes and tried to lift his head. Intense pain shot through his temple and the world started spinning around him, making him very nauseous. He had already made a complete idiot of himself. She was tending to his shoulder as if he were an unskilled soldier with his first wound and unaccustomed to dealing with pain. He was not going to add vomiting to the day’s events.
Her fingers reached the edge of his tunic and were about to pull back the opening to further examine the wound when he reached up and stopped her. “Don’t. Get someone else. Anyone else.”
Bronwyn was about to argue when comprehension sank in. She should have realized that such a severe burn injury would not be localized to just his face. The man neither wanted nor would get sympathy from her because of his past wounds. Everyone had nightmares, and he obviously was stilling dealing with his.
“Why? I’m not afraid. Are you?”
Ranulf recognized a challenge when one was issued, but he could not recall the last time someone had made such a direct one. He held her gaze for a long moment. “Only of you, angel.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why? You look like one.”
“Then the fall has made you delusional, and the sooner we get you off these stairs and remove the wood lodged in your shoulder, the better.”
Hearing that he was not on the ground and that they were about to move him, Ranulf was in the process of saying “no” when someone jerked up his shoulders and head, causing the world to grow dark.
Ranulf’s last thought
was that Tyr and the old lady had been right. He really was a fool.
Ranulf awoke to the smell of flowers and the tantalizing scent of woman. Once again he had the unfamiliar sensation of being caressed. This time the feeling of fingers ran softly across his forehead and into his hair again and again, completely overwhelming his other senses, including the painful banging in his head that matched the beat of his pulse. He concentrated on the gentle ministrations and listened to the raspy tones of his angel issuing instructions. Her low, sultry voice did not carry the songbird qualities heard so often in court, but it was soft, clear, and possessed a dangerous quality that could awaken his once-dead heart.
Ranulf held his breath. The silky sounds had changed from sultry tones to playful ones…and they were chiding him.
“You’re smiling, my lord,” Bronwyn whispered into his ear so that no one else could hear. “Not the large type of grin your friend wears so easily, but enough for me to know that you are awake.”
Ranulf blinked his one working eye and saw the face of his angel peering down at him. Her hair had been haphazardly pulled back in a loose braid that at any minute threatened to fall apart. The angry midnight eyes he had witnessed from afar were not nearly as dark as he had originally believed. Lined with concern, they were a deep misty blue, the color of the sea after a storm. He could see no pity or fear in the overly large pools. Only one other pair of blue eyes had ever looked at him that way. Sir Laon le Breton’s, her father.
Ranulf discovered not long after his injury that only a certain type of woman would be attracted to his bed. Tyr and a few others had tried to convince him otherwise, and usually it was a mercenary heart he held in his arms, attempting to woo him for his money. But there were a few times, when the woman he held looked back at him with such cold detachment it made him feel only lonelier and less of a man. Three years ago after a highly unpleasant encounter, he decided to forgo female companionship altogether, and until today he had never been tempted to change his mind.
The Christmas Knight Page 7