A Warrior's Soul

by Aileen Adams

  Rodric emerged from the inn, a satisfied smile on his face. “Once I let it slip that we’re accompanying an important person to the earl’s castle, the man who owns the place became much more amenable,” he informed them. “And the rooms became much more affordable.”

  A sick pit of dread formed itself in her stomach. Why did he insist on announcing her? The earl would know she had arrived in the village. He would know she was on her way.

  It would make everything more real.

  It confirmed the fact that she had no chance of escape.

  None of them noticed her stricken expression.

  None of them but Brice. He seemed to peer into her very thoughts.

  She avoided his gaze, knowing that if their eyes met, it would be too much. She would be reduced to tears, out there in the middle of the bustling crowd.

  “Come,” he said, swinging a leg over the saddle. “I’ll see to the horses while the rest of you are settled in.”

  19

  Aana’s stricken face seared itself into his mind. There was no choice but to get away from her as quickly as possible.

  As though he might outrun her despair. Her disappointment in him.

  As though it were any of his affair.

  It was a dreadful mistake, coming to think of the lass as anything more than a means to an end. A new saddle, new shoes. Each stone in his path smarted against the soles of his feet, the leather worn to the point where it was nearly non-existent.

  He needed the silver Earl Remington was prepared to grant in exchange for her delivery.

  They all did. His needs and his desires were not the only ones in question. And the loyalty of his friends, the ones whose hands he placed his life in time and again, outweighed the concerns of a frightened lass.

  No matter how much he had begun to want her for himself.

  He hadn’t known it, truly known it in the deepest corners of his soul, until he’d all but held her by the banks of the stream. Until they’d been but a breath away from sharing a kiss he was certain would have led them down a path of pain and regret.

  Once he’d kissed her, he was certain, he would never be able to free his soul from her grip. It was for the best, then, that he hadn’t.

  They never could. Not ever.

  Not once in his life had he known the sort of longing which consumed him when he imagined her as another man’s bride. The ache in his chest, the shortness of breath when he saw her in another man’s arms.

  “Are ye hearing me?” Quinn nudged him.

  They stood outside the stable, waiting for the owner to attend them while the horses dug at the ground with impatient hooves.

  Brice did his best to clear his troubled mind. “My thoughts were elsewhere,” he admitted.

  “Thinking about the lass, are ye?”

  Brice rewarded him with a sharp look. “What makes ye say so?”

  “Ye needn’t be so high and mighty,” Quinn chuckled. “I meant nothing by it. Only that we’ll be delivering her on the morrow and she seems none too pleased with it.”

  “Oh, were ye thinking so?” Brice snickered. “She did attempt an escape, after all.”

  “Aye.” Quinn rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing as he did. “Can I share something with ye?”

  If his friend was about to confess love for the lass, Brice wasn’t certain that he’d be able to control himself. “Since when are ye asking me such daft questions? You’ve always been able to.”

  “Aye, but I don’t want ye thinking I’ve gone soft or anything of the sort. Especially not toward her, if ye get my meaning.”

  Brice’s eyebrows lifted. “Go on.”

  Quinn looked back and forth as though wary of being overheard before leaning in. “I do not feel quite right about it. Delivering her, I mean. We’ve never been tasked with such a mission before.”

  He managed to avoid a sigh of relief at the knowledge that he was not alone in his regret over the lass’s situation. “It is a difficult situation to be sure,” he admitted.

  “It’s as though we’re delivering her over to be hanged,” Quinn muttered with a shake of his head.

  “I don’t know that it’s that dire.”

  “It seems that way to her.”

  It was an effort to raise his shoulders in a shrug. The last thing he wished to do was to disagree with Quinn, as his thoughts on the matter were so similar—if not stronger.

  To agree would benefit no one. It would only serve to make the entire endeavor more arduous.

  “We were tasked with a responsibility,” he reminded his friend—and himself. “We must see it through. How the lass feels about it is none of our affair. Whether we believe it’s in her best interest is, again, nothing we need trouble ourselves with.”

  He wondered if it sounded as flat to Quinn’s ears as it did to his own. There was no reason for the lad to know his true beliefs on the matter.

  He only said what he felt compelled to say as a friend, and a partner.

  As the innkeeper had all but offered the rooms for free, they’d taken three in total. Alana’s faced the street and was the largest of all. Brice and Rodric shared the one beside it, only a thin plank wall separating the two. Fergus and Quinn would share the next room.

  “What do we do if she decides to make a run for it now?” Rodric asked in hushed tones, seated on the straw-filled tick which served as a bed.

  Far preferable to another night on the ground, in Brice’s opinion.

  He sat on his own tick, against the opposite wall which separated them from Alana. All was quiet in there save for the occasional splashing noise; the innkeeper had secured her a large washtub. Once the men had carried it upstairs, the innkeeper’s wife had seen to filling it.

  The water was likely little better than lukewarm by the time of the filling, but Alana hadn’t seemed to care.

  “She won’t,” Brice predicted. “Now that the innkeeper knows who she is, like as not someone has gone ahead to announce her arrival.”

  “Ah,” Rodric frowned. “Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it, then.”

  “Oh?”

  He shrugged, his features twisted in guilt. Brice knew that look well enough to recognize it at first glance. “I suppose I feel sorry for her. She’s a nice sort.”

  Brice chuckled, mostly in surprise. “Ye only say that because she’s been a willing pair of ears.”

  Rodric’s mouth fell open as though he wanted to protest, then, he laughed. “I suppose you’re correct! I’ve enjoyed speaking of Caitlin so freely.”

  Alana had plagued him with questions as they’d shared the evening meal around the fire, and he had been more than glad to speak at length.

  It had been a welcome reprieve for the rest of them.

  “You would not allow her to escape, would ye?” Brice ventured, fairly certain it was the wrong question but unable to keep himself from voicing it.

  “Of course not,” Rodric was quick to reply. “I do not wish to imagine what would come of us if we allowed her to slip through our fingers.”

  “I agree.”

  “Even so…” Rodric shook his head. “I canna help but remember how Caitlin escaped my brother, after their wedding. She was desperate. Foolishly so, perhaps. She brought danger on the heads of all those who cared for her. I hope Alana is a bit wiser.”

  Brice held back from giving voice to the protestation which immediately came to mind.

  Caitlin had been reckless and foolish.

  But her actions had led to happiness with Rodric.

  The splashing stopped after a time, telling Brice that Alana had finished her bath. And he’d thought it was difficult enough to keep her from his mind when she was bathing.

  How foolish of him.

  For knowing she was out of the washtub meant knowing her dripping body was exposed as she dried using linen sheets the innkeeper’s wife had provided. It was the closest thing to torture he could imagine, having her right there on the other side of the wall, knowing he was unable to
touch her or even look upon her beauty.

  “I need a breath of air,” he decided, standing before the words were out of his mouth and leaving the room before Rodric could ask any questions. He barreled down the narrow, split-log stairs and out the door into the street.

  It was quieter than it had been when they’d arrived, most villagers in the comfort of their homes at that time of the night. The sky was darkening to a deep blue which would soon lend itself to black.

  He avoided meeting the eyes of anyone who happened past him, just as he refused to look in through the open doors of the homes in his path.

  Why interest himself in what others were doing? How they lived their lives? He would not be staying.

  Anger simmered just beneath the surface of every movement as he very nearly marched up and down rows of homes, places of business. He considered ducking into a tavern and downing all the ale his stomach would hold—which he knew from experience was quite a quantity—but stopped himself in time and merely kept walking on.

  Perhaps if he exhausted himself, he might fall right to sleep and not lie awake, thinking of her.

  Then again, the others would wonder at his absence—it was a strange village, and English. He owed it to them to return.

  The innkeeper looked put-out when Brice first stepped through the door, though in a moment he recognized one of the four escorts of Earl Remington’s soon-to-be bride. When recognition dawned, so did friendliness. “Ah, you were out for a walk, were you?”

  The accent sounded amusingly unfamiliar to Brice’s unpracticed ear. He returned the man’s smile, willing himself not to react. “Aye, a fine, soft evening.”

  The portly, bald-headed man held up a hand to keep Brice from continuing up the stairs. “My wife cleaned your lady’s riding clothes, then hung them to dry by the fire. She asked that I deliver the bundle but have been otherwise occupied. Might I press you into service?”

  Brice’s teeth were gritted when he nodded in agreement. The very last thing he wished to do was see her, yet there was no way to refuse. He merely accepted the bundle of folded clothing and climbed the stairs with heavy feet.

  It would not do to ask one of the others to deliver the bundle. He would have no reason to give as to his being unable to do so, and anything he managed to concoct would sound pitiful and childish.

  And so, he continued down the narrow corridor after reaching the second floor, his knuckles sharp against her door when he knocked there.

  “Yes?” She sounded tired, and wary.

  “It’s me, lass,” he murmured. “The innkeeper asked me to bring your cleaned clothing.”

  Her footsteps shuffled across the floor, coming closer, and she opened the door to him. The wariness in her voice extended itself to her expression, for she appeared distrustful.

  He held out the bundle almost as though it were a peace offering or a gift, willing himself to turn his eyes away from the wet hair which hung about her shoulders. He’d never seen it down before, out of her customary braid, and thought he could become lost in its waves.

  “Thank ye,” she whispered, her hands brushing against his as she took what he offered.

  It seemed as though he ought to say something more. “Is the room to your liking?”

  “Quite,” she nodded. “I’m certain it shall serve me well.”

  “I’m glad.”

  They fell silent then, merely staring at each other.

  Her lips parted as they had earlier in the day, drawing his attention. They fairly begged to touch his own, pleaded with him to taste them.

  Something flashed in her eyes, and there was no denying her.

  Or himself.

  He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  20

  It was happening! It had worked!

  If he hadn’t come to her, she would have found a reason to draw him in. Knocking something down, weeping loudly, something to bring him to her door.

  This was much better. It made the entire affair appear to be more his idea than hers.

  She took a step backward, then another, until the insides of her knees touched the bed. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh, a tremor running from head to toe at the sight of his eyes.

  He wanted her. She’d known he did.

  And she knew then that she wanted him, too. It was wrong, completely, but perhaps better this way. She would not be giving herself to a man she cared nothing for.

  As she likely would have done if the man in question had been the earl her father sold her to.

  Brice reached for her, his strong hands taking her arms, pulling her to him until their bodies touched once again. This time, she wore only a light, linen shift with nothing beneath it. Her heart raced at the illicit thoughts which ran rampant throughout while her body reacted in ways she’d never experienced.

  He leaned down, still looking into her eyes, his mouth a hair’s breadth from hers. She could not help but tremble; whether it was fear or something darker, deeper which caused her to do so, she couldn’t tell. She only knew that whatever he wanted from her was something she wished to give, rather than forcing herself to do so.

  Her eyes closed, her head fell back in anticipation of his kiss. She held her breath as delicious promise—and the possibility of freedom—lingered just a moment away.

  A moment which extended itself longer than she’d expected.

  Finally, when nothing happened, she dared open her eyes.

  And found him looking at her as though he was enraged.

  “What is it?” she whispered, still half-lost in a daze. He looked so angry with her.

  “I almost fell into your trap.” He nearly shoved her away from himself, forcing her to fall back onto the bed with a startled cry.

  “What? I was not trying to trap you!” In the cold light of his rejection, she suddenly felt underdressed. Immodest. She scrambled to cover her thin shift with a blanket, her hands shaking.

  “Ye would’ve trapped us both,” he snarled.

  She flinched away from the animal sound of his voice, memories smashing into her from all sides. Memories of fear and rage and pain.

  At the sight of her reaction, something in him changed. His eyes softened, his face shifted, his shoulders fell. He no longer reminded her of a hulking beast fighting himself to refrain from harming her.

  Even so, it did little to relieve the rising rush of dismay his rejection inspired. She rolled to her side, away from him, and burst into heartbroken sobs the pillow was barely able to muffle.

  “Alana. Do not do this.”

  The bed shifted as he sat beside her, at her back. She curled herself into a tight ball, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself. As though she might protect herself that way.

  “You…don’t…understand…” she sobbed, struggling even to breathe much less to speak clearly.

  “Nor do ye,” he insisted, murmuring close to her ear.

  “Please, leave me alone!”

  “Not until I try to make you see. It’s for your own good, lass. I wish I could make it clear.”

  “Stop. Please. I asked you to leave me alone.” It was hopeless. There was no escaping her fate, not anymore.

  “If Earl Remington were to find ye ruined, he would not wish to marry ye. That much is true. But what would he do after that?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Aye. Ye do not.” The hand he placed upon her shoulder was not rough, but gentle. Perhaps even tender. “Alana. I couldna live with myself if I were the reason for him—or your father—to abuse you in any way,” he added as an afterthought.

  She tried to shake away his hand, comforting though it was when she imagined what he’d described. He was more than likely correct—at least, he was when it came to Douglas Stewart. He would use any excuse to punish her.

  The memory of that lashing was fresh enough, even after so many years.

  She had better control over herself then and was able to whisper, “You’ve no idea how humiliated I a
m—and before you remind me it’s my fault, I’ll ask you to save the effort. I’m well aware that any humiliation is on my head.”

  “Ye needn’t feel as such,” he murmured. “I can understand why a lass would go as far as ye nearly did. I would never blame ye for being afraid.”

  “Worse than afraid,” she whispered, shuddering at the thought of what being Remington’s bride would mean.

  “Perhaps it won’t be as bad as all that.”

  She snorted, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shift. “Come now.”

  “Ye do not know him. He could very well be kind, considerate, a good husband.”

  “He bought a wife.”

  “It could be he needs to carry on the name. I may not be in the acquaintance of nobility, but everyone knows it’s important for the line to carry on. Even I.”

  That did not make the thought of marrying him any easier to bear, but she saw the futility of further argument. Brice was correct, damn him. If she were ruined and Remington were to learn of it, he would hold both her and Douglas Stewart and even Brice accountable.

  “I’m terribly sorry, lass.” He patted her shoulder in the most awkward fashion. “I truly am. I wish…”

  “Please. Spare me your wishes.” She waved a hand over her shoulder. “Leave me alone now. I beg you.”

  “Will ye…”

  “I will be all right, and I will not attempt to flee,” she added. “I know how thoroughly ensnared I am. There is no further chance to be free.”

  “Oh, Alana.” He got up, the bed shifting with the loss of his weight, and closed the door softly behind him when he left.

  Only once it was closed and she was alone did she turn onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as tears rolled down the sides of her face and soaked into her already damp hair.

  It wasn’t like before, the first time that he had turned her away.

  She hadn’t truly wanted him then. He’d merely been a way for her to escape her fate.

  When he’d pushed her away the first time, her pride had stung.

  Now, lying alone in a foreign village—a foreign country—it was her heart which ached unbearably.