Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The cauldron in their hearth was not unlike their ancestral cauldron in the quadrangle at Blackwood, only that one was large and black, and licked by a hundred thousand smoky tongues. This one was small and squat and smelled like cabbage stew.

  Unlacing the small pouch that contained the necessary herbs, Seren placed two fingers inside to remove a pinch, and then tossed the mixture into the cauldron. Her words were breathy and low, as she sang, “Our song arises from the cauldron, unrestrained be our tongues…”

  Rhiannon stepped forward to pass a hand over the bubbling water, and then plucked a strand of her own black hair, tossing it into the pot. And then, one by one, each sister offered a benign sacrifice of her person—a strand of hair, a bitten fingernail, an eyelash, plucked.

  Beneath the cauldron’s black belly, the fire quivered, then leapt, reborn. Flames in the shapes of fiery hands moved to cradle the pot, in much the same way a woman might stroke her pregnant belly. And, then, after each of the sisters had given of her essence, they joined hands, and Elspeth said with a lump in her throat, “Mother Goddess hear us calling…”

  “We are your daughters,” continued Rhiannon.

  And then Seren. “Wherever we may roam.”

  “Sister Moon hear us calling,” said Arwyn.

  And the youngest joined, if only reluctantly, with tears brimming in her wide blue eyes. “In your light we are never alone…”

  Outside, the last ray of sunlight stretched thin, shivering as though the incantation forced it to linger against its will.

  Altogether the sisters whispered low, “Breath of life powers lend. We hail the sky your mist to send. By all on high and law of three, this is my will, so may it be.”

  In answer, a thin, cold mist crept out from the cauldron, sliding down the black belly, and spilling onto the floor. Slowly, it coalesced about the sister’s feet, and then after swallowing the dirt floor of the hovel, it crept out beneath the door…

  Chapter 2

  Neither king nor church held sway in this time-forgotten place.

  It was a country unfurling with mists, overgrown with brambles and painted in copious shades of green. Shadowy and full of mystery, it was so easy to believe in tree gods and serpents and sunken islands, populated by moon-faced priestesses, all riding snow white steeds.

  Malcom Scott, first Earl of Aldergh, vassal to Stephen of Blois, made his way past wizened auld yews with twisted, broken backs. As though afeared, the white-skinned aspens shivered as he passed, and if so, perhaps it was the sight of Malcom that made them quiver, for at thirty, he bore the scars of too many battles. His hair, like his sire’s, was heavily brushed with silver, and his shoulders, once lean with youth, were wide enough to bear the weight of worlds.

  By now, he’d managed to betray both kith and kin—and for what? A Godforsaken piece of land in the northern hinterlands of England?

  Thirteen years ago, he slew his own kinsman, and what he’d won for his effort was a castle in the border lands and a rising silence from the northern reaches that left him cold by night and longing for simpler times. Scowling over the memory of that day so long past—in woodlands distinctly different from these—he peered down at the ring on his finger, given to him by his mother, the daughter of Aldergh’s first lord.

  Altium, citius, fortius.

  And this he was: swifter than his sire, taller and stronger. But as for the noble dictum his motto proclaimed, Malcom feared he was more the spirit of his dead grandsire, for in the name of avarice—for what else could it be?—he’d committed unforgivable sins.

  Alas, if his mother regretted the bestowal, Malcom could not say, for he’d not spoken to either of his parents in more than ten years. He had a ten-year-old brother that, to this day, he’d never laid eyes upon, but at least his father and an heir. Only now, having received word of his father’s failing health, neither king, nor duty could keep him from rushing north.

  Cursing softly beneath his breath, he made his way through brambles, wincing as thorns pricked at his back. At one point, the mist grew so thick that he was forced to dismount. Taking the lead rope, he guided his Merry Bells, testing every step before her. And still, like bent auld hags with claws for fists, the brambles tore at his clothes. Behind him, the horse snorted in protest.

  By the time they were done here they would be a sight for Auld Ulric, who scarce had time to mend his accouterments before Stephen called again to war. But this time, the armorer had his work cut out for him, because Malcom had taken an arrow to the shoulder. There was a gaping hole in his hauberk where the arrowhead pierced him, though fortunately, the damage to his flesh was minimal. As of yet, he’d managed not to succumb to any fever, and overall, he counted it his good fortune that these wildlings had but intended to frighten them, for, indeed, had they intended to kill him, his body would be rotting at the bottom of a ravine.

  Never in his life had he witnessed men so skilled with bows, and they were masters at melding with their environs, suspending themselves from trees, and leaping down like spiders from webs as he passed. But at least he managed to get Wee Davie his bow.

  “We’ll be east-side afore ye know it,” he assured the trusty mare.

  Merry Bells he’d named her—the third of her name—honored after a good friend’s dog. That sweet mutt had served her master well. Malcom should be so fortunate if this beast had an ounce of her devotion.

  Alas, his first Merry Bells had not lived up to the name. She had been a temperamental beast who’d unseated him during the battle of the Standard. She damned near broke his neck. Unfortunately, she’d died there as well, and so too did Malcom’s heart, for that was the first time he’d been forced to choose between his Scots kin and the oath he gave to Stephen. For his service, Stephen rose him to an Earl, but that was the last time he’d spoken to his sire.

  The second Merry Bells gave Malcom hope, but she, too, met her fate on a battlefield, only rather than die as her predecessor had, in the midst of warfare, she’d broken a leg on a patch of ice during a hard winter siege. With his heart in his hand, Malcom himself had taken her life, putting the lady out of her misery, although it haunted him still that Stephen’s men had butchered her for their dinner and gobbled her to her bones.

  This particular Merry Bells seemed far more attuned to him, and she was young yet, though betimes too skittish. The last time he’d given her shoes, she nearly clipped a slice out of his head. And once again, she snorted in protest over a nasty bramble and Malcom spoke to her gently. “Bear with it, lass. We’ll be free of this wet, black hole afore ye ken.”

  After they emerged from these spiteful woods, they would descend into England and make their way north through civilized country.

  In the meantime, the hairs on Malcom’s nape stood on end, and he felt eyes on his back. Alas, he was painfully aware of the fact that, in this thick, pea-soup fog, it would be impossible to be certain there was no one hovering overhead. And even now, they could have longbows trained at his head.

  What hour was it now?

  Near Terce, Elspeth thought.

  By now, her sisters should have been roused for morning prayers, and already she missed them all so terribly. How selfish she had been to leave! Sweet Mother! How could she have allowed Rhiannon to talk her into such a thing?

  With every ten steps she took, she took two more back. And every time, she grew confused and enervated, and blamed it on the long night traipsing about the woods. But she knew it must also be a consequence of the ether spell.

  Come sunrise, she had climbed into this tree in order to find a safe place to rest and she fell asleep in the crook of the elm. Now, here she sat, with too little distance between herself and the priory and a pang in her heart that she couldn’t vanquish.

  But she couldn’t remain here. The veil of mist they’d conjured last night would soon fade, and no doubt Ersinius had already loosed all his ravens. Morwen’s lackeys would come running just as soon as they could to search hill and dale and turn every stone.
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  Elspeth’s greatest hope was that, whilst she sought herself a safe haven to wait for her sisters, d’Lucy would find himself another match—preferably none of her sisters. And, in the meantime, she hoped Rhiannon would find a way to extricate herself and the rest of her sisters from the priory.

  Last night they had barely gotten Elspeth past the guards. In a moment of terror, fearing for their safety, she had tried her best to get them to flee with her whilst they could. But Rose was afraid, and wherever Rose ventured, Arwyn followed. Therefore, if Rhiannon and Seren had agreed, they would have been forced to leave Rose and Arwyn behind. In the end, Elspeth had assured them all that she was better off alone. Only now she didn’t believe it.

  What if Rhiannon was wrong? What if Morwen would, indeed, allow Seren to wed out of turn? What if all this came to naught? Considering all these things, and more, Elspeth felt like closing her eyes and going back to sleep—even now, perched in this tree, like some bloody bird.

  Holding tight to a branch overhead, she battled her way through a bout of sleepiness as she considered Rose’s thievery. How was it that she could she feel so self-assured to hunt these woods without permission, but yet refused to flee? So, she would risk Ersinius’ wrath for berries, but not her freedom? How much sense did that make? Even so, Elspeth was grateful for her disguise. The breeches were a bit too snug, but unlike her rude gown, it provided her freedom to move and climb, and most importantly, it kept her legs warm in this dank weather.

  Was it May already? It felt more like December!

  Shivering from the cold, Elspeth squinted to peer through the mist and considered scrambling down to get on her way, but then she realized she was not alone…

  She felt the presence before she saw him, and braced herself for the worst, trying to gauge how many men were coming in her direction… One? Two?

  Stay with me,” she begged the fog, as she inched down to see between branches.

  Presently she spied a dark figure lumbering through the woods and her heart thumped at the sight of him walking. Only after an instant she could better see that it was a big black horse being led by a man—a very tall man, wearing a Norman-styled hauberk and coif, with leggings and boots as black as his horse.

  Elspeth slipped from her perch, pinching her fingers on the bark, and whispered an oath. Regrettably, the man must have heard her, because he froze, and panicking, Elspeth whispered a charm:

  You cannot see me, cannot hear me, do not want me. Leave me be.

  But it didn’t work. He was still searching for her, unfazed by her feeble spell. But, then again, why would it work? She was well out of practice, and there were only a few spells she knew by rote. In her panic, she must have gotten something wrong.

  What to do now?

  Take an example from Rose; steal his horse

  Yes, of course!

  The voice in her head was Rhiannon’s and Elspeth smiled, realizing she was not yet alone.

  Fortunately for her—unfortunate for him—she’d never met a beast who didn’t adore her. The warrior’s horse should be little different. She concentrated, bidding the animal nearer, recognizing the instant she connected, because the beautiful mare shimmied inside her skin, like a cat with pleasure over the stroke of a hand. And then, naturally, she sought Elspeth’s gaze.

  “That’s it,” Elspeth whispered. “Come closer…”

  She wiggled a finger at the mare.

  Also by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Coming Soon

  A brand-new series

  The Border Brides

  The King’s Favorite (6/26)

  A Winter’s Rose (10/21)

  The Highland Brides

  The MacKinnon’s Bride

  Lyon’s Gift

  On Bended Knee

  Lion Heart

  Highland Song

  MacKinnon’s Hope

  Guardians of the Stone

  Once Upon a Highland Legend

  Highland Fire

  Highland Steel

  Highland Storm

  Maiden of the Mist

  The Medievals Heroes

  Once Upon a Kiss

  Angel Of Fire

  Viking’s Prize

  The Impostor Series

  The Impostor’s Kiss

  The Impostor Prince

  Redeemable Rogues

  Happily Ever After

  Perfect In My Sight

  McKenzie’s Bride

  Kissed by a Rogue

  Anthologies & Novellas

  Lady’s Man

  Mischief & Mistletoe

  Married at Midnight

  The Winter Stone

  Romantic Suspense

  Speak No Evil

  Tell No Lies

  Leave No Trace

  Mainstream Fiction

  The Girl Who Stayed

  The Things We Leave Behind

  Redemption Song

  Everyday Lies (8/2018)

  About the Author

  Tanya Anne Crosby is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of twenty-five novels. She has been featured in magazines, such as People, Romantic Times and Publisher's Weekly, and her books have been translated into eight languages. Her first novel was published in 1992 by Avon Books, where Tanya was hailed as "one of Avon's fastest rising stars." Her fourth book was chosen to launch the company's Avon Romantic Treasure imprint.

  Known for stories charged with emotion and humor and filled with flawed characters Tanya is an award-winning author, journalist, and editor, and her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews.

  Tanya and her writer husband split their time between Charleston, SC, where she was raised, and northern Michigan, where the couple make their home.

  For more information

  www.tanyaannecrosby.com

  tanya@tanyaannecrosby.com