by Barbara Bard
Myra nudged her mare up beside Greer. “Your master is a coward and a murderer who preys on helpless women. I am the one who injured him when he tried to kill me for the second time.”
Avery’s eyes narrowed. “Little Myra. How lovely to see you again. You know the penalties of a servant who runs away from her lord.”
“She be in Scotland and nae under the authority of her former laird,” Kerr snapped. “And ye be trespassing oan MacEilish lands and north o’ the border. This invasion be tantamount tae war.”
“I am a peaceful delegation come to seek justice and the return of my lord’s animals,” Avery retorted.
“If it be justice ye crave,” Greer said calmly. “Then hang yer laird for the murders o’ fifteen Scottish lasses.”
“Ye have no proof,” Avery snarled.
“Me proof be sittin’ right here beside me.”
“The law will never recognize the word of a serf over that of an earl.”
“Then yer law be damned.” Kerr pulled his sword from its sheath. “Turn yer beasties around and head sooth now. Afore I gie the command fer me lads tae mow ye down like barley.”
His teeth bared in a grimace of hatred and rage, Lord Avery wheeled his horse and cantered through his men-at-arms, who turned their own mounts to follow him. Kerr glanced at Greer. “Take the men and watch them. Make sure they dinnae seek tae turn aside, or ride aroond the castle.”
“Aye, Da.”
“Myra, ye come wi’ me.”
Greer gave Myra a grin and a wink as she obediently reined her mare to follow Kerr. “Avery isn’t the coward Primshire is,” she said to him. “Be careful.”
“I wi’.”
Gesturing for the clansmen to fall into line with him, Greer trotted his horse southwards. Riding out from the hills, he could clearly see the Sassenach headed toward the border. Something about their slow pace raised suspicions in his mind, however. Rather than ride swiftly with the knowledge of a superior force behind them, Avery seemed to travel almost leisurely. As though he were out for a pleasure ride.
“He be waitin’ fer the dark,” he said, his anger growing. “He plannin’ tae slip aroond us.”
“Aye,” replied the clansmen, Myles, beside him. “We should attack him, drive him across the border.”
Greer glanced up at the lowering clouds, the sun venturing westward over the moors.
“Nae moon this night. He ken we would’nae surrender the stock, and used the flag tae get across the border in safety.”
He half turned in his saddle to address his men. “We follow tae the next valley, then spread oot. We charge, use our bows. Their horses be the bigger target, kill as many as we can. If ye slay a Sassenach, then sae be it.”
Chapter 29
Lying in his great bed, unable to vent his rage, frustration nor his feelings of helplessness, Primshire scowled at Jessica. In the five days since that black-haired wench nearly killed him, he had begun to heal, yet slowly. Too slowly in his opinion. Just when he needed to be up and in the saddle to ride north and take back his valuable horses and cattle, he was unable to rise out of his bed.
“Perhaps you should return to London,” he said, a growl in his throat.
Jessica arched a slender brow. “Are you revoking your invitation, Marsden?”
Though he wanted to do that very thing, to get her annoying presence out of his rooms, it was also something he dared not do. She knew too much, and insulting her in such a fashion might bring about her retaliation.
“No, of course not,” he replied harshly. “I simply thought you’d rather be there than sitting here watching me suffer.”
With a titter, she continued her embroidery, stitching a cloth in her lap. “While watching you suffer can be dreadfully boring, my dear man, you should appreciate the company. After all, you have no one else who will sit with you during the long hours lying there, staring at the ceiling.”
As irritating as she was, her presence and conversation did indeed help pass the time.
“Avery should return by tomorrow morning with my stock,” he grumbled, trying to ignore the fiery pain in his belly.
“He seems a very capable man.”
“Damn it to hell,” he groused, his fists clenched atop the coverlet. “Those horses cost me a fortune, the foundation for my breeding program. And now those bloody Scots have them.”
“Avery will get them back for you,” she said, her tone bland. “If the Scottish don’t kill him.”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
She eyed him from under her brows. “You seem awfully certain of that after you slaughtered how many of their young women? You do not think they might wish to kill your people in revenge?”
“The Scots are little more than howling animals.”
“They do not think of themselves as such, Marsden, and you might be wise to never underestimate them. Or their fighting ability. They have kept the English armies at bay for a generation.”
Primshire snorted. “Killing my people could trigger a war.”
“As could your little hobby.”
“I am well within my rights to hunt them.”
Jessica laughed. “How you do amuse me. How can I return to London when all the excitement in England is right here? I simply must remain and see this out.”
“There will be nothing to see, Jessica,” he snapped. “I will be out of this bed soon, and when I am, I will ride north to kill that servant wench.”
“And that should prove most interesting of all. Just how do you plan to accomplish it?”
As he lay in bed, he had sketched out tentative plans on exactly how he would manage it. Primshire didn’t trust Jessica to not warn the Scots somehow, however, and would never tell her.
“I am still working on it,” he hedged.
“Of course. Do tell me when you have made your plans. Why, I may even ride with you, just to observe.”
Maybe I should let you, and permit the Scots rip you to pieces. No doubt they would mount your head as a trophy on their walls.
“I would not see any harm come to you.”
“I’m sure your protection of my person will suffice.”
A knock on the door broke into his thoughts. He glanced into the antechamber to see his manservant, James, stroll across to answer it. He spoke with someone outside, then made his quiet way to the bedroom.
“A courier from His Majesty as arrived, My Lord.”
Uneasy, Primshire licked his lips and caught Jessica’s amused expression. “He may enter,” he replied to James.
Bowing, James left the doorway, and returned with man clad in King Edward’s livery, and bearing the royal emblem over the left breast. He, too, bowed to Primshire.
“His Royal Majesty, King Edward, the second of the name, demands to know why you have not yet executed the murderer of the Scottish women.”
Primshire craved to slice the man’s throat for his arrogance, but the penalty for killing a royal messenger was death, even for one of his stature.
“Tell His Majesty I am still seeking the assassin,” he replied crisply. “I have been injured grievously while hunting this murderer, and will continue the pursuit of justice once I am able.”
“His Majesty also commanded that you deliver the head of this murderer ten days from now,” the messenger continued as though Primshire hadn’t spoken. “Should you fail, His Majesty will have no choice but to come here to the north and investigate the matter for himself.”
Primshire’s throat dried up. “That will not be necessary,” he replied, his voice no longer crisp. “I will have the murderer caught and hanged before then.”
“His Majesty will be pleased to hear that.” The courier stepped forward to set a sealed scroll on the table. “His Royal Majesty also commands you cease and desist with all carnal relations with the Duchess of Greenbriar. Her Grace is also commanded by royal decree to return to London immediately, and surrender herself into the custody of her husband, His Grace, the Duke of Greenbriar.”
“Her Grace, the Duchess, is my honored guest,” he said. “There are no carnal relations between us.”
“Then Her Grace may explain that to her husband, the Duke. You have been commanded, Your Grace, My Lord.”
“Of course. I will, we will, obey the King’s command.”
The man snapped a quick bow, then turned on his heel and left the chamber. Primshire felt sweat sliding down his temples and ribs. He watched Jessica stare down at the needlework in her lap, and sensed her suppressed fear even from the distance between them. He almost felt compassion for her. Almost.
“You should have killed that little bitch when you had the chance,” Jessica snarled, at last lifting her face to glare at him. “She obviously told the Scots, who sent a message to my husband in London. You just signed my death warrant, Marsden. This is your fault.”
“Mine? It seems to me you committed your share of the blame by crawling into my bed.”
“Greenbriar will not kill you,” she shrieked. “He can and will kill me, you arrogant ass.”
“I’ll protect you.”
She suddenly went very still, her dark sloe eyes steady on his. “Yes, Marsden,” she said, her voice low, dangerous. “You will. For if the King forces me to return to London, I will have no choice but to hand him your head in exchange for my life.”
Primshire leaned back against his pillows, satisfaction spreading through him. Even his pain diminished under it. “Of course I will keep you safe, my dear. After all, I have become rather fond of you.”
“Do you think me a fool?” she snapped. “But you will prevent my return to London, Primshire, no matter the cost.”
Rising from her chair, Jessica stormed out, and slammed the door behind her. Primshire stared at the canopy over his head, unable to halt the smile that etched its way across his face. “No matter the cost.”
***
Ignoring the pain it caused him, Primshire rose from his bed the next morning, panting, weaker than he liked. Using the tables and chairs for balance, he cautiously walked around his chamber, realizing that he must begin moving if he was not to be a cripple the rest of his life. His cut belly muscles protested fiercely, yet the stitches keeping them in place did not burst under his movements.
He dressed with James’s help, then slowly went down the stone steps, using the smooth wall for support. Jessica eyed him with surprise and undisguised hatred as he sat beside her at the high table in his dining hall. He let out a short gust of breath at the relief of being able to sit. Below the dais, his men-at-arms took his return in stride, and continued their meal.
A servant poured his ale while another set a platter of hot food in front of them both.
“Sleep well?” he asked her politely, taking a long pull at his cup.
Jessica’s smile could have cut his head in half had it been steel. “Like an infant with a belly full of warm milk,” she replied, her voice stiff. “And you?”
“The same.”
Relishing both his food and having Jessica on edge, Primshire ate with gusto, feeling as though he were once now in command of his situation. He mentally planned to accuse and execute a random peasant, blaming him for the killing of both the Scottish and his own people, and inform Edward. Then once he caught and killed that servant wench, Myra, he would continue his hunting. This time, he chuckled to himself, he would dispose of the bodies where they would never be found.
“What is so amusing?” Jessica asked.
Drinking his ale, Primshire smiled at her. “Just thinking of how much having you here, under my protection, will bring me joy.”
Once I satisfy Edward’s demands for the killer’s head and your return, I can continue my little hobby as you so quaintly called it.
“We belong together, Jessica, you and I.”
She smiled thinly. “Of course.”
The doors at the far end of the hall opened, and captured Primshire’s attention from her dark sloe eyes, and his enjoyment of the spark of fear he saw deep within them. Gazing down, he observed one of his men-at-arms stumble in, and limped down the aisle between the rows of tables toward the dais, clearly wounded. Primshire’s smile instantly faded.
“What is this?” he demanded into the silence that descended over the hall. “What happened?”
Nearing him, the man bowed. “My Lord,” he said, his voice faint. “The expedition to recover your stolen stock has failed. Lord Avery is dead.”
Rage poured through Primshire. Ignoring his pain, he stood up, leaning his fists on the table. “Tell me everything.”
“Lord Avery presented your demands to the MacEilish lord,” he went on after swallowing hard. “He was denied, but had planned for us to remain in Scotland and wait until dark. Then we would return to find the stolen herds ourselves. We were attacked from the rear, My Lord, outnumbered. They killed our horses from under us, and shot many of us. Lord Avery fought with the lord’s son, but he was defeated.”
At his side, Jessica snickered. “They would not dare, is that what you said, Marsden? It would appear your Scottish animals have very sharp teeth.”
He swung around. “They attacked from behind,” he snarled. “Bloody cowards, all of them. I will have my vengeance, Duchess, and I will get my stock back.”
Chapter 30
The hour was not yet late as Myra stood in the bailey with Fiona and Kerr, waiting for Greer and the clansmen to return. Torches flared from the walls, lighting the area, and servants vanished one by one as they completed their duties and returned into the keep for the evening meal and their beds. Even with knowing Greer’s prowess in battle, she nonetheless worried that Lord Avery had somehow turned the odds in his favor and had hurt or killed her beloved. Avery’s own reputation as a skilled fighter had long since reached the ears of Primshire’s servants in his castle.
Relief and joy flared like the torches as Greer trotted into the bailey, the small army of warriors behind him, spilling in on a wave of horses. Under the light, she observed his face and tunic were splashed with blood, but his grin showed clear through the grime.
Myra bolted toward him, calling out, “What happened? You fought Avery?”
Greer dismounted, a groom taking his mount by the bridle to lead away. He swept her up into a hug, picking her up off her feet as he kissed her cheek.
“Aye,” he told her, then set her on her feet. “He were planning tae stay north o’ the border, skirt aroond us after dark. We set upon him instead o’ lettin’ him try.”
“Good lad,” Kerr said, slapping him on his shoulder. “He were trespassing on our lands, ye were justified.”
“And Avery?” Myra asked, holding his hand with both of hers. “Did you send him back to Primshire?”
Greer shook his head. “He be lyin’ oan the moors fer the scavengers where I left him. Along wi’ most o’ his men and beasties.”
Feeling a tinge of sadness sweep through her, Myra briefly mourned a man she had liked when she served in the Primshire castle. He had been kind to the peasants and serfs, and often defended them against Primshire’s frequent rages.
“He was a good man,” she murmured, “he was loyal even to an evil lord.”
“He may ne’er hae known Primshire were evil and a killer, lass,” Kerr said. “I be guessing his people dinnae ken aboot his wickedness.”
“Probably not,” she agreed. She glanced up at Greer. “I’m glad you’re back safe.”
“I be glad ye be glad,” Greer replied with a laugh. “How be Jared?”
“Improving,” Fiona told him, watching the clansmen unsaddle their horses, tossing ripe jests back and forth. “All yer men be unharmed?”
“Aye. We took Avery by surprise, outnumbered him. Quick skirmish, and it be o’er.”
“Good. Get yerself washed up, lad. We be waiting supper oan ye.”
Sitting beside
Greer at the high table, his thirty warriors filling the tables below, Myra gripped his hand beneath the stout planks. He turned his head to gaze at her, a soft smile on his lips.
“I missed you,” she whispered.
“And I ye.”
On the far side of Kerr, Fiona leaned forward to offer them a satisfied smile and a sharp nod of approval. “It be good tae see ye both where ye belong, wi’ each other.”
Myra blushed at the same time Greer chuckled. “I suppose I be acting the fool,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I hae a fierce woman beside me, one wi’ courage and fire.”